It’s a Tuesday night in Hollywood. There’s never a shortage of men seeking your services, but this is the one night of the week you keep open for yourself. You already make an insane amount of money, so when some lonely soul offers to pay twice your normal rate hoping to coax you into breaking your “no work on Tuesday” rule, you often find yourself tempted to take them up on it.
You never do it, though. “A girl needs a break,” you tell yourself. Your vagina would certainly agree, if only it was capable of doing so.
As you enjoy a glass of wine and quietly ponder the financial ramifications of a talking cooch, the tranquility of the evening is interrupted by a ringing telephone.
It’s not just any phone, though. It’s the business phone. On any other Tuesday night, you would just ignore it. You tried to ignore it this time, content to let the call go to voice mail so you could enjoy your night off in peace. But as soon as the ringing stopped, it started again.
Against your better judgement, you decide to answer, if for no other reason that to blow the caller off with some made up story about how you’re all booked for the night.
“Hi. I’m looking for some company tonight.”
“Sorry, I’m all…”
“I’ll give you ten thousand dollars.”
You’re used to being offered extra money, but not that kind of money. Understandably, you’re equal parts skeptical and intrigued.
“Ten grand, huh? What are you, some kind of celebrity or something? What’s your name?”
“I can’t tell you. Let’s just say it rhymes with…Charlie Sheen.”
“Rhymes with Charlie Sheen? Sooooooo…is this Charlie Sheen?”
“Shit. Yeah. I guess I messed up that ‘rhymes with’ bit, huh?”
Well this changes everything. Some average dude throwing a few extra thousand dollars your way is one thing, but this is Charlie Sheen. Ten grand is just the beginning. You’ve heard the stories. Get this guy high enough, and he’ll probably buy you a house or some shit. So, what do you do?
“So where do you want me to meet you, Mr. Sheen?”
“Please, call me Charlie. It’s what they call me on a little television show I’m on. Two and a Half Men, maybe you’ve heard of it? Can you believe they pay me over a million dollars per episode?”
“No, I honestly can’t.”
“They really do! It’s a pretty funny show!”
“No, it’s not.”
“Thanks! Anyway, I just rented this house. Meet me there. I’m sending a driver over right now.”
“Do you need my address?”
“You’re an escort. I have all of your addresses.”
You arrive at Charlie Sheen’s newly rented home to find a party that looks like it’s been in progress for days. Mounds of white powder are strategically placed throughout the living room and at least 15 other women are present. You look around nervously for a few moments before spotting the man who summoned you here. Charlie Sheen is sitting in the corner. He has a bottle of champagne in one hand, a cigar in his other hand and a glass pipe in his third hand.
“Holy hell, Charlie Sheen has three hands?”
No, he doesn’t really. But even though you’ve only been standing there for a few minutes, you’ve inhaled enough second hand cocaine smoke to keep the economy of most South American countries afloat for decades. So, it’s probably just a hallucination.
It doesn’t matter though, before you can dwell on it for too long, Charlie Sheen has spotted you and is making a labored, stumble-filled beeline in your direction.
He introduces himself, a few pleasantries are exchanged and he asks if you’d like a drink. You were thinking of politely declining the offer. Keeping your head as clear as possible in these surroundings strikes you as a good idea. But before you have a chance to say anything, he drops this knowledge right in your lap…
“We’ve been doing a lot of drinking. The other girls are keeping up really well! I promised them whoever passes out last gets a Bentley!”
Well shit, you want a Bentley! What to do now?
Are you fucking kidding us right now? You see the title of this story, right? It’s “A Night With Charlie Sheen.” Why would you pick the “stay home” option? Throw us a goddamn bone, will you?
Fine. Whatever. You stay home and, like, a pack of rabid dogs break in your house a few hours later. They piss on your furniture and eat your cat and give you a raging case of rabies.
No, wait, mimes! Fucking mimes. Just all up in your house. And they don’t leave until they’ve completed their six hour performance piece entitled “Variations on Being Behind Glass.” For the rest of the night, you’re bound and gagged and forced to watch as a bunch of lonely freaks in sad clown makeup strike every conceivable pose you can imagine to imply that they’re standing behind a pane of glass. But they aren’t behind glass. They’re in your living room.
Happy now? Enjoy your Tuesday evening, asshole.
“Well, I don’t know if I can keep up with you, Charlie, but I’ll have a drink and see what happens!”
