If Shakespeare Wrote Star Trek

Enter Kirk, Spock, McCoy and Uhura.


Odd’s blood! ‘Twas villainy most treacherous

That seized our hapless ship in its cruel grasp,

Transporting us to this forsaken spot

Where now our evil captors will appear.


From yonder valley comes the savage cry

Of wild beasts in search of tasty prey;

‘Tis logical that we shall all be eaten.


A fate most fell! O Captain, I am vex’d!

Enter a Buxom Harlot.


Know this, strangers, that you have been here brought

To be devoured as a sacrifice

Required by the god whom all must serve.


Indeed, and if thou art th’ devouring beast,

No man could count himself more fortunate.

I shall bravely essay to tame thee, wench!


A most unwise attempt, I must protest.


Behold! This is the heav’nly lord and king

To whom we owe our lives and loyalty.

Bow down before the fearsome pow’r so great!


Madam, ’tis nothing but a vegetable!


Let not such vile blasphemy be heard;

This holy vine doth bear a fruit so pure

That any man who eats of it is healed

Of all his ailments and shall never die.

What better subject for our worshipping?

Yet if it be not fed with blood and bones

From strangers such as you, the vine will die.


Indeed, the vine appears to suffer from

A lack of fertilizer in the soil.

Its leaves are turning brown, and no fruit grows.

SPOCK (to Kirk)

O, slay the foul wench, I do beseech.

She is a strumpet whose affections hold

Deception and a cruel, gory death.

KIRK (kissing Harlot)

What man would show such lack of chivalry?

All we must do is feed the vine, forsooth.

Any organic matter will suffice.


This perilous adventure hath loos’ned my bowels;

I shall provide the needed excrement.

(McCoy drops his pants and squats over the holy vine)


How now? What stench from yonder garden drifts?

My delicate lungs cannot bear th’ affront!

O, I die!

(Uhura swoons)


Doctor, I knew thou wert full of manure,

But this exceeds the bounds of all logic.


What sayest thou? Dost thine own shit not stink?

Be off, thou villainous pointy-eared knave!


Perhaps a farmer is thy proper calling?


Nay, Jim, I am a doctor in all sooth,

And call me not a farmer, I implore.

KIRK (kissing Harlot again)

Do look, Madam, the vine hath now recover’d.

No sacrifice or tending doth it need,

And you may tend to me, my dear, instead.

Exit Kirk and Harlot.


Doctor, one favor must I ask of you;

When you go where no man has gone before,

I pray you, give me time to get upwind.