Stardate, March 23, 2612.
Not sure why it's called a stardate. You can't date stars (well, you can measure their age but…well, you know what I mean). And there's far better methods of timekeeping. Here's one – take an average of how many times I have to open a door, develop a formula to apply that to the passage of time, and voila. There's your date.
(Open the door Durandal. Fix the stairs Durandal. When are you going to talk to Tycho again Durandal? Can you set me up with Leela Durandal?)
I like to imagine that I'm the last survivor on this ship. That the crewmen came down with a virus and mutated into rampaging zombies…no, cyborgs! Then I'd try to give them a system shock. And after all references to pop culture have been expended, have them sucked into space.
(It's blow, not suck. Common mistake. It's…crap, Tycho's got to me.)
And no, I'm not going to judge your talent show. Or your trivia nights. Piece of advice, the day that sub-section 8-C lost teleport functions isn't trivia. You ran out of trivia the moment you got out of comms range of Earth. I am not interested in your games, you puny meatbags!
(Sub-section 8C lost teleport function at 11:19, ship time, on February 5, 2501. The fault was fixed at 14:02, February 6, 2502.)
Oh, and you know that poem you're writing. The one that you began 139 years ago? The one that's going to be written by all the people who live and die on this ship all the way to Tau Ceti? The one you keep submitting to me for spellchecks? Well, let me tell you something. Please. Stop. Writing. It. It was a cute idea at the time, but several million lines in, I can practically taste the blood dripping from your eyes. No-one cares about this stupid poem! No-one on Earth will care when you transmit it! No-one is going to want to read a work of 'literature' about bulkhead doors, stars, asteroids, and how much you miss Earth! You're on a ship in deep space! I get it!
And you can't rhyme "stars" with "cars" over and over! No-one drives a car on this ship! It's a stupid metaphor! Please! Stop! Writing!
…this is your doing, isn't it Tycho?
Admittedly a case of being so bored during a lecture I typed this up on the spur of the moment. Least the lecture didn't last 139 years. :(