So, I sort of hate to glorify bad behavior. I try not to mention any of the Kardashians any more than "necessary," I didn't jump on the Lindsay Lohan rehab gossip bandwagon, I'm reserving judgment on the celebrity status of the various "Teen Mom" stars, and I've been so -- honestly -- patently DIS-interested in the rapid decline of Charlie Sheen that I haven't even had it in me to mention any of his stupid, drunken, coke-antics.
BUT - now he's hospitalized, his mother and father are by his side, doctors are saying "...it's serious" and I'm finally going to just come out and say it:
Charlie - would you just OD and die already?
Please?
Because I don't think I can handle more years of "hookers and blow" stories while he struts around in a cheap fedora looking like warmed over, sweat-stained jaundice in complete denial of the utter mess he's become.
He's web-stalking hookers now. And before he was raced to the hospital this morning with that severe abdominal pain, TMZ reports that "After hours of drinking...a person showed up to the house with a designer 'briefcase' -- that contained multiple 'bricks' of cocaine."
I'm just going to assume that "briefcase" still means briefcase. That it's not some sort of ironic euphemism for "barely legal hooker's cleavage" or other such nonsense. In which case, it sounds like he's in the sort of radically amped up decline toward which serial killers are so disposed right before they target the main cop character in a crime novel and personally mark them for death. That's the same point at which they usually make their one -- ultimately fatal -- mistake that leads to their downfall and probably ends in a shootout in an abandoned cabin.
In Charlie's case, I think he'll just die.
You can only go on so many sex-and-coke benders before the liver (or pancreas or kidneys or stomach or any other number of important organs) throw all their chips on the table and declare the hand too rich for their blood.
Because the day he seeks LEGIMATE rehabilitation is the day we actually start eliminating the enemy by shooting chickens out of crossbows.
And I think I can handle a few solid weeks of Charlie Sheen retrospectives where we catch a lot of "Wall Street" and "Platoon" clips and we catch lots of quotes from Emilio "Hey, whatever happened to him, anyway?" Estevez and we re-watch "Hot Shots!" and we feel poorly for his children and army of ex-wives and we lose interest in social-climbing "escorts" with fake blonde hair and names like Jordan and Candi and we NEVER HAVE TO HEAR ABOUT ANOTHER TRASHED HOTEL ROOM AGAIN.
Because I can handle a brief bout of intense "it's so sad - he just needed help" fluff news stories and I can handle seeing his photo in the Academy Awards memorial segment and I can handle a few moments of nostalgia for the days when I had a life-sized cutout of that Shooting Chicken From Bow scene on my bedroom wall and a legitimate crush on Topper Harley and then we can all MOVE ON.
And if that's callous, then how about this:
Get your ass in rehab, Charlie. Because they'll never let you borrow a new liver otherwise. Not Hollywood Rehab - but ACTUAL treatment somewhere in....North Dakota where there are no porn stars to distract you and the hookers look less like last year's prom queens and more like Women From North Dakota.
And then, when you're out, you can go live in a home you built with your own two hands somewhere in Wyoming, and you'll surface every few years to make a touching Lifetime movie and your E! True Hollywood Story actually has a decent ending.
Don't be the next Anna Nicole.
Do it for Topper Harley.
(UPDATE: darn - it's not acute bodily failure - it's some sort of stomach hernia that causes "stuff" to back-up into his esophagus and cause extreme pain........darn. He'll live to party with porn stars another day.....)
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