It was a fairly normal day aboard the Starship Enterprise; normal, that is, until Captain Picard lost his mind.
It happened during the usual tense negotiations with a ship of pissed-off Klingons. Negotiations had degraded to the point that the captain of the Klingon vessel had pointed out that Worf didn't look like his hair had been chewed on by a pack of wild targ (a bitter insult amongst the Klingons).
Worf, of course, had remarked that the other Klingon's head and ass had been transposed at birth.
The Klingon captain was about to go to his room to eat gagh-flavoured ice cream and cry like a little girl when It Happened.
Captain Picard stood dramatically (Dramatic Segue Into Boring Speech #165) and was about to start babbling about the merits of Ben & Jerry's (serving Earth since 1983, Vulcan since 2036, and Qo'nos since 2147) when he had to tug his uniform shirt down for the 573rd time that day.
Something deep inside him snapped.
"That is IT!" he shrieked. "I am sick and tired of having to pull this shirt down every 5.4 seconds!"
"Actually, sir, by my estimate, you only have to adjust your uniform every 5.6 seconds," Data interjected.
Two seconds later, Data was a pile of steaming goo.
The Klingons oohed appreciatively at the carnage; even though there wasn't any blood, the android had slagged rather nicely.
"Any more wise-asses?" Picard growled, clenching his fingers around his phaser. The only answer from his crew was a submissive, "Meep..." (although the Klingon captain could be heard on-screen collecting his winnings from the "When's the uniform gonna make Picard snap?" pool).
"They make us wear tight pants," Picard hissed, "and we draw back. They make us wear polyester, and we draw back. The give us REGULATION UNDERWEAR! And we DRAW BACK! I say the line must be drawn HERE! THIS tight, NO tighter! Who is with me?"
There was an awed hush. Deanna Troi stood. "I think I speak for the entire female half of the crew when I say I am SICK of these damn bodysuits!"