[start]
That Big Helmet
Rating: PG
Category: Humor
Pairing: S/J
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement was intended. The author claims no ownership of any copyrighted items, nor accepts any compensation for the creation of this work of fiction. The story itself is, however, copyrighted by the author and may not be used without permission.
Feedback: Please! Use the review system or email me at prouder_reader@softhome.net.
Summary: Have you every wondered about the origins of that ridiculous helmet Sam wears for a few episodes way back when? Here's my take on it.
`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`. `.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`. `.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.
"Hey, Carter, isn't this the frog-sticker that nearly killed Daniel?" Jack asked.
Sam's head jerked up, right into cabinet. "Don't tou---Oww!"
"You okay there, major?"
Sam rubbed her head and glared. "No, SIR. I am NOT okay. That's the SIXTH time I banged my head on this stupid cabinet! Do they think I'm some sort of midget? Look at this! It's barely 18 inches off the table! How am I supposed to do anything with 18 inches?" she demanded.
Jack leaned in and examined the bench. It was actually the top of a moveable cabinet, squeezed in under another cabinet, the second mounted on a wall. "Uh, sit up straight instead of hunching over with your nose touching the paper?" he suggested.
"My nose does not touch the paper!"
"That's why you've got ink on it, right?"
"So I splashed some!"
"For crying out loud, Carter, calm down."
Sam blew out a deep breath. "You're right, sir, I am over reacting. I'm just annoyed because I've got this great big headache and I think I bruised myself the last time and---"
Jack cut her off. "Why don't you just use the table instead of this equipment bench?"
Carter stared at him blankly.
"You know . . . a table. The big . . . flat . . . thing right over here?" He turned to point, and gaped. "Carter, what is THAT?"
"My coffee machine. That's why I can't use the table. The casters on this bench spoil the froth and sometimes spills the filter." She said all this as if it made perfect sense to bang your head repeatedly using a bench squeezed under a cabinet instead of a table because your coffee machine needed a stable surface.
Jack's mouth worked like a fish in utter disbelief. "Major, do you mean you're putting yourself through this because your coffee machine needs a table?" he yelped.
"Well, yeah!" Carter sounded defensive. "Sir."
"For cryin' . . . Carter, how long have you been at this?"
"Only a half-hour, sir, and I'll finish up quickly."
"Half an hour!" Jack cried. "Carter, that means you've been banging your head every five minutes! Do you realize that?"
"Yes, sir. I can do basic division."
"Really? Well it looks like you're trying to divide your head! No wonder you have a headache."
"Here, sir, want to try some?" She stuck a big round glass pot under the spout and flipped a switch. There was a horrible grinding noise, and an ominous wail. "That's just the grinder and the heat-exchanger. It heats water by running it through a slender tube covered with electrodes. Built- in grinder, too." She gazed at it fondly.
Jack gave her an incredulous look, then glanced at her work. It was a large ball of dirt, about a foot across. "Carter---"
Carter had already bent back over again, busily working a few flecks of dirt from the large soccer-ball sized lump with a tiny little probe.
The colonel stared at her back for a minute, then turned to the coffee machine. It was huge, with little attachments that were wired on with little chutes and tubes. Frankly it looked like five machines patched together with a lot of clear plastic tubing. It popped and bubbled cheerfully. Every few seconds there would be a loud slurping noise, and then a wave of coffee would spurt into a clear dome, bounce around a few times, and gurgle away through a little pipe. Then a rich, coffee-scented steam hissed through the dome, and the process started all over again. Interestingly enough, only a few drop of oil-thick coffee dripped out into the cup each time.
He peered more closely. It looked like the dome was detachable. It, and most of the actual boiler part, screwed off. There was a little screw that seemed to control the flow. He turned the water off. The hissing stopped. He unscrewed it, and pulled out what looked like the water tank.
A little pipe connected that to a pan what presumably held the coffee. He closed that off with another little screw next to it.
There was a stand nearby. It could hold the coffee machine.
Jack tried to put the tank back, but no matter how he poked and prodded the pipe wouldn't fit in. So he stuck the "Black & Decker" tank on top of the central machine, which bore a Starbucks logo.
"Watch out, Carter, moving the machine!" Jack called.
Sam's head jerked up. Her head smacked into the cabinet. "Aah!" Her face contorted with agony as she rubbed the spot.
"Carter! Whoa! Tank!"
Carter glanced up again.
Predictably, she hit her head again.
"Crap! Sir, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" she screamed.
"Watch out!" Jack wobbled back and forth, trying to keep the tank balanced.
"Let me get that!" She stepped in, and grabbed the tank.
Her finger hit the screw, and a liter of superheated steam/water, trapped and pressurized by Jack's unintentional sealing of the tank, sprayed, making the tank jerk and thrash like a high-pressure hose.
That was a fairly accurate description, really.
It whapped her right across the temple, and she lost consciousness.
"Sam!" Jack dropped the machine back onto the table, ignoring the ominous thump-crunch! of snapping plastic.
He dumped the rest of the water into the big pot, and grabbed her lapels. "Carter? Listen, if you're out, no pressure, but if you can hear me say something already!"
