“We got some here reports of suspicious space activity!” chortled the disgruntled dissatisfaction of one Oregonian apple picker.

Pitchforks served to circumscribe the many farmers that had gathered.

“Bout a quarter, half hour ago I saw with my own two eyes a—swear’t’Jebus—U. F. O.”

The one Oregonian apple picker was not respected among his peers. To apple pick was to toil above the dirt. Only the heartiest and most celebrated farms got to fondle the moist, supple earth.

“Simmer down ’der, Bo, kid,” stammered the chieftain of the bunch. “Now, here’ee faced w’some faks, claimed such, ‘least, by o’dear appl pickin’ Bo Jangles!” A hearty, farmer guffaw erupted at this jibe. The toothless masterpiece smiled at his still sharp wit.

He continues.

“Ony ‘ay t’tell fact firm fikshun…BEAR WRASSLIN!”

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Little apple pickin’ Bo Jangles looked towered above him towards his furry foe.

“Dag.”

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And Riker laughed.