As some of you worms may have noticed, last night’s season number who-gives-a-damn premier of Two and a half Men featured a significant lack of me. Something called an Ashton is attempting to fill the chasm of talent and wildebeest-like magnetism that I left behind. It’s no tall order, and I commend that Ashton thing for attempting to replace the magma-blooded leviathan that is me, a certified Charlie Sheen.
I watched the episode. I watched it with the eyes of a sun god gazing upon a once mighty but primitive civilization as it crumbled under the weight of their own ignorance and refusal to evolve. Also, guns. The civilization was also killed by crazy invading Spaniards with guns.
After watching, I wrote down my thoughts and Emailed them to the first website that popped up after one of my hookers smeared her ass across my keyboard while I was Google searching the words “immortal cock weasel + Charlie sheen”.
I have no idea what site this review is being featured on, but I hope it’s not Jews.
To prepare, I meditated for 17 hours, sending bad ju-ju brainwaves at the show that had already been filmed. I’m pretty sure it worked, because the episode was an incomprehensible clusterf*cktastrophe. Apparently my character is dead and lives in an urn. While you may never see my face on Two-and-a-half Men ever again, I can promise you that my ghostly spirit is doing lines of me inside that urn. The things that go on in that urn can’t be shown on network television. They’re too raw and powerful for modern mammalian brains to withstand. The show going on inside that urn is like HBO’s Cathouse mixed with all of Brad Pitt’s scenes from 12 Monkeys mixed with a fist slathered in coke that’s fisting a wacky, coked-out puppet.
The Ashton thing is supposed to be a billionaire womanizer that, even though he uses women and disposes of them quickly, is actually a sweet, loveable guy. Again, I commend that thing called an Ashton for trying to fill my size-infinity shoes, but he really dropped the ball, and will continue to drop balls like a bashful whore. Warlock. Tiger blood. Yadda-yadda. I’m going to ride this “unhinged trainwreck TV star” thing in to the f*cking ground. At which point I will be buried with more money lining my dead guy clothes than you scum munchers will ever see in your lives. I’m crying someone else’s tears as I write this. I am absorbing your disdain over last night’s Two-and-a-half Men and I am crying your tears for you. I’m a proxy crier.
Speaking of criers, I have nothing but good things to say about my longtime pal Jon Cryer. Jon performed admirably last night, although I still believe the role that he will receive a French knighthood for is that of Ducky from that shit movie that I never watched but always told him I had watched.
Overall, the show without me is not a show; it is a sad display of futility. The episode raked in 28 million viewers, but 27.93 million of them were jonesing for a hit of old Charlie – and I just crapped himself with melancholy. I woke up this morning with menagerie of pills in my mouth. Don’t you hate it when the bats inside your eyelids recite Keats?
Final score: 7 out of 10