Charlie, Charlie, Charlie...

Forgive me if this is the 97th time today that you've seen someone compare Charlie Sheen to a slow motion train wreck that refuses to let you avert your eyes, but I can't think of a better analogy.

I don't want to waste a lot of pixels on the guy, but I can't resist responding to his statement during an interview conducted over the weekend that he's "tired of pretending [he's] not a total, bitchin' rock star from Mars." Actually, he might be surprised at how many of us do believe he's from another planet, but it's probably not accompanied by the sort of adulation he expects.

Got news for you, Charlie: the total fraction of the world's population who gives a flying fritter about anything you do is so infinitesimally small as to be unmeasurable. It probably rounds to zero. It's the little flagellum that waves weakly on the very tip of The Long Tail.

Your professional niche is inconsequential. All the sitcoms in Hollywood could vanish overnight and the only impact would be an instantaneous uptick in Society's collective IQ (which, granted, would be immediately reversed by the inflow of "reality" programming).

Plus, there's the inconvenient fact that what you're doing isn't even acting. You're playing, what...an immature-but-aging philanderer with a substance abuse problem? How is that acting, even in your universe? You should be thanking your lucky stars every day of your life that someone is willing to pay you a boatload of money to be yourself.

Because, frankly, yourself is sort of getting on our nerves.

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This page contains a single entry by Eric published on February 28, 2011 3:44 PM.

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