Levels of Orgasms
Ten Forward. Riker slowly approaches Troi, who is sitting alone at a table with a big dish of something. He circles behind Troi's back and watches her. Troi, finally taking her nose out of her dish long enough to be aware of Riker's mouth-breather scrutiny, pauses with a spoon halfway to her mouth, and waits. Riker bends over and announces, "Chocolate ice cream, chocolate fudge, and chocolate chips -- you're not depressed, are you?" Troi and I roll our eyes. "I'm fine, Commander," Troi responds. Riker asks if she would like him to leave "the two of [them] alone." Yes, please -- in fact, there's an airlock waiting for your tender mercies. Troi laughs and asks him to join her at the table. She offers him a bite but he declines, admitting, "I don't like fudge." You know, me neither. Hot caramel, hot butterscotch, hot marshmallow topping, yes. Hot fudge? Just not a fan. However, I do love actual fudge in its drier, cakier form. You know -- the kind you buy on a seaside vacation? Mackinac Island maple walnut fudge is the living end. Troi is eating her chocolate out of a bowl within a bowl. I think the idea is that the actual ice cream bowl is being kept cold by being nestled in a larger bowl of ice. It's reminiscent of those cone and bowl doohickeys that were originally intended to chill and serve caviar but have since been perverted into trendy cocktail glasses. How much do you want to bet they'll appear on The Apprentice: Martha Stewart? Troi takes another careful slurp and says she never met a chocolate she didn't like. That's because she hasn't encountered Sandra Lee's "mole" sauce. Or her canned frosting "truffles." Or her "white chocolate orange salad dressing." I could go on and on, but then I'd throw up.