What is the only thing more dangerous than washing down a quart of vodka with a gallon of gin? NOT doing that exact thing.
Amy Winehouse, VOICE of a TENTH of a generation and general pile of human mess, did not die as a result of the excesses of a lifestyle that made her biggest hit so ironic and adorable. She was MURDERED by SOBRIETY! CAPITAL LETTERS EXCLAMATION POINT!
According to “family sources” the shock to her body of not being pickled in delicious alcoholic beverages was just too much for it to bear, and after sucking every possible drop of life giving booze from every tissue in what was left of her musculature, her addled frame simply seized, unable to handle being separated from the only form of liquid inside it and tragically took the life of our precious, precious flower. To try to give you an example of what to compare this to, just imagine a car without oil, a Hybrid without hippie urine, or a Sheen not filled with Tigers,
You see, the family is saying that despite reports of Amy indulging in a 72 hour drink-a-thon prior to her “surprising” death, that the real reason for her demise is that she’s a stupid fuck. Their words, not mine. See she was supposedly instructed to gradually decrease her alcohol intake from “Norse Myth” levels to “Roman Orgy” levels and so on down the drunken scale, to carefully reduce the levels of fun in her body. And the woman that said “No, no, no.” to previous offers of assistance (according to FAMILY MEMBERS) told medical professionals that it’s all of nothing. She either never stops drinking or she never stops never drinking. And her family’s well reasoned hypothesis is that the sudden halt of personality swallows was too much of a shock to a self ravaged system.
And really, their “logic” is hard to argue. Alcohol is, after all, one of the essential building blocks of life. The human celebrity is composed of 62% alcohol, with the remaining 38% comprised of mainly amphetamines, opiates, cannabis and an over inflated sense of self worth and misguided feeling of invincibility. Exact amounts vary on a case by case basis. So asking a celebriwreck to abstain from alcoholic consumption, is tantamount to telling the Earth to go fuck it’s oceans. And then where would this fine planet of ours be? A shriveled, brown, husk of it’s former glory. Just like Amy Winehouse.
Now again, just to be perfectly clear, that’s not ME saying that; that’s “family sources”. I would never say such things, because I’m mostly not a lunatic. But I’m also not an alcohol doctor, so I don’t know, it may be entirely possible that suddenly stopping killing yourself could kill yourself. I’m not qualified to say one way or the other. The same way I’m not qualified to say that Amy Winehouse was a liquor fueled zombie who cruelly had her life source yanked away from her by “professionals” and “people who cared for her well being”, causing her to dry up like a neglected tin man, before falling over, shattering into a cloud of crusty, dehydrated slivers and being blown away on the breeze like a Spider-Man villain. That’s not for me to say, that’s for HER OWN FAMILY (according to a “source”) to say, which they have, in not so many words…
So what have we learned then from this brave, flimsy song drinker? Hmm? Well, we’ve learned that if you have flushed your system of all vital fluids and replaced them with 300 proof drinky fun times, apparently it’s better to quit gradually, allowing your body the opportunity to replenish your juices as the fermented happy liquids fighting the endless struggle of keeping you upright while simultaneously trying to knock you down, are being drained.
Secondly, if you have a family who in interview after interview kept telling who ever would ask them “It’s not a matter of if she’s going to die young and tragically, but when. If only there were something that I could do, because I apparently care ever so much, but alas, there isn’t.” and you expect them to have any sort of rational reaction to the “sudden” and “unexpected” news of their relative passing, then you’re going to wind up with them blaming not being shot with bullets as the most likely cause of sudden acute deadness.
And third, and I think most importantly: as long as you keep drinking, you will never die. So pour me another glass of immortality juice and let’s party like if we ever stop it’ll kill us!
This is an honest to god open letter to Charlie Sheen. If anyone reading this knows how to get it in front of Guru Sheen, I beg of you, please do. I will do anything, ANYthing, to have this make it into the hands of my new hero so that we can hang all night in our aura of epic that only we two truly understand… Seriously, anything…
I’ve heard a lot of guff lately about the mental state and health of star of stage and screen, one Mr. Charles Sheen. The man has been hounded by questions of his sanity and his sobriety. People think he’s lost it, that the man is rocketing down a road of self destruction on his way to utter collapse and personal, professional and physical ruin. People are talking about how sorry they feel for Charlie Sheen.
