There we were, three fleshy lumps on the couch, the bare minimum of our energies directed toward the television. What else were we to do as we awaited Tom Turkey and all his trimmings? Discuss local affairs? I’m afraid there was just nothing left to say about the bowl of pumpkin-flavored M&Ms that sat on the coffee table before us. Still, we couldn’t suppress every stray thought as BBC America pelted us with reruns of “Star Trek: The Next Generation.”

“Is it just me or are all these episodes really Gates McFadden-heavy?”

“It’s just this one, really.”

“Feel like I’m watching Gatesgiving, not Treksgiving.”

“Did you know she was a Muppet movement choreographer for Muppets Take Manhattan?”

“How could I have possibly known that?”

“Why are we watching with the sound off?”

“You think the visuals are bad, imagine the dialogue.”

“God, I wish she’d stop making out with that Kevin Sorbo-looking motherfucker.”

The Satellite of Love this was not, but we were amusing ourselves, doing our best to prevent Roddenberry-induced comas. The steamed bird did not arrive before the episode where our intrepid late eighties space nuts work out some Robin Hood fantasy to save the Captain’s sexy twenty-something personal assistant from the clutches of that nefarious Q, which of course means I had to watch LeVar Burton play a lute in leggings.

The wounds, they won’t heal.