Sam's head flopped over and previously unnoticed blood started dripping down her nose.
"Aww, nuts!" Jack poked the intercom. "Dr. Fraiser? Corpsman to Sam's lab, I think I knocked her out."
"WHAT?" Janet screeched.
"I was moving a coffee machine, the tank slipped, it's a long story."
"On my way!"
* * *
Sam woke up in the sickbay several hours later.
"Hey, Sam. How do you feel? Any pain?" Janet popped a stethoscope into her ears. Before Sam could reply, she added, "No, don't say anything. Deep breath, in, out, again."
Sam pushed the stethoscope away. "I hit my head, why are you listening to my lungs?"
The doctor thought this over a moment. "Just statistical comparisons. Uh- uh. Breathe, in, out."
Sam sighed noisily.
"That wasn't quite what I meant, but okay. Sounds clear. Do you remember what happened?"
"Yeah. The colonel tried to move my coffee machine, the tank fell off, I conked out."
"Okay. Date and location?"
"It's Tuesday, and I'm in the infirmary. My name's Samantha Carter, Major, USAF, yours is Janet Fraiser---"
"Okay, that's enough. By the way, the colonel left you something." Janet pointed to the nightstand.
On it rested a huge tan helmet, with equally oversized desert sand goggles resting above the brim.
"He said, quote, 'If you're going to keep using that dollied cabinet as a table, you might be needing this.' Care to fill me in?"
Sam blushed. "No, it's just more . . . O'Neill humor."
Janet nodded and left.
Sam picked the helmet up. A note was tucked in under the goggles.
Hey, Carter
If you insist on giving your coffee machine
precedence over your skull, this might come
in handy some day.
And speaking of coffee machines, Daniel
wants his back, the Napoleonic power monger
wants hers (boy, is she getting cranky!), Siler is
going to inventory his plumbing supplies,
including the little water boilers, and the mall's
Starbucks franchise is making waves about one
of their employees beeing persuaded to illegally
sell a Starbucks industrial-grade coffee machine
by someone from NORAD.
Just so you know.
Sam contemplated the helmet. It was enormous. It looked, in fact, like one of those diaper-on-a-head bumper things that Stu from Rugrats invented.
She settled the helmet on her head and leaned over the railing. As usual, the floor was buffed to a mirror-smooth finish.
The helmet looked absolutely ridiculous, even if the lopsidedness was from a bit of excess wax. It made her seem like a boy wearing his dad's uniform.
Jack was out of his mind if he thought she was wearing this.
Experimentally, she banged her head against the corner of the nightstand.
`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`. `.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`. `.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.
[end]
That Big Helmet
Rating: PG
Category: Humor
Pairing: S/J
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement was intended. The author claims no ownership of any copyrighted items, nor accepts any compensation for the creation of this work of fiction. The story itself is, however, copyrighted by the author and may not be used without permission.
Feedback: Please! Use the review system or email me at prouder_reader@softhome.net.
Summary: Have you every wondered about the origins of that ridiculous helmet Sam wears for a few episodes way back when? Here's my take on it.
`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`. `.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`. `.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.
"Hey, Carter, isn't this the frog-sticker that nearly killed Daniel?" Jack asked.
Sam's head jerked up, right into cabinet. "Don't tou---Oww!"
"You okay there, major?"
Sam rubbed her head and glared. "No, SIR. I am NOT okay. That's the SIXTH time I banged my head on this stupid cabinet! Do they think I'm some sort of midget? Look at this! It's barely 18 inches off the table! How am I supposed to do anything with 18 inches?" she demanded.
Jack leaned in and examined the bench. It was actually the top of a moveable cabinet, squeezed in under another cabinet, the second mounted on a wall. "Uh, sit up straight instead of hunching over with your nose touching the paper?" he suggested.
"My nose does not touch the paper!"
"That's why you've got ink on it, right?"
"So I splashed some!"
"For crying out loud, Carter, calm down."
Sam blew out a deep breath. "You're right, sir, I am over reacting. I'm just annoyed because I've got this great big headache and I think I bruised myself the last time and---"
Jack cut her off. "Why don't you just use the table instead of this equipment bench?"
Carter stared at him blankly.
"You know . . . a table. The big . . . flat . . . thing right over here?" He turned to point, and gaped. "Carter, what is THAT?"
"My coffee machine. That's why I can't use the table. The casters on this bench spoil the froth and sometimes spills the filter." She said all this as if it made perfect sense to bang your head repeatedly using a bench squeezed under a cabinet instead of a table because your coffee machine needed a stable surface.
Jack's mouth worked like a fish in utter disbelief. "Major, do you mean you're putting yourself through this because your coffee machine needs a table?" he yelped.
"Well, yeah!" Carter sounded defensive. "Sir."
"For cryin' . . . Carter, how long have you been at this?"
"Only a half-hour, sir, and I'll finish up quickly."
"Half an hour!" Jack cried. "Carter, that means you've been banging your head every five minutes! Do you realize that?"
"Yes, sir. I can do basic division."
"Really? Well it looks like you're trying to divide your head! No wonder you have a headache."
