To all the trolls and fools

I’m not alone. Charlie Sheen is drawing much of his snappiest patter from Coppola’s Vietnam flick, in which his old man Marty co-starred.

Charlie has watched the picture on his big-screen TV with radio host Alex Jones.

He’s talked about having to carry out “strafing runs” in his underwear before his first cup of coffee in the morning.

He said, “You can kill me, but you don’t have the right to judge me.”

Hey, maybe Charlie sees the end coming—at least the end of his TV career.

In fact, people, the end may be near for all of us, not just Crazy Charlie.

For the U.S. of A, with its unbelievable debt, a debt we may never pay back, at least not with real money.

Even for ‘ol Syd Amerika—at least the end of my time lying low in that Pacific Northwest college town I call “Blue Jean.”

See, a sportswriter, two bloggers and a pantywaist-liberal university dean think that I, Syd Amerika, had something to do with the current Oregon Ducks football recruiting scandal, that I acted as a go-between, that I helped with some “guerrilla marketing” of the Ducks football program.

Lies, all lies!

I look at them as the fools and trolls they are—as nattering nabobs of negativity, as silly clowns, as filthy dogs who should bury their ugly faces in a trough of Alpo at my nude banquet. They should have their eyes peeled open like Little Alex and be forced to stare into a mirror while they study the steaming crap that is their viscera.

But I will leave them here to their mediocrity. I will get away from their small, un-evolved minds. After all, Syd’s gotta do what’s good for Syd (and don’t worry, I won’t start talking about myself in third-person omniscient like Bob Dole).

I will bust a move to the East Coast. I want to syndicate this column and make the big bucks, then go back to L.A. in style.

Like I told you, I haven’t been to my beloved City of Angels since I delivered that last, fateful briefcase of coke to Charlie at his house in Beverly Hills.

You know, I can’t help but think that Sheen and I are tied somehow, whether either one of us likes it.

The fevered cell phone calls from Charlie have finally stopped, but the last one was really strange.“Syd, it’s Charlie. Bro, you are a warlock, a real assassin. I don’t need any blow. I closed my eyes. I used my mind. I’m DONE. But I need some help with a book pitch. I want to call it ‘The Wit and Wisdom of a Warlock,’ or something like that. Bro, call me.”

Well, I didn’t call him, but maybe I should have. I could use the money.

Regardless, as a fellow poète maudit, I’ve been obsessed with Charlie’s recent performance, taking particular pleasure in episode No. 4 of Sheen’s Korner, his web series.

Eschewing the keg-party feel of the first episode, Sheen read prepared remarks, stuff about how we should “sit back and rejoice” because Sheen, “the Malibu Messiah, ” sits before us with “undigested hummus trading real estate for this fire dance.”

I could never make that up. It’s AWESOME. I don’t care if he is insane (and after all, maybe he’s just pulling a Joaquin Phoenix).

And you know, I understand Charlie, and understanding breeds empathy (Edgar Allen ME! 2011).

I know what it’s like to have all these weird images in your head and have them come bubbling out unexpectedly, like a witches brew spilling from under the cauldron lid.

Of course, maybe Charlie really is insane.

Why do I see a much younger Martin Sheen coming up out of the water to the strains of the Doors and, instead of chopping up that fat, disgusting, Haagen Daz-snorting pig Marlon Brando, he would break into Charlie’s house and taser his ass while the Goddesses scream, and then drag him off to Dr. Drew’s top-secret lock-down suite in Pasadena.

In the meantime, Charlie, speak truth to power! Keep the “‘movement,” as you’re calling it, going forward. Hey Babe, you’ve got Lenny Dykstra on your side. I’m surprised that Warner Brothers hasn’t already waved the white flag.

As for America, bend over, y’all. Put your faces between your knees and kiss your asses goodbye. The Chinese will own you soon.

As for me—I’ll make it back to L.A., I promise you, even if I have to make a stop on the island of Manhattan to shop a book pitch.

Yeah, who needs Charlie? I don’t have to ghost his book. I’ll write my own. And if I have to reveal some of Sheen’s more embarrassing secrets, well… just like Charlie, just like the studio, just like all the demented whores who hold elective office—Syd’s gonna do what’s good for Syd.

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.