While working late one night at his desk deep underground in the hidden, ultra-secret base far below Cheyenne Mountain, Major General George Hammond allowed himself a rare moment of real self-pity: *Why ME?*
It was hard enough keeping Jack O'Neill and his merry band of maniacs under some small semblance of control, best defined as "If you really have to blow up the nearest galaxy, please do it after I've retired, thank you so much." All too common incidents like that, which always made him reach for the antacids, were the whole reason why the notorious list of 'Things SG Teams are No Longer Allowed to Do' had been created in the first place. Then, when the other teams had been formed and started carrying out their own missions through the wormhole, the list had only grown longer. It was almost as if they were competing with the famed original team in coming back from other planets with the weirdest possible (in addition to the most idiotic) outcomes of exploring new worlds.
Hammond shuddered at the very idea. Glumly eyeing the latest report on his desk, a highly-decorated veteran of numerous wars, black ops, and other occasions when he'd gallantly led soldiers in combat now wondered exactly what to do about the significant problem known as Alexander Harris, nuisance extreme.
After the first few bizarre exploits of this young man had come directly to the notice of an incredulous commanding officer, Hammond did a little quiet investigating. From the look of things, it seemed entirely possible the Stargate program was under a subtle attack from one of their enemies - Kinsey, the NID, or maybe even one of the smarter Goa'uld - who'd sent in an undercover saboteur to ruin the reputation of the whole base, soon resulting in the closing down of the program due to the utter disgrace of Hammond and his loyal staff.
However, two things mitigated against this. First, Hammond had personally met Airman Harris, and nobody was that good an actor. He'd been the typical eager, dedicated enlisted man who made the United States military forces among the best in the world ever since the Vietnam debacle. Second, further discreet checking revealed such an astonishing congruence of events, which wound up with this same low-ranking individual assigned to the Stargate program and also as a part of one of the explorer teams, to be so blatantly beyond mere coincidence that it defied anyone's idea of the perfect covert scheme. Throughout the entire personnel offices of the Air Force, the clerks there had one and all screwed up in their jobs by getting sick, filling out the wrong forms, and otherwise inexorably guiding A. L. Harris into a tour of duty at one of the country's most clandestine military projects.
Anyone trying to on purpose pull off something so potentially suspicious would've been instantly dropped into the lava pit or shark tank or mime cage by their Evil Overlord right after proposing such an absurd plot. Frankly, it would've been the equivalent of Harry Maybourne and Apophis beaming down by a ring transporter from a ha'tak in full view hovering over the mountain, with both villains bearing along Airman Harris on their shoulders, and then all three of them chorusing to the startled guards at the outside security post, "These aren't the droids you're looking for."
Hammond paused in his depressed thoughts, to wince and rub at this forehead as if to wipe away that horrific image. He'd been in the company of Teal'c far too long…
Nevertheless, there still remained the problem about exactly what to do with the cause of the general's beginning severe migraine. Through the pain of his pounding headache, Hammond wistfully contemplated once more about just exiling Harris to McMurdo Station in Antarctica, only several hundred sub-zero miles from the South Pole. Doing this seemed the most fitting revenge for producing so much aggravation for a supremely fed-up general.
After a few more moments of savoring this fantasy, Hammond returned to reality. It was doubtful he'd get away with it, and the kid really didn't deserve this…probably. Besides, when the Stargate CO had delicately broached the whole idea to the others of Harris' SG team of sending that pest to the bottom of the world, the group leader and the rest of the guys had immediately protested, quite loudly. For some reason, they considered Xander, as they all called him, to be their own good luck charm.
Hammond sourly thought that only one specific word of this short description could be termed in any way as truthful. 'Luck' might be the main explanation why Harris and his SG team had successfully completed all their missions and everyone returned safe and sound ever since the most junior member of their cadre had joined the squad. However, at the same time, every single operation had also resulted in something genuinely silly occurring to everyone within range. Which, by the way, included the entire Stargate operations and its personnel, the SG team, and Harris himself. And now, that airman had not-so-surprisingly outdone his previous feats of hilarious calamity, leaving General Hammond with a very difficult decision.
An intense stab of agony then went through his brain, forcing the officer into his next actions. His head hurt too much right now to make any kind of sensible judgment, so it seemed the best thing was to just go home, take a few aspirin, and try for a good night's sleep. Tomorrow, he'd hopefully figure out what to do concerning Airman Harris' latest farcical predicament.
In the meantime, a quick written note would at least have things ready for the next day. Not to mention making both his opinion and orders perfectly clear to the rest of the base.
Getting his pen ready and pulling forward the first page of the report on his desk, General Hammond scribbled a few terse sentences on the paper. Rising from his chair, a man with stars on his shoulders now walked out of his office, bringing the report along in his hands. Tossing the document onto his aide's desk, the commanding officer now left the anteroom, looking forward to relaxing at home, and in the meantime, trying to forget completely his most annoying enlisted man.
On the aide's desk, awaiting the next morning for an unlucky assistant to reprise his superior's irritated message into something concise enough for the infamous list (in which Xander Harris was acquiring his very own lengthy subsection), the following could be read:
Of either sex
Due to whatever reason, including but not limited to: winning (or losing) a bet, having them volunteer, being thought a god, falling for the local person in authority saying such things as "It's our custom!", etc.
Author's Note: I was inspired to write this little piece of crackfic by the author caffinebunny on this site with their side-splitting story 'Things SG Teams are No Longer Allowed to Do'. I thoroughly urge you to read it! Thankfully, it was completed without any mention of harems, which allowed me to sneak this in, given it'd surely be something Xander would be involved with, much to his regret (either over getting one, or having to give it up).