Probably because I've been watching old Star Trek lately on the Sci-Fi channel, I cannot help but cast my pre-Convention freaking in those terms.
Spleeny: Stress levels critical! She cannae' take anymore, captain!
Capt. Brain: Hold it together down there, Mr. Spleen!
Spleeny: But, captain! I cannae change th' laws of physiology!
Capt. Brain: That's an order, Spleeny!
Spleeny: (glumly) ...aye, captain.
I can't think about it this way for too long, however, or I get really bizarre and have visions of rubber-suited dinosaur aliens with tinfoil eyes chewing on my liver, and even for me that's a trifle peculiar.
Also, new Digger.