BY: DAIMAN TEER for THE SIMPLETON STAR
Let’s get one thing straight: Charlie Sheen is the human equivalent of a participation trophy that somehow convinced the world it deserved a standing ovation.
The only reason anyone’s ever fawned over this guy is because his last name is Sheen and his dad once played the President on TV. That’s it. That’s the entire résumé.
Talent? Please. The man has two facial expressions: smirking coke fiend and smirking coke fiend trying to cry.
His “iconic” roles? A cartoonish Wall Street villain who looks like he wandered off the set of a hair-gel commercial, and a replacement Charlie on a sitcom that was already carried by Jon Cryer doing the heavy lifting. Without Cryer’s straight-man genius, Sheen’s “wacky” schtick collapses faster than his immune system did in the 2000s.
And the women. Oh God, the women. This craggy, sun-dried tomato of a man spent decades bragging about sleeping with thousands of porn stars and hookers while looking like a melted wax figure of Emilio Estevez. The only “winning” he ever did was winning the genetic lottery by being born into a famous family, then torching every ounce of goodwill with domestic violence, drug binges, and that legendary 2011 meltdown where he screamed about tiger blood and Adonis DNA.
Newsflash, Carlos: the only thing coursing through your veins was whatever bargain-basement Colombian marching powder your dealer cut with foot powder that week.
People act like his HIV announcement was some brave, tragic moment. No. It was the predictable endpoint of a man who treated his body like a 24-hour Denny’s bathroom. He didn’t “live life to the fullest”; he lived life like a trust-fund raccoon that discovered a mountain of eight-balls and a Rolodex of desperate women willing to trade dignity for a walk-on role.
Hollywood keeps pretending he’s some misunderstood bad boy with “edge.” Wrong. He’s a nepo-baby hack who lucked into a couple decent projects surrounded by people actually carrying the movie (Michael Douglas, Cryer, the kid from Ferris Bueller who somehow still looked younger than Charlie in 2010). Strip away the famous daddy, the famous brother, the famous last name, and what’s left? A leathery, squinting, has-been who can’t open a movie, can’t headline a sitcom anymore, and whose biggest cultural contribution is giving the world a cautionary tale titled “This Is Your Face on Hookers and Blow.”
Charlie Sheen isn’t a train wreck. Train wrecks are interesting. He’s just the rusted shopping cart someone left in the parking lot thirty years ago that people keep tripping over and pretending it’s art.
