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Divine Intervention: Last Night's Show Proved Only Charlie Sheen Can Save Us From Ourselves

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It was a Wednesday afternoon, so I traded my neighbor's vintage Fender Telecaster for an eight ball and locked myself in the hallway bathroom. I pulled out the dirty mirror from underneath the sink and chopped up some lines that spelled out the word "WINNING."

This was an important night. I wanted everything to be just right. Once sufficiently tweaked, I plucked Slayer's 1994 album Divine Intervention from the pile and jumped into the Jeep. Upon arriving at the giant building with the red-and-blue "AA" on the side (uh oh, was this a trick?), the $30 for parking seemed like a fair value.

Some people just don't understand Charlie Sheen, and that's because they're stupid. They see the unemployed TV actor, not the humanitarian and hookerman.

They wonder why he lifted his father's stage name and why he lets porn stars raise his kids. Wouldn't you do the same thing? Drugs require one's undivided attention.

This man has a lot to offer the citizens of the United States, particularly our children. Somebody has to teach the kids how to melt down right. The public Crash and Burn is an American art form. We need an example.

Chuck Sheen possesses an incredibly diverse skill set. He can walk, he can talk, he can take off his shirt. He knows how to operate a cigarette. (Of course, because of his immense cultural significance, he is allowed to smoke indoors.) He doesn't even need an opening act. In fact, he doesn't even need an act of his own.

This was VH1's Celebrity Rehab live, only without the three things that hold that particular show back: Dr. Drew, actual rehabilitation, and an audience. This was about Us.

Breathtaking. You should have been there.

Charlie Sheen needs me to like him. He's begging for my love and adoration and our money. What's so wrong with that? He's a politician of the addicted.

Sure, you've already made him filthy rich and kept him knee-deep in meth by watching reruns of Three And A Half Mice (or whatever it's called) for 27 minutes every night on The WB, but you still didn't give him your undivided attention at all times. Not like you should have.

We owe him that. We've yet to build the shrines and statues he so rightly deserves.

We haven't named enough of our children after him.

There is simply so much more we can do. Never mind that the entire audience at AA Center last night would have fit comfortably inside the AllGood Cafe. It's all good.

Sorry, Charlie. We'll get it right someday.

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