Tails of the intergalactic sausage

Deep inside the mothership, the inner sanctum of the brains trust giddily postulate the implications of the emperor's recent edict. From remote locations the lords of the mothership communicate telepathically on secure ether-channels to ensure their philosophical musings and postulations are not intercepted by alien forces or any lowly technicians. Surreptitious random gatherings of technicians who formed post-broadcast, have identified a definitive lack of substance in the barbecue message and perceive it to be of negligable value or significance to either the intergalactic populace, the technicians or the underpants gnomes. Rather like a burnt sausage, it has been willingly offered around, rejected, and given to the dog.