Charlie Sheen Meets the President of Egypt
The seatbelt light above his head had just turned on as Charlie Sheen suddenly regained consciousness after what must have been a mild heart attack only moments earlier. He felt pulsating waves of pain shoot down his spine and on down his limbs and he started to cough violently, taking gasping breathes of re-circulated air as the back of his throat burnt with the taste of stale vomit, his tongue a chalky white.
The lone flight attendant, a young woman with a tan complexion, cautiously made her way down the aisle of the small private aircraft and approached him. “Mr. Sheen? Are you okay, sir?” she asked.
“What? No, I’m fine!” he said almost shouting, his eyes pried open and burning from the glaze of sweat that poured down his face. He was going to play this situation as smooth as possible, he thought to himself. “Do you know where we can get some ketamine around here? I’m just need to calm down. I’m meeting someone very important, you know.”
“Uhhh, we don’t carry any of that on board, Mr. Sheen” she said, puzzled but more or less unsurprised by the strange request. After all, he had been behaving dangerously erratic ever since they left Burbank and was just relieved that the entire awkward flight alone with Charlie Sheen was almost over. “We’ll be landing in about twenty minutes. Is there anything I can get you before then? Anything at all.”
“We’re here already?! But where is the fucking Arab porno!” he shouted with a psychotic grin.
“Excuse me?” the flight attendant said.
Charlie Sheen grabbed a half finished bottle of sparkling mineral water from the side table next to his seat and handed it to her while his other hand had already undone his pants and was firmly gripped around his dick. “Here, take off your clothes and put this inside you! I need get ready!”
The flight attendant screamed and smacked Charlie Sheen in the face with the glass bottle, breaking his nose; his face was already far too numb to feel any pain. “You sick freak! Fuck you!” she cursed as she stormed into the cockpit horrified, locking the doors behind her.
The general public was so judgmental, Charlie Sheen thought to himself as he sat alone with his innermost thoughts, the stagnant perspiration of his nude ass sticking to the taupe colored leather upholstery of this luxury private jet soaring 35,000 ft. in the air as he continued to pleasure himself in quiet solitude. No, people like her could never understand the kind of torment he was suffering. How could she know the pain and persecution of being a completely talentless multi-millionaire born into a famous Hollywood family, or even starring in a brutally awful yet unbelievably popular network TV sitcom? Some people were just never meant to have life easy, he thought.
For as long as Charlie Sheen could remember it was only the kind-hearted spirits of the gentle porn star that he could pay $30,000 a night to open up his heart to and share his pain with, along with matching his and hers eight-balls. He paused for a moment and was overcome with grief when he realized he could not get it hard. “Come on Wolverines, America needs you right now!” he whispered desperately to his coke-limp dick before eventually giving up hope.
Shamefully defeated, Charlie Sheen looked out the window as the plane began its final descent towards the sweeping desert landscape below; a shining pyramid glistened like an oasis of the finest crystal meth in the distance.
Charlie Sheen could tell right away from the chokehold method applied, that the mighty sequoia of a man that pulled him off of the jet and onto the scorching hot tarmac was not an average police officer; Egyptian National Security Force, he would have guessed. According to the headlines of Huffpo he’d glance at before doing another line off his iPad, the country had been experiencing major civil unrest for more than a week and as a result, the people of Egypt had no knowledge of his own latest personal controversies.
“Listen to me! I don’t want to cause any trouble here. I’m just trying to lay low for a while, man.” Charlie Sheen said to the officer dragging him through the blazing Egyptian sun, the seams of his favorite black-and-white polyester bowling shirt tearing as he fought helplessly to break free.
The man yelled back at him something in a language he could not understand. What had started as such a promising plan for beginning a new life was proving more difficult than he had expected. Back in the States he told nobody of his idea to leave the country and to take power in a foreign country in the midst of political turmoil; there would have surely been consequences if he had. As far as his agent and the producers of his show on CBS knew he was committed to rehab indefinitely, a lie so big that he would take his chances in the Middle East rather than return home with the truth revealed.
