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The Sheen Estate in Sherman Oaks stirred with activity, though the head of the household still slept. There was much to be done before Charlie Sheen woke: there were drugs to be prepared for easy ingestion; toast and his favorite jam to be laid out next to his bed, and a special blend of coffee was to be brewed fresh, with one and a half pours of milk mixed in, no sugar, absolutely no sugar. He had a regular staff to ensure that such regulations were upheld, but it was his two girlfriends, his two goddesses who added those personal touches. For instance, upon waking from dreams usually regarding hookers and violence, he could be sure that Goddess #1 would be there already ready to provide him with his daily morning blow job, and that Goddess #2 would be right by her side, already prepared with a line of coke -- because thats how winners start their day. So it was the day things changed, when even his own images and mental delusions cracked under the fierce weight of reality; and it was all the fault of a damn corpse fucker. . .
He snorted a line
Then used his mind
To rehab his addictions
He claimed he was sane
But drugs ate his brain
And he needs no prescriptions
To rehab his addictions
He claimed he was sane
But drugs ate his brain
And he needs no prescriptions
He rose up out of bed and stretched off his sleep. The tiger blood gorged through his veins and arteries, through his many hearts (for he did in fact posses more than one) as the world and all of its intricacies came to him in revelations. It was the morning ritual, one which had brought him much success in the past, but seemed to be lacking in more recent years. He frowned, but only momentarily, as he still felt he was winning. Winning by his definition, for he felt good and more importantly felt needed. Eventually the high would come down though, and like a true winner he was terribly afraid of losing. The big L word would surface in his mind despite his best efforts to out run it. It was the reason why he started up a television career in the first place. To beat it.
Being a winner, he was down with the Twitter and other gadgets of the hopelessly hip. To be quite frank, he had even set a Guinness Book World Record for Fastest Time to Reach 1 Million Followers (I remember when Guinness Book World Records were important and interesting to me. . . in the fourth grade). Before being able to check his Twitter his iPhone rang winning. He found it to be his agent. He smiled, thinking those pricks had finally caved and given him his job back on 2 and a Half Men.
"So when do I start?" There was a silence on the other end of the phone. He had caught his agent of guard, but why? Was his return not as inevitable as he had thought? No. Bullshit. "Listen I've got things to do here" his voice was agitated as much from the cocaine as from having to deal with such shit.
"Look I've had about enough of your act, and I'm not the only one. That much is obvious to everyone but you Charlie. I'm tired of it. We are tired of it. More importantly CBS is tired of it, they're done with you. They just inked a deal with Ashton Kutcher today. . ."
Other words were spoken, but Charlie Sheen didn't really hear much of it. He was too filled with hate, his eyes glazed over, his ears listening to all that tiger blood boiling inside of his body. The room seemed to grow hot, his brow laced with perspiration. Did his ears produce steam? Thought of Ashton entered his mind, and all he could picture was a corpse fucker with a goofy grin on his face. A goofy grin on his face. On his face. That stupid face! That stupid jolly face I'd love to smash like a melon. . . Split the noggin like a cantaloupe. . . Wonder if any brains come out?
Just beat. . .
"You hear me?" the phone squawked. "We're through. You got it?! Through!"
The phone went dead. For awhile it didn't even register. When it did Charlie felt that perhaps he might cry, which surprised him for he could not remember the last time he had cried. After nearly a minute without waterworks he concluded what he had expected all along: that he had never cried his entire life. Not even at birth. Through the sorrow came menacing vibes of hatred and need for retribution. It shook him to his very core, his muscles tense to the point of aching. Something had to be done.
"That corpse fucker. . ." He said aloud. His goddesses found him to be distraught and sought to comfort him the only way they knew how, with fleshly pursuits. He refused their advances and they looked upon him fearfully. " Go away my dears, daddy has some business to attend to. They left the room shuffling their feet like children sentenced to bed early. With the room now empty he sat behind his desk and took out a cigarette and lit it. Looking down at it he found is didn't burn quite as he would like, and frowning at it he adjusted the ember with his thumbnail. As it burned he thought of what to do. Would he write him a letter and sign it in blood, as he had done with Chuck Lorre? He thought for awhile and was against it. No, instead he phone the little shit.
He picked up the phone. . .
