
Romulan, eyes closed: Avenge me, brother...kill the Klingons!

As they parted, Laren gazed longingly across the room at Wesley, but their love could never be.

Picard: There! Is! ONE! light!
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Ro: Who's that Irish guy surrounded by all the perky young female ensigns and crying in his ale?
♫Wah wah wah waaaah!♪
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Romulan: Vorf, sometimes people blindly wear the same thing again and again.
Worf: Are you currently experiencing this phenomenon?
Romulan: I didn't see it until today. I got out of a relationship with a plainly-uniformed man, and I got right back into another, with a man who is absolutely incapable of wearing a plain uniform.
Worf: There does appear to be a recurring motif.
Romulan: You were so well-groomed and dashing. I thought that would be enough.
Worf: It is not?
Romulan: No, it's not. Because as snazzy as we are, shoulder pads don't really matter to you. Not really. Nothing I can say or do will ever make your shouders bigger or more imposing, or exaggerate your shoulders in any way.
Worf: That is a valid projection. It is apparent that my reach has exceeded my grasp in this particular area. I am perhaps not nearly so broad-shouldered as I aspire to become. If you are ready to die, I will bring our suicide daggers.
Romulan: No, that's alright, Vorf. I'd better pass out now.
Worf: As you wish. Subcommander. Are we no longer enemies?
Romulan: No, we're not.
Worf: Then I will put away the appropriate daggers.
Romulan: I'll see you later. <passes out>
Worf <finds a dagger in his sash>: Hello, Spotted with the Blood of My Enemies.
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Riker: "HEY! Who turned out the lights?"
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