A letter from my friend Rex Babin (he's Croatian)

You know, cocktail attire. Just put something on that makes me want to put my cock in your tail.

My next movie is simply going to be a documentary about how perfect it is to smoke in air conditioning.

I'm always late for my girlfriend but early for my street pharmacist. Go figure.

Four lines seems long enough for a post, no?

CHARLIE SHEEN WILL EAT YOUR FACE, AND YOU WILL LIKE IT.

"I'm sorry, man, but I've got magic. I've got poetry in my fingertips. Most of the time—and this includes naps—I'm an F-18, bro. And I will destroy you in the air. I will deploy my ordinance to the ground."

Wait, what? That's not a lead. Who said that? What kind of insane fu—

“—We work for the pope. We murder people ... we are high priests, Vatican assassin warlocks."

What the hell? Who is saying this crazy sh—

"—I am on a drug, it's called Charlie Sheen. It's not available, 'cause if you try it once, you will die. Your face will melt off and your children will weep over your exploded body."

Oh Charlie Sheen! It’s you. It’s you and your adorable public relations campaign. That’s right fools and trolls; you heard it here first. Charlie Sheen is running a “Kansas City Shuffle” of a public relations campaign. This is all part of his grand plan.

Five years from now when Charlie is doing body shots off of porn stars on top of a mountain of cash and Columbian snow, you will realize. He duped us. He duped us all. That charming, tiger-blooded warlock ran a recklessly precise media maneuver. A graying Jimmy Fallon will wearily proclaim: “Charlie Sheen not only pulled the wool over our eyes, he banged the sexy shepherd girl who sheared the sheep.” And everyone will cheer. They will not cheer because of a light-up “Applause” sign. They will woot-woot and laugh because Charlie charmed the pants off of them. He broke some hearts and laid waste to his internal organs with drugs unimaginable. But you and everyone else loved him violently for it.

“Can’t is the cancer of happening.”

You’re right, Charlie. So readers, come out on this limb with me. Entertain the idea that this man – like a young Bud Fox – has a plan, and the iron will to carry it out.

For those of you insane people, bros, winners, level 100 warlocks and total bitchin’ rock stars, this should be easy. I know you are with me. If Sheen can sustain this then you people have a mascot. Nay, you have a deity. For everyone unconvinced of Sheen’s charms (i.e. everyone with a conscience), just bear with me. Harbor the same hope I harbor. Believe that there is a little superhero, a little F-18, in each of us. Believe that even the most troubled among us have a dash of the supernatural in them.

Do I think Charlie Sheen really has tiger blood? Do I think he has DNA of the Greek God Adonis? Am I convinced that he cured himself with his mind? No, but I want to think those things. All I need is a little persuading.

“I am battle-tested bayonets, bro.”

Huh? OK, Charlie. You are battle-tested bayonets.

Why does he make all these absurd claims? His life was wild enough before divine genetics entered the conversation. Maybe Charlie is telling the truth. He has been pegged as insane, but I’m not buying it. His erratic is so erratic that it doesn’t seem real. He lives his life like a drunken boxing master: he gives the impression of chaos but it is just a ruse to hide his diabolical plan.

“You’d borrow my brain for five seconds and just be like, ‘dude, can’t handle it, unplug this bastard.’ It fires in a way that is, I don’t know, maybe not from this terrestrial realm.”

I’m not saying that he isn’t crazy. Of course he is. I’m saying that he is channeling his crazy for specific ends.

There is a reason why Sheen is the most buzzing Hollywood topic in years. News about celebrities is sought after, but Sheen’s life has been absurdly accessible.

Do you think that’s an accident? Of course it’s not. Celebrities have entire teams of people assigned to cultivate their image with the media. Publicists, media handlers and spokespeople cluster around their stars and try to put forth positive messages even in the face of wild tabloid crisis.

“It’s just strafing runs in my underwear before my first cup of coffee, because I don’t have time for these clowns.”

Where do you think these people are? Charlie told those clowns to stay the hell at home. He doesn’t have time for them. He told them to stay somewhere out of the way while he completes his ruthless takeover of every media medium.

Where is his pops, Martin, through all this mess? Where is Emilio? How have they both been able to avoid a camera or microphone? It’s because they are in on it. They know exactly what’s up and they are staying out of Charlie’s way too. Let’s be honest, if Martin were not in on this wild venture, he would surely have taken action. He has been confronted with a rebel warlord before in Lieutenant Walter Kurtz. He would just need to imagine himself back on the set of “Apocalypse Now,” and his killer instincts would kick in.

“The only thing I am addicted to right now is winning.”