Across town a much younger man was getting up to the first rising rays of sunshine with a smile upon his face. He inspected his sheets and was glad to see that his aging wife had managed to keep control of her bladder that night whilst she slept. He knew there were things to tend to before the head of the household woke up: there was oatmeal to be prepared with prunes to help for her digestion, the morning bath was to be prepared, and ginkgo biloba (to improve memory) was to be placed bedside. Walking around he noticed his wife's massive doll collection, and noted that they needed to be dusted. He liked feeling needed. Downstairs he heard the scuffle of the children, and smiled. Heading towards the door he was ready to descend upon them, to take them into his arms and live out a real phoney baloney Hollywood story. . . but his phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hello Ashton?"
"Why yes, who's this?"
"Charlie Sheen, do you know who I am Ashton?" he asked rather simply without taking away from his anger. He smiled. He was already accumulating his past accolades like some sort of adding machine that always equated to 'winning'
"Why yes. . . yes I do. . ." Ashton replied, politely.
"It was a rhetorical question Ashton," cold as iceeeee. Smirnoff Ice. Enjoy a nice cool refreshing Smirnoff Ice this summer, whilst hanging out with all your boyfriends under the veranda.
"Oh. . . I just thought. . . I mean you were so quiet I thought. . ."
"Don't think Ashton, its not a good look for you. But returning to my original thought, do you know who I am? I'm a war vet, I'm an ex-navy seal, I'm an extreme skydiver, I'm a rookie cop, I'm an ex-con turned Major League relief pitcher, but more importantly, I was a father figure to that fat little shit for eight long years. . ." His anger subsided, and was replaced with a strange feeling in his heart--yes The Grinch's heart was growing bigger Whoville; he really did love that little shit."
"And who are you, Ashton, who are you?"
"Well I'm. . ."
"Again. . . rhetorical Ashton. You are a stoner incapable of finding his own car, a computer generated deer--which I would never do by the way--and an overall idiot who can't even handle a coke deal properly. . ."
"You saw My Boss's Daughter? Aww, that means so much. . . " Ashton said genuinely touched. "Not many people saw it."
"Yeah, unfortunately I did." On the other end Ashton frowned. "Say, by the way did you hit that? You know, you fuck Tara Reid?"
"What?! No we're good friends."
"Yeah. . . didn't think so." Sheen said. Then, under his breath "Fag."
"What? What was that?"
"Nothing."
"You seem to forget. . . " Ashton said meekly. "I was also a CIA agent, and a Texas Ranger."
"A CIA agent!" Sheen laughed. "Yeah with a blonde bitch for a partner. I'd ask if you've hit that, but apparently young blondes aren't your thing. And a Texas ranger? Yeah playing second fiddle to James Van Der Beek. How is that guy the toughest motherfucker in that town? Seems the law round them parts aint very tough if you ask me. Or is it just the town? Full of male ballerinas and wine drinkers? Real fluff Ashton. Real fluff. I'm trying to make a point here." He was angry, angry at the entire situation, he had felt properly fucked by the press and the media. "My point is this. You can NEVER replace me. You can never be me, I'm Charlie fucking Sheen. I've killed men. I'm a real bad ass. Look at the facts, you are married to a geriatric with dimming headlights, and I'm living with two women. Both of them are my girlfriends. One's a model, lingerie and shit. Swimsuits. . . The other is a porn star. I piss 151. I've got tiger blood. The only thing pumping through those veins of yours is chicken broth."
Ashton knew not how to feel. It seemed as if Charlie was rambling, becoming nonsensical. His anger was obvious.
"Your movie career has been a total failure--your T.V. career has been based on looking cute and playing dumb--it comes natural to you, I'll give you that--and putting on practical jokes on all your celebrity friends, almost as if to say 'look who I know!' If I were to Punk you, you'd be dead, I have shot people you know. I can do it. I shot Kelly Preston. . . "
"How'd you get this number?" Ashton asked.
"Never mind how I got it. . . I'm Charlie fuckin' Sheen. I can do a lot of things Ashton. If you think anyone is going to give a shit about you coming to 2 and a Half Men, you're sorely mistaken. You're just there to make all the old women with cob web crotches like your wife wet in their granny panties, and after a week or two they'll get bored of that when they realize you have no talent whatsoever. You can't bring even an iota of what I bring! I'm CHARLIE FUCKING SHEEN!"
And with that he hung up the phone. He threw it to the ground and breathed in. Cold cool air seeping in through his nostrils and down into his burning lungs. He exhaled and felt its warm. His belly felt like a smoldering fire.
Across town Ashton put away his phone as his wife stirred.
