The Greatest Trick the Devil Ever Pulled Was Convincing the World He Wasn't Charlie Sheen
That's our Charlie. Wah-wah-wah-wahhhhhhhh.
At a certain point, a person's fuck-ups can become so commonplace and frequent that it's not remotely surprising. "Oh, Charlie Sheen was an insane violent disaster, terrifying and threatening women again? Bless him, that guy is a firecracker."
By the way, you vile judgers had the audacity to just assume this delicate lady was a hooker. How. Dare. You. She was a porn star. The kind of porn star who charges $12,000 for the pleasure of her company for an evening. Don't you feel stupid now.
You'll all be pleased to know that immediately after the events of that evening, Sheen was sent to jail and will be charged for his actions and forced to leave his television show.
It's funny when I tell jokes. No, he was fine. He'll pay for the hotel room when he gets around to it, he got some hospital Jell-O, and he's back to work making $1.25 million an episode. No legal ramifications will be had. Much like that time he held a knife to his wife's throat while high on crack. I mean, it was Christmas and there were children present. It would have just been rude to put him in jail, you guys. The police aren't monsters.
In fairness, he was charged with third degree assault for that Christmas fiasco, and was sentenced eight months later to 30 whole days in jail, which was suspended in favor of 30 days in rehab, 30 days probation, and 30 pieces of generic candy, because that will show him.
One time, he shot Kelly Preston. Like with a gun. This isn't discussed enough, so I thought it was important to mention.
There is no appeal to be made to Charlie Sheen. Violent, egomaniacal criminals tend to not really listen to reason, particularly when they're 45 years old, free of any and all real consequences, and paid a shit ton of money by a top network, a network who thrives on programs about criminal justice and the law, because they happen to be that network's amoral little cash cow. So, I have things to say to a few others.
Dear Jon Cryer,
I'm sorry that life has lead you here. I'm sorry you are the fey second banana on a terrible and bizarrely popular television program. I thank you for living a quiet life of calm and goodness, and I hope Sheen never makes good on his threats to murder you if you ever steal his limelight. You were Duckie. We should have given you better, and we didn't. We are all of us to blame for your life. We are sorry.
Dear Angus Jones,
At nine-years-old, you were cast in a new television show. I bet you were so excited. Now, years later, you have spent your formative years around Charlie Sheen, and I can only hope that your parents taught you good things about life and to stay away from the bad man in the short-sleeved buttondowns. Being child star parents, I fear they did not. So I feel compelled to give you some quick life lessons: don't do drugs, don't wear short-sleeved buttondowns, and don't shoot women or threaten them with knives, because, and I don't want to blow your mind here, it's really wrong. Vaginas are not merely in this world to be your fuck tunnels, and ladypeople are people, too. So, you know, don't shoot them. Or the knife thing.
Stop fucking marrying, sleeping with, or generally coming into any contact with Charlie Sheen. I can only assume the man's trunk has seen more hooker corpses than Jigsaw (hence why he had to drive two of them off a cliff), and you need to know better.
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