Zero-G Dance

SPACE DATE 2236.064

Tonight was the 2nd Annual GSV Remarkable Zero-G Dance, where we turn off the gravity generators in the gym and hold a dance for the entire crew.  Last year’s dance was particularly entertaining, as the lack of gravity made the skirts on all of the female crew who wore dresses that night float upwards aimlessly, especially when the D.J. played the Phillatian Flip!  Totally awesome!  Unfortunately, thanks to Dr. Rena’s imposed dress code provision on this year’s dance flyers, everybody showed up wearing pant-suits or regulation uniforms. 

Things only got worse from there, as when Chief Beauregard and INFO sealed the gym and turned off its gravity generators, they accidentally switched off the room’s life support systems as well.  We all woke up floating about in the dark about 5 or 30 space minutes later (I don’t recall how long it was, exactly), after INFO managed to turn the oxygen vents back on in the gym, and the dance finally started.  Cdr. Powell volunteered to be D.J. this year, and he was really excited about it beforehand.  But by the space gods, that man has the worst taste in music!  I’m pretty sure he popped in his own demo tape a half-dozen times during the night as well.  It was like listening to a Vendrexxi hive queen give birth to a litter of angry cats! 

Pickings were slim amongst the handful of pant-suited female crew who attended (next year, I’m making attendance mandatory), but I finally managed to corner Lt. Quimbly over by the punch bowl to ask her to dance.  She refused, so I had to make it an order.  But before I could show off my crisp weightless dance moves, Mr. Jayda, who was dancing with Ensign Adams next to us (no doubt Adams was doing this out of some kind of unsexualized sibling-like pity gesture), got space sick.  Most of Jayda’s vomit got all over Adams, but some of it floated into me as well and … well, it was zero-g, so it basically got everywhere.  But the thing is, Antillean vomit gives of a noxious gas as well, so most of us in the area started choking and gasping for air until we finally passed out. 

By the time we regained consciousness (again), gravity in the gym had been restored, and the dance had been over for the better part of a space hour.  I found Lt. Quimbly doubled over the D.J. booth, still unconscious.  But like a true gentleman, I wouldn’t think of taking advantage of her in that comatose state.  So I left her there and went back to my quarters, called a few old ex-girlfriends, and drank until I blacked out. 

All in all, an okay dance.  Not great, but still a little bit better than last year’s, at least.