"Fuckin' ratbag shit-cock bastard fuckin' retard aliens," spat the belligerent, hard-nose, front-line Admiral. "Pieces of shit ass garbage. Fuck 'em!"
Incalculable in his potential use of the undeleted expletive and colorful phrases tainted with the racially inclined inclinations of a life time, career military man, Admiral Terosk Cinneburg Wilkar studied the pathetic alien vessel from the bridge of his personal starship, an old, dated Star Destroyer.
The small ship, stricken though it was, listed dramatically to one side an apparent breach in its hull expelling a plume of atmospheric gases in to the void. By all signs life support was failing and indeed their engine core was nearing melt down.
"Nothing to see here," determined Wilkar of the puny conveyance. "Sink or swim, fuckers."
Turning to his helmsmen, disregarding the distrubition of command through his junior officers (all a bunch of ingrates and retards if you ask him), he said, "Plot a course somewhere else. I'm bored."
Then, almost as an after thought he added, "I need a fucking drink, assholes."
(A day in the life of a Mini-Zell)