Alright, Charlie. Let me stop you there. This part no one will believe. Of course they won’t. I don’t believe it either. And why should I? The fact that Sheen’s medicine cabinet looks like Ozzy Osborne’s tour bus does not contradict my theory in the least.

So what if Sheen hasn’t been sober since he started filming “Wall Street?” Nobody in Hollywood is. It snows all year round in that magical town of celebrities. Furthermore, people at the peak of their craft have produced some of their best work under the influence. Jimi Hendrix allegedly consumed hard drugs through his facial pores during performances. Dock Ellis, a former Major League pitcher, threw a no-hitter while under the influence of LSD.

The point is, people at the top of their craft can enjoy success under the wildest of circumstances. Charlie Sheen is no exception. He is making America laugh and giving CBS bragging rights. Can anyone say that Charlie was challenging himself professionally? That show sucks. He had about 17 minutes of airtime every week and made $2 million per show! What a cushy life! Even for a celebrity.

It wasn’t enough for our tiger-blooded friend, however. He was living a rock star lifestyle on a rock star budget but something was missing. He was living excellently and feasting on his “goddesses” and so many substances the DEA had to move to a seven-day workweek. Like Randy Moss in his Raider years, however, he was not flourishing. He was an orchid caught in a thicket of brambles.

It was time to break free. Charlie had had enough of the network TV bullshit. This F-18 needed a chance to blast off.

He has always wanted to be the bad boy. Think back to the surly greaser that Ferris Bueller’s sister ogles in the police station. Sheen never wanted to be a cutesy, PG-13 star. So he needed a chance to break free.

“Resentments are the rocket fuel that live in the tip of my saber.”

Charlie needed an antagonist. He kept stoking the fire with public embarrassments and arrests. Finally, he got the goat of a few people. Chuck Lorre, co-creator of “Two and a Half Men,” shut the show down for the season, putting Sheen and everyone involved out of a job. Now Charlie had someone to attack. The “resentments” he refers to are not real. He knows he created them. But now he does have rocket fuel, and it will propel him to levels even he never imagined.

There is no end in sight for Charlie Sheen. He claims to be sober now, but who knows. What is clear, is that his media hailstorm will not stop until he has the attention of every man, woman and child on planet Earth.

Remember, this is what he wants. Mark Cuban, billionaire and owner of the Dallas Mavericks, has already come to Sheen about a reality show. Who would not watch that at this point? If not that, Sheen will surely get another show soon. Or maybe a movie. There were talks of him making “Major League 3,” which I for one would reserve advanced tickets to. No matter what his next move, Sheen has the world by the balls and he can play all us media consumers like so many violins.

Charlie Sheen ran the most brilliant public relations campaign of all time. During the next few years he will cash in on that and all we will do is sit and watch. We will get a few good laughs along the way.

“I’m tired of pretending I’m not a total bitchin’ rock star from Mars.”

You know what? Boom, there it is. He totally gave it all away. I figured it out. It seems a Martian really has come down and occupied Charlie’s skin. Clearly the alien had to get back to base in just a few months, so he decided to live the ultimate human experience. He definitely achieved that goal. I just wonder how much longer Mr. Martian can keep a steady hand at the controls before all the fuses explode.

Flo Jo

Bitch I'm big like bunnies' family trees
From the Dirty like birthmarks on Drew Brees
Call me Dolla or call me Peahz
But before you touch it, please say please

Did you see the Super Bowl Halfime show???

Michael Jackson. Stevie Wonder. The Rolling Stones. Prince. Bruce Springsteen. The Black Eyed Peas.

Find the black sheep. Oh, there it is.

The NFL let America down when it chose the Black Eyed Peas to headline the halftime show at Super Bowl XLV. After all, the Super Bowl is our nation’s moment to shine.

Europe is done thanking us for the Marshall Plan. We haven’t made a sexy car since the ‘70s. And as much as our fearless leader tries to galvanize his people, we are not on the verge of another Sputnik. But what we can do as Americans is put on a show; or at least we used to know what that took.

The Super Bowl, from its name down to the millions of dollars spent on advertising, is the ultimate flexing of American muscle. That is exactly why they trot out Michael and Stevie. Even Mick and Keith managed to emerge from the haze of a champagne-drenched suite in the Bellagio to make it up to Detroit for Super Bowl XL.

How could Roger Goodell and his cronies bobble the snap on this one? Everything was going so perfectly. In 2010 the NFL was filled with intriguing stories, which led to its highest ever TV ratings for a season. The playoffs were a commissioner’s dream. Aaron “Friendly as Mr. Rogers” Rogers and his hobbled Pack caught fire, adding a 21^st century chapter to the lore of the Green-and-Gold.

