The Male Demographic

 

 

Homer Simpson stretched out on his comfortable couch the night after Christmas, with visions of Star Trek babes dancing in his head.  This favorite fantasy was much more fun than trying to think of a good higgledy piggledy; he'd gotten as far as, "Higgledy piggledy, donuts with chocolate, mmm," and then he'd been overcome by hunger and had to go get a snack.  Needless to say, Bart had already eaten all the best donuts.

 

He'd watched a bit of the new Enterprise series, with that foxy Vulcan in a catsuit.  She filled it out almost as well as Seven of Nine, he thought.  Wouldn't mind having my hands full of those two -- four, that would be -- oh yes.

 

The sound of the TV being switched off woke Homer from a pleasant doze.  At first he thought it was Marge, who always turned off the infomercials and woke him up when he fell asleep on the couch late at night.  However, it was obvious that neither of the shapely figures standing beside him belonged to his wife.

 

"Deactivating this irrelevant device has done nothing to correct the anomaly."  Seven of Nine's tone was impatient.

 

"It appears that we have become trapped, at separate times and places, in regions of space where thoughts manifest as reality."  T'Pol glanced around the room disdainfully, her gaze falling on Homer.  "If we can discern what this unimpressive individual is thinking, we may be able to complete his thought sequence and return to our previous realities."

 

"What he is thinking," Seven observed, with equal disdain, "is evident."

 

And then both women shed their catsuits, revealing boobs that nature could never have created.  Homer drooled helplessly as the two luscious babes touched each other in ways he'd only seen in those girlie magazines he kept hidden in the garage.

 

"This is not working," Seven declared, a few minutes later.

 

T'Pol arched her back and shivered as Seven's fingers probed deeply inside her.  "It is for me."

 

"I am referring to the method of terminating this alternate reality."  Seven withdrew her glistening fingers from an obviously disappointed T'Pol and stared coldly down at Homer as if she were calculating the most efficient means of dissection.  "We must employ a more effective solution."

 

Approaching a still drooling Homer, the naked Borg abruptly pressed her bazooms into his face.  "They taste just like chocolate donuts," Seven cooed.

 

"With sprinkles," T'Pol added, as she did likewise.

 

Homer, on the brink of suffocation, somehow managed to open his mouth wide enough to accommodate this precious bounty.  Oh, this was paradise beyond his wildest dreams, and somehow, they really DID taste like chocolate donuts with sprinkles.

 

"Yes!"  Seven yelped in excitement as he suckled her delicious tits.  The cybernetic hand squeezed his shoulder tightly.

 

"The spatial anomaly has begun to reverse itself," T'Pol confirmed her observation.  "We are returning to our previous locations."

 

Four chocolate-donut-sprinkled bazooms faded into nonexistence beneath Homer's groping hands.  He opened and closed his questing mouth like a fish out of water.  Somehow, the hand on his shoulder was still there, shaking him.

 

"Wake up, Homer."  It was Marge's voice.  "You know you always get a sore back when you sleep on the couch for too long."