I Wouldn’t Fuck You With Ann Coulter’s Dick

Part II in a multi-part series commenting on today’s political and cultural climate.

Recently, actor Charlie Sheen took another hit to his already tawdry reputation as a self-destructive, overindulgent Hollywood cliché, when he was forcibly removed by police after causing thousands of dollars of damage to his suite at the Plaza Hotel in New York City. Sheen, who appeared to be highly intoxicated, admitted to responding officers that he had spent the evening drinking and taking cocaine. The entire episode first came to light because an unnamed woman—later identified as porn star Capri Anderson—summoned police, where they found Sheen in the process of dismantling his hotel room. Suffering from drug-induced paranoid delusions, he was taken and hospitalized overnight for psychiatric evaluation.

Yes, Capri, you had to lock yourself in the closet, fearing for your life, when you made that call. I’ll give you that. The man had clearly lost control. In fact, this is merely the latest in an endless string of embarrassing, violent, liquor- and drug-fueled episodes leading to felonious charges, arrests, and rehab stints.

So, I’ve just one question. Did you really have to call the cops on him and out him in public? You’re dating Charlie fucking Sheen. We’re you not waiting for this to happen? Guy’s a fucking time bomb, a loathsome malcontent waiting to go down in a proverbial hail of gunfire Scarface style, cocaine dust crusted around his nostrils. Why would he be different with you? Or were you going to be the one to save him? Fuuuuck.

And to make matters worse, you are now talking to the press? Going on Hollywood gossip shows? The guy has done everything in his power, save put a loaded gun in his mouth, to destroy himself, tripping over his own dick time and again despite having every advantage and resource—wealth, looks, access, support. Sure, he’s had some notable roles, but otherwise, he’s a complete and utter fuck up, bless his heart. Did you really have to go and make it worse?

Listen. We’ve all seen how this ends. It won’t be pretty. He’s a living, breathing drug-addled cesspool of cocaine-fueled one-night stands, for years the most obvious pick in everybody’s Dead Pool this side of Robert Downey Junior. I will mourn the day his bloated, syphilitic corpse washes up on the Santa Monica pier.

Perhaps, you thought you were helping Charlie in the long run when you called the cops? Dumb cooze. What kind of woman are you? Never mind that you’ve had untold quantities of cocks stuffed inside your holes—your flaccid labia dangling between your thighs like a pink, fleshy swim cap, your truncated asshole turned inside out like a dirty brown sock—and god knows how many liters of cum shot on your face. Whatever. When it comes down to it, you are a rat. You’ve reduced yourself to the least common denominator—a woman who doesn’t have her man’s back. For your lack of loyalty. And the innumerable cocks you’ve had in your holes. I wouldn’t fuck you with Ann Coulter’s dick.