"Here, sir, want to try some?" She stuck a big round glass pot under the spout and flipped a switch. There was a horrible grinding noise, and an ominous wail. "That's just the grinder and the heat-exchanger. It heats water by running it through a slender tube covered with electrodes. Built- in grinder, too." She gazed at it fondly.
Jack gave her an incredulous look, then glanced at her work. It was a large ball of dirt, about a foot across. "Carter---"
Carter had already bent back over again, busily working a few flecks of dirt from the large soccer-ball sized lump with a tiny little probe.
The colonel stared at her back for a minute, then turned to the coffee machine. It was huge, with little attachments that were wired on with little chutes and tubes. Frankly it looked like five machines patched together with a lot of clear plastic tubing. It popped and bubbled cheerfully. Every few seconds there would be a loud slurping noise, and then a wave of coffee would spurt into a clear dome, bounce around a few times, and gurgle away through a little pipe. Then a rich, coffee-scented steam hissed through the dome, and the process started all over again. Interestingly enough, only a few drop of oil-thick coffee dripped out into the cup each time.
He peered more closely. It looked like the dome was detachable. It, and most of the actual boiler part, screwed off. There was a little screw that seemed to control the flow. He turned the water off. The hissing stopped. He unscrewed it, and pulled out what looked like the water tank.
A little pipe connected that to a pan what presumably held the coffee. He closed that off with another little screw next to it.
There was a stand nearby. It could hold the coffee machine.
Jack tried to put the tank back, but no matter how he poked and prodded the pipe wouldn't fit in. So he stuck the "Black & Decker" tank on top of the central machine, which bore a Starbucks logo.
"Watch out, Carter, moving the machine!" Jack called.
Sam's head jerked up. Her head smacked into the cabinet. "Aah!" Her face contorted with agony as she rubbed the spot.
"Carter! Whoa! Tank!"
Carter glanced up again.
Predictably, she hit her head again.
"Crap! Sir, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" she screamed.
"Watch out!" Jack wobbled back and forth, trying to keep the tank balanced.
"Let me get that!" She stepped in, and grabbed the tank.
Her finger hit the screw, and a liter of superheated steam/water, trapped and pressurized by Jack's unintentional sealing of the tank, sprayed, making the tank jerk and thrash like a high-pressure hose.
That was a fairly accurate description, really.
It whapped her right across the temple, and she lost consciousness.
"Sam!" Jack dropped the machine back onto the table, ignoring the ominous thump-crunch! of snapping plastic.
He dumped the rest of the water into the big pot, and grabbed her lapels. "Carter? Listen, if you're out, no pressure, but if you can hear me say something already!"
Sam's head flopped over and previously unnoticed blood started dripping down her nose.
"Aww, nuts!" Jack poked the intercom. "Dr. Fraiser? Corpsman to Sam's lab, I think I knocked her out."
"WHAT?" Janet screeched.
"I was moving a coffee machine, the tank slipped, it's a long story."
"On my way!"
* * *
Sam woke up in the sickbay several hours later.
"Hey, Sam. How do you feel? Any pain?" Janet popped a stethoscope into her ears. Before Sam could reply, she added, "No, don't say anything. Deep breath, in, out, again."
Sam pushed the stethoscope away. "I hit my head, why are you listening to my lungs?"
The doctor thought this over a moment. "Just statistical comparisons. Uh- uh. Breathe, in, out."
Sam sighed noisily.
"That wasn't quite what I meant, but okay. Sounds clear. Do you remember what happened?"
"Yeah. The colonel tried to move my coffee machine, the tank fell off, I conked out."
"Okay. Date and location?"
"It's Tuesday, and I'm in the infirmary. My name's Samantha Carter, Major, USAF, yours is Janet Fraiser---"
"Okay, that's enough. By the way, the colonel left you something." Janet pointed to the nightstand.
On it rested a huge tan helmet, with equally oversized desert sand goggles resting above the brim.
"He said, quote, 'If you're going to keep using that dollied cabinet as a table, you might be needing this.' Care to fill me in?"
Sam blushed. "No, it's just more . . . O'Neill humor."
Janet nodded and left.
Sam picked the helmet up. A note was tucked in under the goggles.
Hey, Carter
If you insist on giving your coffee machine
precedence over your skull, this might come
in handy some day.
And speaking of coffee machines, Daniel
wants his back, the Napoleonic power monger
wants hers (boy, is she getting cranky!), Siler is
going to inventory his plumbing supplies,
including the little water boilers, and the mall's
Starbucks franchise is making waves about one
of their employees beeing persuaded to illegally
sell a Starbucks industrial-grade coffee machine
by someone from NORAD.
Just so you know.
Sam contemplated the helmet. It was enormous. It looked, in fact, like one of those diaper-on-a-head bumper things that Stu from Rugrats invented.
She settled the helmet on her head and leaned over the railing. As usual, the floor was buffed to a mirror-smooth finish.
The helmet looked absolutely ridiculous, even if the lopsidedness was from a bit of excess wax. It made her seem like a boy wearing his dad's uniform.
Jack was out of his mind if he thought she was wearing this.
Experimentally, she banged her head against the corner of the nightstand.
`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`. `.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`. `.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.
[end]