Goddammit, Wil Wheaton. We offered to buy you beer.

And here you are, still kicking it in Portland, chilling at Powell's—

—and at Ground Kontrol—

—and hanging out with Stephanie Stricklen—

—AND EVEN TALKING TO RANDOM PEOPLE ON THE STREET—

—and yet, have you contacted the Mercury at all? No, Wil. You haven't. No call. No email. Not even a tweet.

Goddammit.