"Anything important, honey?" Demi asked.
"No. . . " he turned "no, nothing at all."
He smiled and bent down to sit on the bed.
"Ready for your enema?"
Being a winner, he was down with the Twitter and other gadgets of the hopelessly hip. To be quite frank, he had even set a Guinness Book World Record for Fastest Time to Reach 1 Million Followers (I remember when Guinness Book World Records were important and interesting to me. . . in the fourth grade). Before being able to check his Twitter his iPhone rang winning. He found it to be his agent. He smiled, thinking those pricks had finally caved and given him his job back on 2 and a Half Men.
"So when do I start?" There was a silence on the other end of the phone. He had caught his agent of guard, but why? Was his return not as inevitable as he had thought? No. Bullshit. "Listen I've got things to do here" his voice was agitated as much from the cocaine as from having to deal with such shit.
"Look I've had about enough of your act, and I'm not the only one. That much is obvious to everyone but you Charlie. I'm tired of it. We are tired of it. More importantly CBS is tired of it, they're done with you. They just inked a deal with Ashton Kutcher today. . ."
Other words were spoken, but Charlie Sheen didn't really hear much of it. He was too filled with hate, his eyes glazed over, his ears listening to all that tiger blood boiling inside of his body. The room seemed to grow hot, his brow laced with perspiration. Did his ears produce steam? Thought of Ashton entered his mind, and all he could picture was a corpse fucker with a goofy grin on his face. A goofy grin on his face. On his face. That stupid face! That stupid jolly face I'd love to smash like a melon. . . Split the noggin like a cantaloupe. . . Wonder if any brains come out?
Just beat. . .
"You hear me?" the phone squawked. "We're through. You got it?! Through!"
The phone went dead. For awhile it didn't even register. When it did Charlie felt that perhaps he might cry, which surprised him for he could not remember the last time he had cried. After nearly a minute without waterworks he concluded what he had expected all along: that he had never cried his entire life. Not even at birth. Through the sorrow came menacing vibes of hatred and need for retribution. It shook him to his very core, his muscles tense to the point of aching. Something had to be done.
"That corpse fucker. . ." He said aloud. His goddesses found him to be distraught and sought to comfort him the only way they knew how, with fleshly pursuits. He refused their advances and they looked upon him fearfully. " Go away my dears, daddy has some business to attend to. They left the room shuffling their feet like children sentenced to bed early. With the room now empty he sat behind his desk and took out a cigarette and lit it. Looking down at it he found is didn't burn quite as he would like, and frowning at it he adjusted the ember with his thumbnail. As it burned he thought of what to do. Would he write him a letter and sign it in blood, as he had done with Chuck Lorre? He thought for awhile and was against it. No, instead he phone the little shit.
He picked up the phone. . .
Across town a much younger man was getting up to the first rising rays of sunshine with a smile upon his face. He inspected his sheets and was glad to see that his aging wife had managed to keep control of her bladder that night whilst she slept. He knew there were things to tend to before the head of the household woke up: there was oatmeal to be prepared with prunes to help for her digestion, the morning bath was to be prepared, and ginkgo biloba (to improve memory) was to be placed bedside. Walking around he noticed his wife's massive doll collection, and noted that they needed to be dusted. He liked feeling needed. Downstairs he heard the scuffle of the children, and smiled. Heading towards the door he was ready to descend upon them, to take them into his arms and live out a real phoney baloney Hollywood story. . . but his phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hello Ashton?"
"Why yes, who's this?"
"Charlie Sheen, do you know who I am Ashton?" he asked rather simply without taking away from his anger. He smiled. He was already accumulating his past accolades like some sort of adding machine that always equated to 'winning'
"Why yes. . . yes I do. . ." Ashton replied, politely.
"It was a rhetorical question Ashton," cold as iceeeee. Smirnoff Ice. Enjoy a nice cool refreshing Smirnoff Ice this summer, whilst hanging out with all your boyfriends under the veranda.
"Oh. . . I just thought. . . I mean you were so quiet I thought. . ."
"Don't think Ashton, its not a good look for you. But returning to my original thought, do you know who I am? I'm a war vet, I'm an ex-navy seal, I'm an extreme skydiver, I'm a rookie cop, I'm an ex-con turned Major League relief pitcher, but more importantly, I was a father figure to that fat little shit for eight long years. . ." His anger subsided, and was replaced with a strange feeling in his heart--yes The Grinch's heart was growing bigger Whoville; he really did love that little shit."