The two of them made their way to a small security building situated adjacent to the main terminal where Charlie Sheen was forced to sit alone in a small waiting room. In stressful situations such as these, the only thing that really helped Charlie Sheen focus was compulsively masturbating inside of high-end Italian sports cars, the Countach he bought shortly after wrapping on Platoon being his personal favorite. Despite his surroundings he had managed to work himself up to half-mast when another officer walked in the room.
“Oh my God, are you crazy?!” the officer shouted.
Charlie Sheen reluctantly zipped up his pants. “Listen, I need you to get me out of here. There’s been a big mistake. I need to see President Mubarak right away” he explained frantically, his broken nose starting to bleed and soaking the dried coke that had been caked onto his upper lip. He sniffed. “I read some shit on the internet that he needs to know about.”
“Hey! Slow down” the officer ordered. “You’re not going anywhere until you explain what it is you’re doing here.”
“I’d like you to phone my father, he could explain everything to you. He’s the former President of the United States you see.” Charlie Sheen told the officer. “I’m here to speak with your leader on behalf of my father during this time of crisis.”
The officer stared blankly. “We’ll try and contact him,” he said before walking out of the room in utter disbelief.
A few moments later, Charlie Sheen heard a loud commotion coming from down the hall. People were shouting in Arabic, leaving the building in a hurry as large groups of angry protestors began yelling anti-government chants nearby. “Hey! What’s going on? Someone let me out of here!” he yelled, but with no response. He paused.
“All right, just focus. Pretend this is a hotel room,” he murmured to himself. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves… “Die you evil cunt!” he yelled right before picking up the cheap aluminum chair and smashing it through the window leading into the hallway. Charlie Sheen could barely contain his enormous erection as he made his way through the deserted corridors and into the streets, the sounds of the looming chaos of a violent revolution closing in on him.
The clouds in the sky turned a crimson red when the sun began to settle along the horizon of the ancient civilization, and Charlie Sheen was no more than a mile down some desolate side street before he simply had to bust a nut, the smell of old tank fumes and roasted paprika filled the air as he finally came.
He saw a group of elderly Egyptian males sitting at a small table on the sidewalk; the old men were smoking and having quiet conversation as he staggered down the narrow alley towards them. “Hey, bro!” he said belligerently at one of them, “You got any blow?”
The blood from his broken nose had already begun to dry on his face but the semen stains on his ill-fitting Haggar slacks were still fresh as he reached into his pocket and showed off a sweaty wad of $100 bills. The old man nodded his head ‘no’ and gestured him to go away. “Don’t you fucking test me! I’m Charlie Sheen and I’m here to see the President!” Then the gravity of his situation dawned on him as shouts and explosions echoed through the city, that there was no time to get high right now.
Tens of thousands of angry protestors swamped the streets of Cairo’s city center by the time Charlie Sheen had arrived, heavy black smoke billowed from burning cars scattered to formed twisted mazes of destruction where the battle was being waged. He knew that this was not a safe place, and that much like back in the United States, the military police patrolling the streets in armored vehicles were definitely out to get him. Surely these Egyptian Security forces would recognize the star of Scary Movie 4 and swarm him like TMZ reporters with automatic weapons.
“C’mon. Think, Charlie Sheen!” he thought, referring to himself in the third person as he often did during riots. During a similar situation in Los Angeles nearly twenty years earlier, Charlie Sheen once managed to infiltrate the chaotic streets of South Central after his weekly suitcase of cocaine was abruptly jeopardized by an angry, disenfranchised African-American community over the cancellation of The Cosby Show. “All I need is a good disguise,” he recalled, thinking back to his days of training in traditional blackface performance that helped him rescue his blow suitcase from that angry mob back in 1992. “An Egyptian disguise…”
He was a fucking genius, Charlie Sheen thought to himself as he made his way through the hostile crowds of angry Egyptian demonstrators, the screaming and scattering of scared civilians as they fled flying canisters of tear gas from the foreboding presence of the faceless riot-shielded authority was deafening, but Charlie Sheen continued to make his way toward his goal unabated. Four of five rolls of extra durable toilet paper later, and not a single officer in the Egyptian National Security Forces suspected that this mummy running through the streets was in fact the star of Two and a Half Men, CBS’ #1 primetime sitcom. Fucking genius. This may have been the best performance of his entire career, Charlie Sheen thought to himself as walked right through the gates of the Presidential Palace.