It felt like we were living in Goodell’s fantasy world. His golden knight, Rodgers, took down yesterday’s crucified star, Michael Vick. Then he braved the cold and silenced the surly Jay Cutler. Next up was the Super Bowl, and everyone outside of Western Pennsylvania hoped that Rodgers had one more in the chamber to slay the poster boy for everything wrong with the league, Big Bad Ben Roethlisberger.

Finally, through all of these triumphs of Good over Evil in the NFL, Rodgers has shaken the graying, Louisiana monkey from his back. That Super Bowl MVP Award ESPN can finally drop the notion that Rodgers is motivated by residual hatred for Brett Favre.

The NFL could not have drawn it up any better. Ex-cons and sexters alike felt the wrath of Rodgers’ poise and pinpoint passing. It seemed that the stage was set perfectly for the Super Bowl.

Then, inexplicably, the Black Eyed Peas were allowed to have their way with the halftime show. On a stage in the middle of the modern cathedral of sport that Jerry Jones built, Will.i.am, Fergie and co. butchered their performance and 111 million Americans cringed in unison.

Allow me to be clear. The Black Eyed Peas never had a chance. The fault here lies entirely with the people who selected them as the lead performer. Even if the mics had been working, even if Fergie hadn’t left her lozenges in Los Angeles and even if a number of the stage lights had not gone out, the show would have been a disaster.

The Black Eyed Peas burst onto the scene in a big way with the release of Elephunk, their first platinum album in 2003. During a time when the United States needed feel good music, they gave it to us. They gave it to us hard. Their music was like a combination of a “Fight World Hunger” commercial and Kumbaya set to the furious pace of a Jazzercise class. Even with their best performance last Sunday, they could never hold a candle to “Born to Run” or “Billie Jean” at midfield.

Maybe the planners of the halftime show knew they had to book someone cheesy when they saw the Packers making their Sherman-esque march through the postseason. That would mean that they were sacrificing a great show for a little irony. That sure doesn’t sound very American. Maybe the impending NFL lockout had Goodell so busy that he couldn’t manage to book a real performer.

Yes, I know they did have a classic face on the stage. Slash of Guns ‘n Roses made an appearance, complete with theatrical makeup and top hat. They barely let him play guitar, however, and he was forced to endure Fergie’s rendition of “Sweet Child O’ Mine”, marking the real low point of the night. The Peas then hit us with about five of their catchiest songs. I’ll blame that toe-tapping on restless leg syndrome.

There were only two saving graces. The absurd light-up costumes worn by the accompanying dancers and the Black Eyed Peas themselves made Apl.de.ap and Taboo looked like extras from The Matrix. The only moment that really absolved the whole disaster for me was Usher gracing us with some of his silky dance moves. Other than that, the halftime show gave the Super Bowl a big black eye.

Orange ya glad I didn't say banana?

something that is fucked up:

Rich people who buy shitty toilet paper (npi*). Are you KIDDING me? That's the least appreciated part of your body, dealing with shit, getting shit on and shitting itself. Hook it up for Christ's sake. If you take away that 5th Audi, you can start applying those funds to important things. Like fluffy paper to wipe your ass with.


I don't understand you, porn industry:

what is the appeal of a video entitled "handjob in car"? does the fact that this is happening in a motor vehicle somehow make a handjob enjoyable to watch? Maybe the acoustics are great in there. Who knows. Shit, no, you know what, they needed that particular hue of Miata Blue. And she is a retired hand model: just looked beautiful on that background. And if you recognized that brushed stainless wristlet, I'm not surprised because that video was financed by J.C. Penney. Great product placement.


There should be more subjects for this rant, but I don't have the storyweaving abilities of Bill Simmons. Speaking of which, fuck you Sports Guy. Simmons has the best job ever. And he shoves it in my face. It wasn't enough to just shower me with his wry wit, he also has to brag about the inanity of his columns. Which I love, don't get me wrong. He is just the most masturbatory writer of all time. It's great. In his "mailbag" column he posted an email that berated him for his absurd attention to detail of a number of reality shows that he delves into in his sports column. It must be satisfying to know that the guy reads his column enough to know how he breaks down Survivor, even if every word is painful. Bill Simmons, you are a man without a master. I envy your liberty.


*No Pun Intended

Dear Natalie

This is a poem in the style of ancient Hebrew erotic poetry, dedicated to Natalie Portman's sensual and evocative performance in the film Black Swan.

In white you were beautiful,

Were slender, tender and fragile

You floated on gusts of your own grace

You moved with girlish gentleness

But in black you struck like thunderclaps

The force of your twirls and thrusts could deafen.

Your face in striking shadow, terrifying beauty

Your lips a lustful sneer that draws me in and in

Your eyes are black magnets; I cannot escape you.

-Kadetrix Bolingbroke Martini