Charlie, I told you not to call me

I call myself the Angry Tribune of the Radical Middle (after all, like my old pal Stevie Sondheim says, “You gotta have a gimmick”). Why should pious lefties like Keith Olbermann and right-wing crap-heads like Glenn Beck have all the laughs (AND the fat book deals)?

Who’s out there as a loud, obnoxious, irrational voice for those of us in the Radical Middle? Nobody, that’s who. Well, I’m loud. I’m obnoxious. And man, I am TOTALLY irrational. And I’m willing to ridicule anybody, left or right.

I also need a new line of work, due to an unfortunate incident in Beverly Hills a few days ago.

Oh God, it’s my cell phone. Excuse me. Hello, Syd here. … Charlie? How the hell did you get to the phone? I heard they had your crazy ass strapped down… No, Charlie. I can’t get you any blow. NO! And don’t call me any more. I’ve got a new job.

I’m back, people. Sorry. Yeah, I’m what you might call a commodities dealer, or was. But that bum Sheen made things entirely too hot for me in the 213. So I’m hiding out and writing this timeless column.

Hey, this writing stuff ain’t so hard. I knew that Aaron Sorkin was being a whiny little bitch when he would call me at 3 a.m. for more product and complain about how tough it was to write a season finale of The West Wing.

But hey, to the job at hand. For example, why can’t those panty-waist pols in both parties fix this national debt? We’re all gonna be speaking Mandarin. Raise the Social Security retirement age. Just do it. Jump on that third rail of American politics and feel the voltage course through your bodies.

And why do I care that, according to press reports, the Republican and Democratic national committees are both in debt? Let them auction off stuff. The Republicans could sell Sarah Palin’s soiled panties and get Fox News anchor Megyn Kelly to do lap dances for high rollers. The Dems could say, “Give us money and we’ll never let that creepy Harry Reid speak in public again.”

But I’m not into heavy political stuff today. I need to warm up these writing muscles.

Yeah, let’s check these random sections of a newspaper I found this morning in the coffee shop while I drank my triple-shot iced mocha and smiled at a Real Housewife who kept eyeing my studly form like I was the last cupcake before the end of the world.

Maybe I could talk about Punxsutawney Phil, who, Reuters tells us, emerged from a tree stump at dawn today and did not see his shadow, signaling that spring is just around the corner. No, that depresses me. What do I care about the end of winter? Until a few days ago, I was living in Beverly Hills, where winter never starts.

Yeah, screw everything else. It’s a more fun to ridicule that bum Sheen.

Oh, wait, it’s my cell again. Guess who?

Charlie! Go back to your rubber room. … CHARLIE! I can’t get you an 8-ball in rehab, you moron. You’ve blown my whole business. You and that little blabbermouth pornstar Kacey Jordan. Go screw yourself, Charlie.

Sorry about that. I won’t answer again, believe me.

By the way, I take offense at the way I was described by Kacey in Ben Barna’s column at blackbookmag.com. “Things go from great to incredible when Sheen’s drug dealer, a ‘professional, nice guy’ with a weakness for Gucci, drops in to deliver Charlie’s medicine,” we’re told.

Kacey, I don’t even LIKE Gucci. It’s SO ‘90s. I’m into Dolce & Gabbana. I will say this about Kacey. You should check out her work in Bohemian Butt Fest.

Anyway, I’m into this writing thing now, and I’ve even found a newspaper desperate enough to run my stuff. So life is good. As long as Charlie doesn’t give me up to the LAPD. If that little rich boy flips on me I swear I’ll carve him up like tuna roll. But for now, I’ll just look at the bright side. After all, spring is on the way.

Syd Amerika has a gift for gab and a vaudeville trunk full of memories. He is a graduate of the Ed Anger School of Journalism in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. He is a former consultant to felon and presidential candidate Lyndon Larouche. Send your comments to editor@bhamweekly.com.