Written by John Peurach

Wednesday, 9 March 2011


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image for The American Irrespective: Charlie Sheen's Good News, Bad News, and, More Or Less, Worser News (So Far) SHEENERIZED FOR YOUR PROTECTION: Crazy is, as crazy does. Hold the hell, pass the hand basket.


The good news is, I'm a winner. Always have been. Always will be. What can I say, that's me, in a nut shell. Candy coated finish not allowed. In other words, the real deal. Outside the box. Numero uno. The man in charge. A rock star. Hell, it even says so on my, uh, my man-size. My mighty mighty man-size. Either that, or Madagascar. Or, who knows, maybe even, Manitoba. Hell, for all I know, based on what it's been through, it should probably read Mademoiselle, by now.

Then again, maybe it does. Or will, eventually. Either way, I can't read it from this angle. At least not like this. I mean, it should probably go the other way, right? You know, like when you're reading it, as opposed to, uh, well, taking dictation. Or, anything that doesn't hopefully involve a lot of short hand, if you know what I mean. As in, right, or left, or, winning, duh!

Meanwhile, back at the ranch. Or, at least the "playroom." Like the one I got right here. I mean, around here. As in, someplace, that is. And, is it ever. But, enough about toys, especially those not otherwise in the attic where they belong.

In other words, what's important here is to consider the fact that these sad but true, pathetically inclined, up to their hook or be crook noses and/or double my trouble chins, are, that's right, you guessed it, totally pretend geniuses, who have next to no clue, not an inkling of an iota of a notion, that isn't completely insignificant in it's total lack of grace, or humility, and, as such, is nothing but a worthless, entirely misbegotten extension of not only their own highly suspicious, inability to function, but a direct, and unavoidable result of their complete and, I might add, inexcusable, to say nothing of, unprofessional (alright I won't), and /or illegal - HELLO? - attempt to sweep me, that is I, the one, the only who's getting cruci-a-you-know-what here'd, as in like, big, big time, biggest, gigantisized, right where it hurts. Or, should, if you're doing it right, if not exactly more often than not. But then, hey, we're all adults here, right? So, consent this! And, thanks for playing along with our home game.

In still other words, will I, or won't I? Is that even a question? You tell me. No, better yet, I'll tell you. And, while I'm at it, I'll even remind you, too, that, sure, go ahead, hold on to your oh so neat little nylon socks you would-be creative production and corporate front office full of squirmy ass little weasels, rodeo cowboys and Native American Indians of the jury, this is my business, as in not so fast my friend, none of yours.

Because don't look now but you've picked a fight with a warlock. And, as always, the drug test don't lie. People do. And, in the end it's all about the win/win one for the voices in this fire fighters 12-alamer head, of sorts, with a view unlike any other. Yeah, you heard me, batter up and throw me your best spitter, you sack of crap losers, cause my lumber is harder than yours. And gets to all those difficult to reach spots, too, especially when going the distance like we's been know to, when it's above and beyond and going like mile high, baby, and you know who is in the mood to WTF your whole way of life right off the map.

And, just to show you I mean what I say, if no one out there has the intestinal fortitude good luck charm sense to hurry up and thank me soon, for making them all kazillionaires along the way, it's gonna be raining pox-a-mox-a-pee-a on everyone in my way, up my a**, or just standing around waiting for the oh so sweet, extra delicious fruits of my outstanding, always delivered on time labors, to fall in their anything but your welcome laps, just so all the Bozo's beating you know what in the bushes of Donald Duck's driveway can stand before me in a court of publicly Twitterized opinion long enough to get all the way downtown on their don't go there girlfriend knees, and then be the ones to claim executive producer privilege, while they the piss and moan that I don't care, And/or, don't deserve what they know has been my toy all along. So help me Leo Gorcey!


Wait a minute, what do you mean that was the bad news? What happened to the good news?


Well, now that Wanda (I think that was her name), from where - oh yeah, Milwaukee originally, by way of Tulsa, Steamboat Springs, I think Amarillo, no wait, maybe it was Lubbock. Anyway, I first "met" her in Flagstaff, and then a whole bunch of times in Vegas. What can I say? Cross country road trips have a way of bringing out ye olde beast. Or, so I've been told. At least the down in front kind. Especially when they're all, you know, right there in the front roooooooow!

Meanwhile, now that she, Wanda, right? Now that she's done performing another pre-arranged bit of oh so heavenly, randomly applied delight on a strategic portion of my premier Earthly possession, no one owes me anymore favors.

To wit: Oh no, what about the children? That is, starting with me.


The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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