“Mr. President! It’s Charlie Sheen!” he shouted repeatedly as he marched through the majestic main lobby of the enormous 500-room architectural masterpiece he had just snuck his way into wrapped head-to-toe in toilet paper, his voice echoing through the round cavernous chambers of the ornate ceiling. By the time Charlie Sheen found the large conference room where President Mubarak was meeting with his top ministers, most of them already heard him yelling through the hallways.
“You are the actor Charlie Sheen?” President Mubarak asked.
“Yes, Mr. President. It’s me. It’s an honor that you know who I am, sir.” Charlie Sheen replied, unwrapping the toilet paper from his head to reveal his disheveled, bloody face, dark bags formed beneath his eyes from many long consecutive nights of ignoring the existential sadness of his very existence.
“What are you doing here? You can’t be here!” the President said, “We’re in the middle of something very important right now.”
“Sir, did you know my father?” Charlie asked seriously.
“What?” He replied.
“My father, when he was President of America. You must have met him at least once. He always went on about how he always cherished his relationships with other great leaders when he was President.” Charlie Sheen persisted.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is this what you came here for? I’m sorry Charlie Sheen but I really have other things to do right now.” President Mubarak said as he turned back to his Air Force Minister to talk about important Egyptian stuff.
“You’re not listening to me!” Charlie Sheen shouted, “You need to step down so that I can take over for you! After I watched too much porn and I need to take a break I read these really important things on the Internet about the Illuminati planning these protests to take control of your country like they planned 9/11. I’m an Emmy nominee and the son of the former President, it’s my right in the Geneva Convention to become the new President of Egypt!”
By the time he had finished talking, Charlie Sheen’s ears began to bleed.
“That’s it. You need to leave here immediately.” President Mubarak ordered the National Security Force officers to escort Charlie Sheen out of the Presidential Palace. “You need to go to rehab, Charlie Sheen.”
“No! I’m not leaving without my Arab fucking porno!” he yelled frantically as a pair of heavily armed men grabbed him by the arms and pulled him away. “I need your porn stars to complete the whole set!”
They blinded Charlie Sheen with a black leather S&M mask and threw him into the trunk of a black Range Rover where he continued to struggle violently, hopelessly kicking at the inside of the trunk, screaming maniacally about his need for Egyptian porno. When the car came to a stop, the two soldiers pulled Charlie Sheen out of the trunk and removed the leather mask, his face drenched in sweat. He suddenly felt a cold wind rush over his entire body. The sun had already set and he was in the middle of the Egyptian desert, his hands tied behind his back. The men who had brought him were beginning to leave.
“Hey! You can’t do this to me. I’m going to be the next President you stupid fucking pricks,” Charlie Sheen screamed as he began to cough uncontrollably. “Every year at the Egyptian orgy in Sherman Oaks I’m the goddamn Pharaoh! You’ll pay for this!” His voice cracked like a child unable to accept his own mortality.
One of the Egyptian soldiers turned to him with a cold gaze and said, “The Big Bang Theory is a much better show,” before removing his face like a ski mask to reveal the head of a red-eyed jackal. The demonic beast revealed it’s fangs playfully before it pounced on top of Charlie Sheen with a single bound and began to rip open his abdomen and eat his organs, the blood that poured out of him was as black and slick as crude oil and his face began to melt like a plastic toy in the microwave as the desert sands collapsed beneath them into an eternal abyss of darkness.
And then Charlie Sheen woke up 32 hours later in a Clark County holding cell after he was found naked and wrapped in toilet paper, drowning in the lobby fountain of the Luxor Hotel in Las Vegas, Nevada.
He turned to his side and immediately vomited all over the floor and all over himself. Across the room, a middle-aged holding cell guard saw what was had just happened and unenthusiastically put down his coffee mug, got up out of his seat and grabbed the mop. The place had already begun to smell.