"Well I'm. . ."
"Again. . . rhetorical Ashton. You are a stoner incapable of finding his own car, a computer generated deer--which I would never do by the way--and an overall idiot who can't even handle a coke deal properly. . ."
"You saw My Boss's Daughter? Aww, that means so much. . . " Ashton said genuinely touched. "Not many people saw it."
"Yeah, unfortunately I did." On the other end Ashton frowned. "Say, by the way did you hit that? You know, you fuck Tara Reid?"
"What?! No we're good friends."
"Yeah. . . didn't think so." Sheen said. Then, under his breath "Fag."
"What? What was that?"
"Nothing."
"You seem to forget. . . " Ashton said meekly. "I was also a CIA agent, and a Texas Ranger."
"A CIA agent!" Sheen laughed. "Yeah with a blonde bitch for a partner. I'd ask if you've hit that, but apparently young blondes aren't your thing. And a Texas ranger? Yeah playing second fiddle to James Van Der Beek. How is that guy the toughest motherfucker in that town? Seems the law round them parts aint very tough if you ask me. Or is it just the town? Full of male ballerinas and wine drinkers? Real fluff Ashton. Real fluff. I'm trying to make a point here." He was angry, angry at the entire situation, he had felt properly fucked by the press and the media. "My point is this. You can NEVER replace me. You can never be me, I'm Charlie fucking Sheen. I've killed men. I'm a real bad ass. Look at the facts, you are married to a geriatric with dimming headlights, and I'm living with two women. Both of them are my girlfriends. One's a model, lingerie and shit. Swimsuits. . . The other is a porn star. I piss 151. I've got tiger blood. The only thing pumping through those veins of yours is chicken broth."
Ashton knew not how to feel. It seemed as if Charlie was rambling, becoming nonsensical. His anger was obvious.
"Your movie career has been a total failure--your T.V. career has been based on looking cute and playing dumb--it comes natural to you, I'll give you that--and putting on practical jokes on all your celebrity friends, almost as if to say 'look who I know!' If I were to Punk you, you'd be dead, I have shot people you know. I can do it. I shot Kelly Preston. . . "
"How'd you get this number?" Ashton asked.
"Never mind how I got it. . . I'm Charlie fuckin' Sheen. I can do a lot of things Ashton. If you think anyone is going to give a shit about you coming to 2 and a Half Men, you're sorely mistaken. You're just there to make all the old women with cob web crotches like your wife wet in their granny panties, and after a week or two they'll get bored of that when they realize you have no talent whatsoever. You can't bring even an iota of what I bring! I'm CHARLIE FUCKING SHEEN!"
And with that he hung up the phone. He threw it to the ground and breathed in. Cold cool air seeping in through his nostrils and down into his burning lungs. He exhaled and felt its warm. His belly felt like a smoldering fire.
Across town Ashton put away his phone as his wife stirred.
"Anything important, honey?" Demi asked.
"No. . . " he turned "no, nothing at all."
He smiled and bent down to sit on the bed.
"Ready for your enema?"
This has all gone on too long. Its nice to feel like its over with, but alas, their making more episodes. I don't really watch the show, nor CBS for that matter, so I don't understand why anyone even cares. What I can say is that it has been damaging to Charlie Sheen, he'll probably never come back from this. Not like it really matters, what with all the ridiculous cash CBS was throwing at him.
Bah humbug.
iR declares this whole debacle irreparably retarded.
Sheen has taken up a business venture involving electric cigarettes, called "NicoSheen." The package is said to grace his 'signature smirk.'
Sheen really did accidentally shoot Kelly Preston, his then girlfriend. After being shot she broke up with him. Sheen still does not know why.
Sheen has his own clothing line, called Sheen Kidz, with a 'z'.
Two and a Half Men airs EVERYDAY in Argentina.
The Australian once described Two and a Half Men as a "sometimes creepy, misogynistic comedy."
Two and a Half Men has been nominated for 30 Emmy Awards, and 2 Golden Globes.
yes.
ReplyDeleteI've got one question for you. Why do you call yourself Mt.Wood? Is it some kind of penis joke or something?
ReplyDeleteI live on a hill foolishly described as a mountain with its own private road. My last name is Wood, so thus my friends and I (by friends I mean real people, not stuffed animals) call it Mt. Wood. Which is short for Wood Mountain. Get it? Got it? Good.
Delete