Dancing Barefoot by Wil Wheaton Page A

to let my
     show lose. It just wasn’t going to happen. Especially not to Voyager –
     er, V’ger, I mean.”
    I pause, and look out at the crowd. I wonder if Mr. “V’ger” is out there.
    â€œSo I went into my office, sat at my computer for 72 straight hours, and voted for TNG over and over again.
    â€œI didn’t eat, and I didn’t sleep. I just sat there, stinky in my own filth, clicking and
     hitting F5, a Howard Hughes for The Next Generation.
    â€œSome time around the 71st hour, my wife realized that she hadn’t seen me in awhile and
     started knocking on the door to see what I was doing.
    â€œâ€™Nothing! I’m, uh, working!’ I shouted through the door. Click, Click, Click . . .
    â€™I don’t believe you! Tell me what you’ve been doing at the computer for so long!’
    â€œI didn’t want her to know what I was doing – I mean, it was terribly embarrassing . . . I
     had been sitting there, in crusty pajamas, voting in the Star Trek poll
     for three days.”
    Some people make gagging noises, some people “eeww!” But it’s all in good fun. They are
     really along for the ride, now. This is cool.
    â€œShe jiggled the handle, kicked at the bottom of the door, and it popped open!”
    The audience gasps.
    â€œI hurriedly shut down Mozilla, and spun around in my chair.
    â€œâ€™What have you been doing on this computer for three days, Wil?’ she said.”
    I look out across the audience, and pause dramatically. I lower my voice and
     confidentially say, “I was not about to admit the embarrassing truth, so I quickly said, ‘I’ve
     been downloading porn, honey! Gigabytes of porn!’”
    I have to stop, because the ballroom rocks with laughter. It’s a genuine applause
     break!
    â€œShe was not amused. ‘Tell me the truth,’ she said.
    â€œI sighed, and told her that I’d been stuffing the ballot box in an online Star
     Trek poll.
    â€œâ€™You are such a dork. I’d have been happier with the porn.’
    â€œI brightened. ‘Really?’
    â€œâ€™No,’ she said. She set a plate of cold food on the desk and walked out, muttering
     something about nerds.
    â€œI stayed in that office for another ten hours, just to be sure. When my eyes began to
     bleed, I finally walked away. It took several weeks of physical therapy before I could walk
     correctly again, but it was all worth it. Best of Both Worlds Part II won
     by a landslide.”
    I pause dramatically, and the theatre is silent.
    â€œAnd it had nothing to do with my stuffing the box. It’s because Next Generation FUCKING RULES!”
    I throw my hand into the air, making the “devil horns” salute that adorns my satanic
     T-shirt, and the audience leaps to their feet, roaring with applause and laughter.
    I can’t believe it. I got them back. I say thank you, give the microphone to Dave Scott,
     who is now sitting on the stage pointedly checking his watch, and exit, stage left.

    I walk down the hallway, and meet my cast.
    â€œMan, they loved you, then they hated you,” Kevin says, “but you made them love you again!
     You’re good, man.”
    â€œThanks,” I say, “I think it mostly sucked, but the end was fun. Let’s eat, and get ready
     for the show. We’ve got to be in the theatre in 90 minutes.”
    We’ve all performed on the ACME stage many times together, but we’ve never performed this
     lineup of sketches. They’ve never performed in front of Trekkies before; matter of fact, most
     of them don’t even watch Star Trek , and this convention is their first
     experience with the show, and its unique following. The guy who is doing our music and our
     lights has never seen our sketch show, or read our scripts. It’s just over an hour until our
     stage call, and there are far too many uncertainties. I begin to freak out. Somehow,