But, see, you don’t get it: Charlie Sheen feels sorry for YOU.
Can you honestly say that you feel sorry for a man who can walk away from a job that pays him two million dollars an episode to play a toned down version of himself and then without batting a fucking eye say that, sure, he’ll come back, but now you’ve gotta pay him three? And know that he means every fucking breath of it. You think that’s losing? Charlie Sheen will tell you to your simple little face that that’s winning. And I for one believe him. I would be foolish not to.
See, for too long, the exceptional have had to hide their superiority, to be humble and quiet in their personal knowledge of their uniqueness. The special have been forced to pretend that they’re just like everyone else to sell the normal people the idea that they could ever be special too. But once in a great while, a special person will throw off the guise of normal, relatable, humble every man and show you exactly how wrong you are to think that you could ever be like them. And that scares the shit out of the general public. They call that person crazy and narcissistic and dangerously addicted to drugs, alcohol and sex. I call those people jealous of seeing someone capable of owning the life that they all secretly wish could be theirs.
You see Charlie, I get it. We’re kindred spirits, you and I. In the old days two people such as us would meet on a mountain top and do battle with lightning and magic and the Earth would quake, knowing that it was witnessing the only thing greater than itself and that it’s continued existence was predicated entirely upon our whims at that moment. And the people would fear us, as much for what we do as for what we did not do.
But how do I, you may ask? How do I get it? How is it possible for my normal brain to ever claim to understand someone like Charlie Sheen? Someone utterly incomprehensible to those lower life forms? Because I’m not a sad normal brain like the rest of them Charlie. I am, in point of fact, a certified DOUBLE GENIUS. Shit yeah that’s what I said. But, certified by who you might ask. By myself of course, because how could I expect any of these normals to even begin to comprehend this?
We’re like two super sonic sub marines, tearin’ ass through the sky at a thousand miles an hour and people see us and they don’t comprehend how something so awesome and impossible could even exist. Then it dawns on them bro, they suddenly see clearly for the first time in their sad existence and see us for the bright bolt of light that we are and through their tears they wonder how they lived so long without knowing something like this could even exist. And it’s because they’ve been told that mediocrity is something to be sought after. A goal to be achieved. Nothing makes me sadder than seeing mediocrity being striven for, except maybe for a plate full of uneaten prostitute.
I understand that what you are putting out now is not anger, but passionate. I didn’t get it before. I didn’t understand that that was what was boiling over in my own samurai eagle heart. I thought I was angry, but that wasn’t it. If I was angry at anything it was with the world for not living up to our own personally standards. But now I understand that this pit of poison tipped rat vampires is only here to keep me from flying like the rocket propelled, birthday cake scented power monkey that I truly am!
You see, I woke up this morning with a helicopter hovering over my building. I go outside for my morning jog, look up in the sky and give the pilot the high sign and when I get back, it’s fuckin’ gone. Coincidence? There’s no such thing as coincidence man. They were there to make sure I was still alive, that’s it. Because the world needs me. I can’t even say any of my ideas out loud anymore bro, because when I do, the next day somebody’s making a million dollars on the easy little shit I say before my morning tea. So now I keep my genius locked away in a box labeled “not genius” and they’re not looking there because really, what that comes from me could ever not be genius, right? See it doesn’t make sense, and that’s what I’m counting on!
I want to hang with you Charlie. Beyond the fire and lightning that our meeting would call down from the halls of the gods of exceptionalism, I’m also selfishly thinking of my own self preservation. When I would put on my medical forms that my blood type was “Tiger Positive” the doctors would look at me with their stupid little questions in their eyes. But now I know that if something were ever to happen to me that there’s someone I can go to for a blood transfusion who would be able to handle it without my own blood kicking back into their body and devouring what was left of their unused soul. But until it becomes imperative for our unique physiology to preserve the last of our kind, we can just get together some Tuesday afternoon, each draw a little blood and have it fight, we can put that shit on Pay Per View and solve world hunger brother.
In closing, I want to make sure you know that I am absolutely serious right now when I say that if this somehow gets back to you Charlie, I want to hang with you. I want to finally feel free around someone who gets it! Give me a call Charlie, let’s be besties, because I am not mocking you, I get you, more than anyone else, I recognize your specialness and I fucking love it bro.