Mr. Sheen Goes Mr. Bean

RS: Welcome, Charlie. People say you’re loony tunes. Please help us further psychoanalyze this, since a crazy person would obviously be able to comment on his own condition.
CS: Yeah… Bugs Bunny Loony Tunes maybe. Hello! What’s up, doc? Does the doc think I’m loony tunes? I always get the carrot, don’t I, Mr. Fudd? Try that one on for size. Win.

RS: Would you at least say you’re mentally unstable?
CS: Yeah, I’m unstable like a stallion that’s no longer in a stable, if that’s what you mean. People have this sadistic notion that because I operate on a higher level than all of you I’m somehow a misfit. Well, let me offer a news flash… Gable and Monroe played misfits, and it seemed to work out fine for them. Film at 3 in the morning. I work late.

RS: Is your brain fried?
CS: I’m over easy with a side order of Kevin Bacon, man. I have your kind for breakfast and then digest you before lunch. Yes, of course. And I’d much rather be on the fried end of the spectrum than to stay completely uncooked. More win.

RS: Do you think it’s normal to refer to oneself as a rock star from Mars?
CS: Listen, bub… I’m naugahyde in a barrel. And when exactly did I say I was normal? Was that perhaps at the Boring People Festival For Unmitigated Losers? Oops, sorry. I had to miss that one because I had a life. Sorry, can’t play that game with you.

RS: Why do you keep coming on all these talk shows?
CS: Hello, I am the show, aren’t I? I’m who everyone wants to see. You don’t get 3-mil. an episode for being anything less than iconic. I’m Cirque de Soliel wrapped up into a mass of utter awesomeness. How you want to deal with it is your issue. My only job is to continue the awesomeness off into the horizon where nobody else is apparently capable of going.

RS: Do you have any credos in life?
CS: I don’t want to mess with it if it isn’t epic. I don’t want to bask in it if it isn’t surreal. I don’t want to swim in it if it isn’t swarming with piranhas. I don’t want to consider it if it isn’t tortured to wildly mammoth proportions. I don’t want to say it unless it screams forcefully in idiomatic tones. That about sums it up.

RS: Why do you think so many people despise you?
CS: They don’t despise me, they just subconsciously in a Freudian twisted way aspire to be me, and then resent me that they can’t. He who is losing operates under the illusion that he hates he who is winning, and I’ve run up the score on them, man. I’ve broken the scoreboard with my overabundance of gaming skills. You’ve been gamed. You’ve been sheened. You’ve been uberama Mr. Cleaned. Get used to it. You’ll thank me for it later.

RS: You were quoted as saying “I am on a drug. It's called Charlie Sheen. It's not available. If you try it once, you will die. Your face will melt off and your children will weep over your exploded body.” Why the violent histrionics in your descriptions?
CS: That’s how I roll. Ergo, you don’t like it, go cry in a corner and suck on your thumb. No one else can handle being me. That’s why I have to do it. I’m saving the world in more ways than one. I’m Kryptonite and Superman all wrapped up into one. It’s a novel concept that mystifies many.

RS: Do you regard yourself as better than others?
CS: I think of myself as more epic than others. Oh, you mean the ones who want to treat me like I’m some regular form of human species? Win again… It is what it is, man.

RS: What’s this odd reference to tiger blood?
CS: It’s another thing none of you will understand. All you need to know is that it coarses through my veins like a thriving maneater who devours every stray piece of debris in its path, because it can and it will. It’s what transforms the generic into the truly astounding. I’m 45 years old and I feel like I’m 20. In dog years I’m six, and astrologically I’m less than three billion millennia, so I’m just barely getting started but I’m also in terrific shape for my age.

RS: Who are your heroes?
CS: Well you see, I’m my own hero. I respect no one, I answer to no one. Besides, who could help me win like I’m already winning? They can only help me lose, and I’m not a part of that earthly realm. A fish just might as well be out of his precious Evian for that to happen.

RS: What do you want your legacy to be?
CS: To be? Excuse me? How about already am. I command attention. Adulation is magnetized toward me. I deliver to anyone who wants to partake in the epicness. So I’ve already become me. I’ve already arrived while the rest of you are still worrying about valet parking.

RS: Do you want people to worship you?
CS: Pick your deities, bro. Is a flood supposed to apologize for itself? I don’t think so. It just washes over people and cleanses them with harsh reality. If people feel the need to worship me a little, I can take it. And who knows, maybe some of my intense aura can rub off on them.

