Not unsympathetically, however, the letter also acknowledged that “your client has been engaged in dangerously self-destructive conduct and appears to be very ill.” The following excerpts, which have been leaked to this publication, contain highlights of Warner Brothers' rationale in arriving at its ultimate decision.
Warner Bros. Response to Sheen’s Termination
We understand, Mr. Sheen, that you are “tired of being told ‘you can’t talk about that, you can’t talk about that,’” and that you view this “bullshit” as deplorable. However, we find it relevant to note that your legally binding contract does specifically outline what you can and cannot discuss in public. True, we did not include a clause about anti-Semitic comments, but we presumed that was understood. We believe that has been understood since the late 1940s.
Several times, Mr. Sheen, you made passionate claims about your skills in the black arts of magic. You indeed led us all to believe that you had poetry in your fingertips -- that even when you napped, you were an F-18. But when Mr. Lorre decided to cease writing future episodes of the show, we waited for you to turn our tin cans into gold with your gifts. We expected to see some of this poetry in the, as you put it, “ordinance” you would deploy to the ground. Sadly, all we’ve received from your efforts is a copy of the novel “Moby Dick” marked up with the word “Eskimo,” a photograph of a midget wrestling a pot-bellied pig, a small vial of what appears to be your blood with the label “Herpes Killer, Messiah Batter,” a dry cleaning receipt, an old poster for “Triumph of the Will” with the word “Winner” spray-painted over it, a picture of Banksy with a photograph of your penis taped to the face, and a letter addressed to Tom Cruise that says, “Thetans, you ass? I closed my eyes and in a nanosecond, I expelled them. I was cured. It’s the work of sissies. The only demon I need exorcised from my body is the inability to fail, bro. Winner. I cured it with my brain, on drugs, drinking grain alcohol and dove urine and orphan tears. Winner. Volcano. Bullshit. Bounce that off Oprah’s couch, sparkle jockey.”
Your treatise on “Constitutional Dragonslayings: The Javelin Thrower’s Rights” makes absolutely no sense to our “unevolved minds.” We’re not sure what the “teetering champagne bunny” is, nor how one paints “constipation nudes.” We directly requested any amendments you wanted made to your contract. These surreal points of yours are not negotiable, or even rational.
“Dinosaur,” Mr. Sheen, is not a color.
You have repeatedly threatened us with intimations of violence and attacks from your army of “secret and silent soldiers.” We take all threats seriously, and this is a criminal offense. We were, however, relieved to discover that your militant forces were little more than four homeless transvestites fighting over a doughnut that Craft Services dropped. One of our producers threw some cocaine at them, and they immediately dispersed. So, crisis averted. We also contacted the Pope, who said that he has not asked, nor ever will ask, you to kill on behalf of the Vatican assassin warlocks. You have not yet attained the status needed to join these ranks, which currently belongs only to Mel Gibson.
We sincerely appreciate the bulk of your past contributions, and wish you the best of luck looking down on us from your great heights. In parting, we offer this simple and friendly reminder: sometimes falling feels like flying for a while. And sometimes the heat you sense from your sultry lady companions is the symptom of a dangerous and untreated venereal disease, emanating from their tainted crotches. And yes, Mr. Sheen, we are enjoying watching your ride. Because of your antics, an otherwise unremarkable show targeted at the elderly and easily amused will now run in syndication for decades to come, watched by a burgeoning new demographic of camp enthusiasts and the morbidly curious.
