
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.
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Stephanie Stricklen is breast feeding right now and therefore CANNOT EVEN DRINK BEER.
Harrumph. You are dead to me Wil Wheaton. Dead to me.
"Stayed in character, answered, finished scene."
Oh sure, but what was the question? Did he answer correctly? Was she asking him because she recognized him, or was she treating him like any passer-by on the street who might have an answer to her question?
These are the important subtleties in life that twitter just can't convey. That's why I'm asking for follow-up information in the comments section on a blog that Wheaton apparently doesn't even read. That will get results!
Will Wheaton was up all night shooting his bloody TV show outside our house with these huge lights blaring through our windows. It was like strong sunlight at 3am. Gotta figure out where I can get some of those Wheaton Bulbs. They'll be useful for torturing sources...
"Wil Wheaton is too cool to hang out with plebes like you."
You may be joking, Senor Irony, but you've never been more right.
And poor, poor Matt Davis.
This is fucking lame, Wil can totally see past your desperate attempts to cash in on his internet/geek-chic credibility in hopes of ending up on the digg front page.
WIL SIGHTING! Tonight at the Driftwood Room at Hotel Deluxe in SW. He was having a happy hour beer with a coworker and discussing the relative merits of Buffy vs. Dollhouse. A fan got his autograph. AWESOME.
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