From the TrekBBS thread "Charles Tucker III. The Man is God!"
Yea, verily, the Tuckerites did go forth from Trekkerdom to beareth the weight upon their shoulders. For seven years and seven seasons did they create idols of the Tucker and placed him upon the alter of the BBS.
And the Tucker decended from Decon and shone his light unto them saying," Sonofabitch! A poop question, sir??!!" And the Archer said unto the Tucker, "Pitch your tent, Commander." And the people did rejoice, worshipping the Tucker in his divine blue undies.
And the Tuckerites begat Ragers, and the Ragers begat Archer's Angels. They were fruitful and multiplied.
After, "Pitch your tent, Trip," you could add, "And, lo, the chubby was brought forth, and there was much rejoicing in the land, for he of the supple shoulders and tasty loins had sproinged forth, and it was gooooood."
And yea though they walked through the valley of the shadow of death they fear not; for they are the scariest sonsabitches in the valley.
Yea, and lo, they had the Sacred Chubby to guide them--or at least tell them what time it was out there when their crappy Starfleet-issue/Acme time devices stopped working. And they followed him, he of the Holy Sundial (and don't forget the shoulders and loins).
And the people stared (and a few pointed), and many the scribes recorded the might of the Sundial as they convened at the sacred meeting place, though it was more ethereal than corporeal in nature? Why? Because it was goooooooood!
The Chubby is my Shepherd
I shall not want....except for maybe Reed's chubby, too!
Gives entirely new meaning to:
"Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me."
For Lo! the Tuckerites set forth, seeking dessert in their crossing. And when they arrived at The Site, the good lord, Archer4Trip welcomed them, saying "Stay. Your trek is done, for this shall be the House of Tucker, and this house has many rooms."
And the Tuckerites stayed, feasting and rejoicing. And their numbers multiplied.
Thou shalt have no other Engineers before Trip.
Thou shalt keep unto thee graven images of the Blue Undies.
Thou shalt covet more scenes of Trip and Archer discussing the holy Water Polo.
Afterward, thou shalt not be *able* to have any more engineers, or armoury officers, or helmsmen; indeed my child, thou shalt not be able to walk straight for at least a week.
Such is the reward unto the faithful.
Thou shalt sing paeans to the Face, praises to the Eyebrows, earnest and mobile, rise up singing thanksgiving for the Hair, mussy and lifted.
Thou shalt not disparage another's 'ship, be it ever so wrong-headed; for the 'ship sails on a sea of faithful hearts, and those that 'ship seek the Tucker's happiness.
Thou shall hold dear the shirts of Tucker without question, for the taste is not known to thee nor to the multitudes. Shouldst thou see the Shirt Green-flowered, the Shirt Hawaiian, or the Linen Suit of Miami thou shalt exclaim, "Ooh!" "Ah!" and "Oh! My!" lest your faith be thought lacking.
Thou shalt not p*ss off a Tuckerite (or Reed Rager, since sometimes they are one and the same), lest thou get thwacked.
Thou shalt not pose the question of poop.
Nor shalt thou point at the Buxom Hermaphrodite, nor follow the pointy-eared male alien with a gun, for lo, it is an abomination unto me, despite that slight resemblance, now that you mention it, to that most comely of Vulcans, and you know who I'm talkin' about.
Though shalt not visit Pensacola, for lo the memories are bittersweet, we have run out of Kleenex and Ingrid Bergman movies. We are bereft of Puffs, and this is not good.
Though shalt not screw up the procurement or preparation of pan-fried catfish, for this is an abomination to Mama Tucker, and thus to God, who is, after all, a Southerner. Thou shalt not even speak of f'ing up the peeee-can pie, for God will cast you down. Cuz, son, that's just wrong.
Thou shalt not take the name of Bo or Luke Duke in vain, nor Daisy, nor Uncle Jessie, nor Boss Hogg, nor Cooter, nor Ros-cooooe P. Coltrane, nor Enos, nor even Vance or Coy, even though they sort of sucked, for, lo, I say it wasn't really their fault. But Cletus--well, do what you like with him because he's a doofus.
Thou shalt not mess with the engines, nor touch them, nor subtly brush them with your uniform nor even your hair, nor malign them, nor even smirk, grimace, frown, or smile crookedly when you mention them. Thou shalt not let Porthos near them on his walks, or, lo, it will not be our fault what that pooch gets when he raises his leg. And thou will be condemned to change his name to Porthette, and this would be an abomination to the pooch. And Trip wouldn't be none to happy about that, either, bein' that, well, he's a man, and that's just wrong, too, son.
Blessed are the Tuckerites, for they shall squeal and drool like teenage girls at a Beatles concert over their Man Trip NO MATTER WHAT HE'S WEARING (even if it is a linen suit with white shoes)!
Blessed are the Tuckerites, for the Internet is a craven wilderness, and sometimes people are just MEAN, but Tuckerites are not, and they shall inherit the Internet.
Blessed are the Tuckerites, for they must put up with the occasional pootyhead who disses and maligns them and starts a Trip-bashing thread, for they will turn such threads around, and ignore said pootyheads, and have a very good time, and if you ask nicely, some most excellent barbeque. They even share with pootyheads.
Blessed are the Tuckerites, for--SON OF A BITCH!-- Sorry, something just crawled across my leg.
Blessed are the Tuckerites, for they throw the best (non-meek) parties, and everyone's invited (although people do tend to keep an eye on Miss Thang, who once signed someone's ass at a Trip Bash) for they--well, hell, I just said it: they just throw good darn parties!
Blessed are the Tuckerites, for they said so!
Blessed are the Tuckerites, for they know a good man when they see him, and because they recognize what a sacred thing pecan pie is.
Blessed is Lieutenant Hess, because, Lord, that lady has her work cut out down there! Blessed also is Mr. Rostov's lady friend in Engineering, for she has excellent taste in men. (Sorry, gratuitous Rostovarian plug.)
Blessed are the Trippers, for they know what to do in a tent with a dishy Southern engineer. (Silly Mayweather--wanting to sleep! Really!)
Blessed is the House of Tucker, for it has some wickedly funny "ads." (And if you haven't seen that ad for TuckerNuts Ice Cream ("the ice cream Trip eats!"), you've gotta get over there. A4T, I salute you sir.
Blessed are the Tuckerites, for they will be rewarded by Trip being gracious, funny, profane, charming, oblivious, in tune, empathetic, unaware, sarcastic, unprofessional, competent, attractive, geeky, dorky, handsome, and all things to all genders.
Blessed are the Tuckerites for they are both a fast and a slutty crowd.
Blessed are the Tuckerites when the Sacred Chubby springs forth to guide them to ecstasy.
"And, lo, on the third day the ship grew quiet and no man nor woman was about. Sad countenances abounded. Then Trip came forth with the good news that, yea, pecan pie was available in the galley..."
Come out Tucker-bash spirit, come out. In the name of Trip almighty himself, we bind you with a stolen ferengi whip (which we accidentally kept after Acquisition) and cleanse you with the holy Trip shipper fire of warp plasma. We squeeze you into the plasma injectors and purge you through the system until you emerge, from the right nacelle, born again a Tuckerite, a shining beautiful example of the almighty Trip's work.
Come out Tucker-bash spirit, come out....
many thanks to Trip'sChick for the compilation