Recently, I posted an article in which I name dropped and jpeg dropped Peter Weller. Peter Weller, of course, is Robocop. That is to say you think he is an actor who portrayed Robocop while I assume he underwent the full cyborg surgery for the role and is, in fact, Robocop at this very moment. I would dare you to prove me wrong, but I already know you can’t.

Anyway, Mr. Weller apparently spends his days Googling himself and I was surprised, delighted and shamefully aroused to be contacted by Mr. Cop himself (I shant be calling him Robo until we’ve spent more time canoodling) as something of a courtesy/query regarding my using him in a feature article on the world renowned website you are currently renownding in whatever part of the world you’re at.

Now, you’re probably thinking “Wow, this chicken is spicy” if you’re eating spicy chicken, and I would hasten to agree. But you may also be thinking it unusual that a major movie star (from 1987) like Peter Weller would simply e-mail me, a major internet comedy writer (from late 2007 until the present). Well, the fact is us celebutants stick together. I masturbate to photos of Paris Hilton at least once a month and I can’t even stand her. But it’s part of the business so I do my part. On the downside, I’m getting aroused by praying mantises as a result, but oh well, that’s another therapy session for later in life.

Anyway, Mr. Weller, who got my contact info from my little slug line at the top of the page there where I give an hilarious yet brief bio of myself and quite a humorous picture of a Siamese cat eating a Vienna sausage, emailed me to say he’d read the article and found it “interesting” and thanked me for being a fan (though to be fair I didn’t mention I was a fan in the article. But I so am!). It was brief and didn’t offer up much, so I smiled and printed it off and put it on my fridge. I live alone, so that’s sad, but oh well. Not like anyone will ever know, because I am alone. When I eat pasta, if a piece falls on my crotch, I’ll just pick it up and eat it. I can do that.

A day later, I received another e-mail from Mr. Weller asking if I had received his previous e-mail. Turns out I simply mistook his clipped and efficient Robocop manner of speaking as a marked disinterest in engaging me in any form of discourse when in fact he had actually wanted me to write back. I was flabbergasted. My flabber was literally dripping with thick, buttery gast.

As we all know, when Mr. Weller comes a-calling, you have to do your duty, so I sent him a short but courteous e-mailing thanking him for his interest, for Robocop and asking him why he’s never made any other movies. He replied within the hour that he has, in fact, been in over 50 movies. There was no “lol” typed after this, but I assume his wit is dry. He then asked more about me and where I lived, as he could see from my writing that I was a Canadian and he was in Toronto working on a film. Again, no “lol.”

As it happens, I live within two hours of Toronto, or one hour if I demonstrate less concern for the safety of others on the road than is entirely proper. Could I have been on the verge of meeting Robocop himself? The answer may surprise you.

The answer is yes. I assume you thought no. Fool. Also, surprise! Anyway, I have been meaning to head to Toronto (or “The Sweet and Low Taint” as most of us Canadians call it) to visit some friends and figured the opportunity to meet Peter Weller at the same time, and thus have some fodder for what would have to be my magnum opus article (that means it’s as cool as Tom Selleck’s moustache) was too much to resist.

I made plans to head to the Taint and agreed to meet Mr. Weller at a restaurant near the set of his “movie.” Still no “lol.” The drive to Toronto was uneventful, save for an unplanned stop at a Country Style donut shop on the highway. For those who don’t know, Country Style are donut shops. Sometimes found on highways.

Anyway, as can happen from time to time, midway through my journey my bowels became feisty and sought to immediately expunge any and all evidence that I had eaten anything that day. Long story short, I wind sprinted through the dining area of the Country Style and quickly wind sprinted back again shortly after I realized the water level in the toilet I had befouled was rising at an ominously fast pace rather than draining as is the custom with most toilets. I felt a sense of pride that I had caused some manner of plumbing mayhem on my way to visit Mr. Weller.

Finding a parking spot near the restaurant proved to be a more difficult task than I had planned and as a result I was forced to park some 10 blocks away. The neighbourhood was non-descript but I was hoping the hobo I had parked next to would serve as a decent landmark to find my vehicle later on, as it didn’t appear that he’d be moving any time soon. He may also have had a pet rat. Or he was being eaten by just a random wild rat. It’s not my business to meddle.

I arrived at the restaurant about 15 minutes before we had agreed to meet, but was surprised to see Mr. Weller already there. He was wearing a blue turtleneck and had a large jacket bundle over the chair behind him. He of course didn’t recognize me, as I am not an hilarious Siamese cat eating a Vienna sausage. I approached his table with some trepidation as my stomach was rolling. Despite my cool demeanor, I am still star struck at times when I meet celebrities. I know, I’m a big, famous writer who eats lobster on the toilet (except at that Country Style, I had no time) and showers with the cast of 227, but hey, I’m still a man. I’m still flesh and bone and lots of solid gold shoes and pants made from leather taken from animals you’ve never even heard of, like the Mysticapotamus and the Yellow Twatter.

Mr. Weller was eating a piece of blueberry pie and drinking a black coffee. He invited me to sit, which I did, and waved over a waitress. I wasn’t particularly hungry as my stomach was still threatening to toss out any intruders that made their way to the colon, but Mr. Weller didn’t give me the option. He ordered a tiramisu and a water.

Apparently, as he explained, after working on a film (at this point I attempted a laugh which netted me a confused yet scornful look while he continued his story) he liked to unwind with some dessert. It was a ritual he had been doing since his third or fourth film. Again I laughed, knowing that a different man planned Robocop in Robocop 3. Third film indeed.

Pie, he said, was his usual favourite, and he had taken to trying pies in all the cities he has visited if they were homemade. I was pleased to learn Canada had offered him a good blueberry pie, but not the best he’d ever had, which he said was made in New Hampshire by an elderly woman who had hit on him mercilessly.

It was at this point, presented with a rare opportunity I knew I may never get again, I had to ask the question I swore I would ask the first real celebrity I ever got a chance to sit down with. “What’s Pat Sajak like?”

“Queer.”

Mr. Weller then returned to his pie and I nodded. Pat Sajak was queer. Just like I had always figured.