I'll take door #3, if you don't mind

Here I am riding on a Scorloon battle cruiser. Things are going well. I'm looking out the view window, watching the Earth disappear into the distance as we enter the amber-violet spectrum of trans-spatial warp. It's all good. I am preparing myself for the awaiting throngs of Scorloons, eager for me to lead them to greatness. I am ready. But first, I want some food. No problem, right? I tell the on-board compu-drive to give me the finest dish in the Scorloon menu.

Well, first it wants to know my height and weight (in "Thrggsh" or whatever the unit of measure on Scorloon is), then it wants to get a skin sample, then I have to fill out a color based personality examination ("How does green taste?"), then I need to attach a copy of my Scorloon military record... Hey! Stupid computer, just bring me a goddamned burger or something!

Finally (finally!), I seem to have made it through whatever hoops it has left and it opens the tele-hatch and gives me the meal. It is not a burger. It is not a noodle-based dish. It is not even a vegetable. It appears to be what would happen if a centipede had a baby with a frog (with a skin condition). It's repulsive.


And it's still alive!