RS: Are you just totally whacked?
CS: Compared to what? That microbial voodoo vestibule known as homo erectus? Compared to the festering masses of languishing insolvency? Or the maladjusted, putrified, pathetic malfeasance of a sickly society that preys on itself in every respect, that resonates the mantra “every pitiful man for himself,” and engenders it and facilitates it and promotes it and exacerbates it and enables it and protracts it and magnifies it and symbolizes it, but fails to rectify it or mortify it or purify it or mollify it, or vaccinate it or exterminate it or expunge it or invalidate it. Or compared to the habitually robotic beast who torments himself through his polluted metropoli he calls advancement, who wallows in his own slimy drool, who has an undying thirst for rampant mediocrity, who stares incessantly at his multitude of electromagnetic screens until his pupils turn inside out, who laughs when he means to cry, and cries when he means to laugh, who thinks yelling at his pet chihuahua will produce anything worthwhile, who engages in megawarfare and wastes untold livelihoods all over a piece of dirt, who takes more stock in the outer individual than the inner, and who as a group is grinding himself into a pulverized mockery of an endangered species… but in all of this just smiles because he wants to enjoy the ride and not trouble himself over the nagging outcome? I’m comin’ out looking pretty doggone mainstream here, Dr. Spock.

RS: Do you think of yourself as something more than human?
CS: Think, or know? I’ve been to the mountain, and what I’ve transcended you wouldn’t be able to relate to. Just go back into your cozy 2-bedroom suites and bask in your little slice of nothingness. You people don’t even know what human is, let alone what I am.

RS: What do you say to those who call you arrogant?
CS: Arrogance is as arrogance does. If they were like me, perhaps they’d look arrogant too. I can’t be who I’m not. If I’m playing the winning hand, that’s how it is. My royal flush beats all your paltry sixty-eight of a kinds. Do you want me to hide my cards and not play the game? No, the dealer says look at the cards and then deal with it, bro. Nuther win… He shoots, he scores…

RS: So then if you live with what you refer to as goddesses, what does that make you?
CS: Do the math. Dude, it all adds up. It doesn’t take Archimedes here.

RS: Why do you think you come across as bitter toward others?
CS: All I know is I tell it like it is. People can’t deal with reality. They don’t want to know what the facts are, and the facts say it’s me that’s winning, plain and simple.

RS: Why do you think of life as a contest?
CS: Uh, because it is. Hello! Dogs eat dogs and sharks eat sharks, and to not eat is to be eaten. You better contest things, brother, or you get devoured. I’m on top of the wave and no one can touch me. Life is now my cuisine, and I’m ordering takeout.

RS: Why do you get so cheesed off at everything?
CS: I don’t give a #&%!$ @*?$% what people think of my emotive state. Hey, you made a lot of typos there, by the way. So I’m the cheese and the sauce. You can’t have life’s pizza without me.

RS: What’s this about your having a 10,000 year-old brain?
CS: Brain winning, and everything else winning, 101. Take the class. I have the guile of Socrates, the temerity of Genghis Khan, the moxie of Bruce Lee, and the charisma of Don Quixote. Should I pretend that I don’t? No, instead I’ll just act like someone who forgot to turn on his brain. But mine’s on, man. It’s revving and prepped to transmogrify the whole civilized world, and maybe part of the uncivilized too.

RS: What do you make of your middle name of Irwin?
CS: Hey, if my poppy wants to slap that one on me, so be it. I’m no more Irwin than I am the Tidy Bowl man. Irwin is my erstwhile persona non grata. If it makes you feel good, call me by the name you want to. It can’t touch me, nor can anything else. Fletch and I have more than one thing in common, and it ain’t being a shepherd.

RS: You’ve been asked every imaginable question recently. What haven’t you been asked that you would like to be asked?
CS: Nobody’s asked me how often I clip my finger nails. Go ahead, try me. I’ve got stories that will turn all your body tissue to giant ooze, trust me. Nobody’s asked me how polka dot pajamas traumatized me for life. Nobody’s asked me how I’d deal with the Russian mafia. Nobody’s asked me why I didn’t name my kid Dweezil. Nobody’s asked me how many IQ tests I’ve aced. Nobody’s asked me if I’m purposely deadpanning or if I just can’t act. Nobody’s asked me whether some of my facial muscles are non-functioning. Nobody’s asked me if my scowl is patented. Nobody’s asked me what’s love got to do with it. Nobody’s asked me what’s the gross national product of Zimbabwe. I mean, there are a lot of things.

RS: Do you think you’re immune to dying?
CS: Think, or know? When I leave, Adonis DNA is going to catapult me through the stratosphere for all of useless mankind to behold, and they’ll finally exclaim, “There was one undeniably radical dude. Maybe we shouldn’t have cheesed him off at critical mass.”