Charlie Sheen pours you a drink capable of putting a hobo in a coma and leads you over to a couch where the two of you sit quietly for a moment. You sit quietly, at least. He’s not talking, but the crackling sounds coming from his direction are awfully noisy.
A few hours of porn watching and cocaine smoking go by in as uneventful a manner an activity like that possibly can before Charlie breaks the silence with a question you weren’t expecting.
“Do you like kids?”
“Um, sure, I guess.”
“Great! Because my kids are here right now, and I need someone to keep an eye on them for a bit.”
“You have your kids at a party like this?”
“Yeah, they don’t really party though, so they make themselves scarce when company is over.”
“I know, right? I mean, who doesn’t like to party? Sometimes I wonder if they’re really even my kids.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Anyway, can you keep an eye on them? I have to take off for a bit. I can pay you. Will $30,000 be enough?”
You’re not really psyched about the prospect of being the one person responsible for the well being of two children in an environment like this, but damn, that’s a lot of money. What do you do?
“Well, Charlie Sheen, it looks like I’m driving home in a Bentley. Because there’s no way you can out drink me!”
No sooner than the words leave your mouth, Charlie Sheen is chugging an entire bottle of vodka. It’s at this point that you’d like to admit defeat, but you don’t get the chance. He’s no stranger to epic feats of drug and alcohol consumption.
“If someone is challenging me to a drinking contest, they must be good at it,” he thinks to himself while downing a second consecutive bottle of vodka. Charlie Sheen is not going to be defeated.
You look on in horror as, while pounding a fifth bottle, he pauses to ask if you want to see his Gene Simmons impression. You know it’s a rhetorical question, he’s going to show you no matter what your answer may be. It doesn’t help that a circle of people has gathered around to egg him on like a scene straight out of one of those shitty Step Up movies. He takes a swig of vodka and spits it into a lit flame near his mouth.
The gathered audience’s cheers turn to terrified screams when they realize the ball of fire has caused a large set of curtains in the room to burst into flames. As you flee for your life with the rest of the crowd, you look back one last time and see Charlie Sheen sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room.
“Wait, you haven’t even seen my Richard Pryor impression yet!” he screams. As he douses himself with alcohol, you turn away and finally make it out the door to safety.
Looks like you won’t be getting that Bentley after all. But on the bright side, we won’t be getting anymore episode of Two and a Half Men either!
So you’re really doing this? You’re going to be the one who wears the “I’m responsible for the kids” label while dozens of people smoke cocaine in another room? Alright, let’s do this…
As Charlie Sheen shuffles out the door to run an unnamed errand, a bodyguard leads you to a family room where two kids sit watching what at first appears to be a children’s cartoon but is actually the notorious 1972 X-rated animated classic Fritz the Cat.
While you split your attention between making small talk with the kids and drinking in the cartoon cat debauchery unfolding on the screen in front of you, you’re blissfully unaware that the police have arrived. Turns out, several friends and family members have decided to stage an intervention at the Charlie Sheen residence.
After several phone calls to set up an excuse to come over went unanswered, the family decided to have police conduct a well being check. What the police found was a bunch of people not being very well. After making several arrests, they decided to search the house for evidence of criminal activity. They were expecting to find dozens of dead hookers. Instead, they find you watching an X-rated cartoon with Charlie Sheen’s kids. Good luck explaining that to the judge.
For his part, Charlie Sheen claims he doesn’t remember ever meeting you. He’s probably not lying.
While an extra $30,000 would be nice, your good judgement gets the better of you and you decide to get the hell out of there. If there are two things that never mix well, it’s responsible childcare and rampant cocaine use. Everyone knows that.
Your decision to leave becomes a moment of absolute genius when, a few days later, word gets out that Charlie Sheen never even left to run that errand. Instead, a neighbor called police to complain about the noise and never ending stream of hooker traffic at the house. When police arrive, everyone is arrested. Even the kids. Turns out they weren’t kids at all but instead were a couple of 40-year-old drug dealers with proportional dwarfism, just like in that shitty Orphan movie (belated spoiler alert!).
Meanwhile, the news cycle explodes with speculation as to exactly what may have transpired that night. And guess who has that information and is willing to share it with the highest bidder? That’s right, you do.
A bidding war erupts for the exclusive rights to your story. You finally agree to a huge payoff from TMZ.com in exchange for spilling all the ugly details. Ch-ching!
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