“Sir, there is a multi-legged creature crawling on your shoulder.”
No Post I.
Non sequitur. Your facts are uncoordinated.
Bonk bonk, bad kid!
Logic is a little tweeting bird chirping in a meadow. Logic is a wreath of pretty flowers which smell bad.
“You’ve got a hard lip, Herbert.”
Are you out of your Vulcan mind?
I can make you all go away!
That’s no doctor, it’s a space station!
You have a half fizz-bin already!
Risk, gentlemen, is our business.
“Heading out to Eden, Yay brothers…”
And I’m the Czar of all the Russias!
I’m a doctor, not a bricklayer.
Darmok where the sequiturs fell?
Anatomically, I am a fully functioning male.
Mind your own business, Mister Spock. I’m sick of your half-breed interference.
I’m endeavouring, Ma’am, to construct a mnemonic memory circuit using stone-knives and bear-skins.