Presitge that, frankly, we can do without

But, you LLamas are Reichwing Wingnut RethuggliKKKhan shameless link whores, right? What google infamy would you turn down?

Well, buppy, you are correct, but there are limits to even our quest for google chummage. For example, being number eight on google for

Star Trek hunky men

We can do without that. It's bad enough that we've got things covered on the gay Klingon front (thanks to a post we did on the boys over at Six Meat Buffet). But, it could be worse: we could be the Jawas and lapping up all the google traffic for those sick, twisted, leftoes desperately googling up for the infamous Ann Coulter Beaver Shot. No way in the world do we want a piece of THAT.

UPDATE: My lunch with "William Fucking Shatner."

My heart began to beat rapidly as he turned toward us. Captain Kirk looked right at me. I froze. He gave his book to someone, and began to walk in our direction. I involuntarily straightened my back, and sucked in my stomach. My muscle suit felt tight and awkward around my arms and chest.

Within seconds he was standing next to us. He was about my height, and looked heavier than he did on television.

Captain James T. Kirk of the starship Enterprise said, "What can I do for you?"

"Well, Bill, this is Wil Wheaton. He's part of the cast of The Next Generation, and he'd like to meet you."

Captain Kirk looked at me for a long time.

"So . . . you're the kid on that show?" He seemed annoyed.

My throat and mouth were dry, and my palms were sweating. My heart pounded in my ears, as I answered. "Uh, yes, sir. My name's Wil."

He continued to look at me. I carefully wiped my hand on the hip of my spacesuit, and extended it. "Nice to meet you," I said.

He didn't take my hand.

"What is that, your spacesuit?" He said, and made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a cough.

"Oh? This? Yeah. It's not as cool as yours, but it's what they tell me to wear." I put my hand down. I really wanted to leave. I felt a little light headed. Why wouldn't Captain Kirk shake my hand? And why didn't he like my spacesuit? Could he see the fake muscles? Maybe he didn't like the color. I became hyper-aware of the spandex, clinging to my body, and longed for the comfort of my fleece jacket.

"Well?" He asked.

Oh no. He'd asked me a question, and I'd missed it.

"Excuse me?" I replied.

"I said, what do you do over there?" he asked. There was a challenge in his voice.

"Oh, uh, well, I'm an acting ensign, and I sometimes pilot the ship." Maybe he'd be impressed that I'd already logged several hours at the helm of the Enterprise D, all before the age of 16.

"Well, I'd never let a kid come onto my bridge." He said, and walked away.

Captain James Tiberius Kirk, of the Starship Enterprise 1701, and Enterprise 1701-A, the only person in Starfleet to ever defeat the Kobiyashi Maru, the man behind the Corbomite Maneuver, the man who took the Enterprise to the Genesis planet to return Spock's katra, the man who I had admired since I was eight years old, was immediately transformed into WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER.

I bit my lip, and turned to say good-bye to the still photographer who had made the introduction, but he had vanished as well.

I walked back to my own stage with my head down, avoiding eye contact the entire way. When I got to the entrance, I found Mandy, and asked her to unzip my costume, so I could put my fleece back on.

As she unzipped the back, she said, "did you get to meet William Shatner?"

"Uh-huh." I didn't want to let on that I was upset.

"What's wrong?" she asked, as she handed me my fleece jacket. There was concern in her eyes.

"Well . . ." I hesitated. Saying it out loud would make it real. "He was kind of a dick to me."

Her eyes widened, and she gasped. "What?! Why? What happened?!"

I fought back tears, and recounted our introduction.

"What an asshole!" She said, "Oh, Wil, I am so sorry!"

I nodded my head, and she gave me a hug. I drew a deep breath, shrugged my shoulders, and walked back to my trailer, where I sat down and cried. I had spent weeks getting up the courage to meet this man, and in less than five minutes he had insulted and humiliated me. With just a few words, he had reduced me from peer to peon. I had worn my stupid costume, because I thought that it would impress him, and he'd made fun of it.

15 minutes later, an assistant director knocked on my door, and told me that they were ready for me on the set. I stood up, wiped my face off, and told him that I'd need to make a quick stop at the makeup trailer on my way. He radioed this information to the 1st AD, and told me to hurry.

I walked to the makeup trailer, taking great pains to look at the ground, the walls, the sky . . . anything that would keep my head turned away from the Star Trek V stage.

I sat in the chair, and my makeup artist, Jana, began to touch me up.

"I heard about what Shatner did to you." she said. "Fuck him. He's a jerk, and has been for years. He's probably just jealous that you're younger, better looking, and more famous than he is."

I sighed. I didn't want him to be a jerk, and I didn't think that he was jealous of anything. I was certain that I'd done something wrong.

"I guess so." I said, as noncommittally as I could.

She put down her makeup sponge, and turned the chair away from the mirror, so I was facing her. She looked me in the eye, and said, "Don't let him upset you, Wil. He's not worth it."

"Okay," I lied. I knew I was going to be upset about this for a long time, and may even write a two part story about it some day.

"Okay," she said, and dusted my nose with translucent powder.

About the only thing I can say about this is at least Wil Wheaton is not out robbing Quick-E-Marts with Corey Feldman and Danny Bondaduce.

Althought this bit from part deux is priceless:

"To hell with him, W," Jonathan said. I love it when he calls me "W."

"To hell with who?" Michael asked.

"Shatner took a shit all over the Teen Idol," Jonathan told him.

Beneath his latex Klingon forehead, Michael rolled his eyes. "You want me to kick his ass, Wil?"

"No, that's okay. Thanks, though." I said.

"I've got your back, man," Michael said.