The Useless Bugbreeders

TO THE SPACE COUNCIL, ASTEROID 4722 WAS JUST ANOTHER ROADBLOCK IN THE WAY OF INTERPLANETARY TRAFFIC. BUT TO THE USELESS BUGBREEDERS IT WAS HOME!
The previous case was a Weeper, and he lost. So the Space Zoning Commissioners were damp and irritable before I opened pleadings for my client. I tried not to squelch as I approached the bench.
Not the Flammables again, Mr. Jones? the fat Commissioner asked nastily, sponging his suit with a sodden handkerchief.
This was last week, Your Honor.
The thin dark Commissioner stared pointedly at the charred end of the bench nearest the witness seat.
Indeed it was, Mr. Jones.
The middle Commissioner poised his fingers and looked at the court ceiling; moisture gleamed diamond like on his bald head.
Now let me see, he intoned. Correct me if I err, Mr. Jones, but I seem to observe you have a habit of representing somewhat spectacular aliens. Including, in the past six months alone, the Drillers, Whirling Tombs, Fragile Glasses, Erupters, Vibrational Men, Transparent Women—and of course let us not forget the Flammables.
I assure Your Honor, my present clients will be found to be sober, hardworking, desirable members of the Galactic Community, seeking only to live on their own asteroid in peace under a democratic system, which....
Thank you, Mr. Jones. Shall we proceed?
And perhaps, added the fat Commissioner, you may be good enough to leave us with most of our courtroom intact on this occasion.
The thin Commissioner sighed and shuffled his papers.