Charlie Sheen knew that meeting with Barack Obama, the leader of the Western world, was a tremendous privilege. Not everyone with a terrible sitcom and a history of porn addiction got to meet with the Commander in Chief to discuss their 9/11 conspiracy theories. And so it was with an appropriate level of respect and solemn regard for the occasion that Charlie Sheen spent an extra 45 seconds picking out which bowling shirt he would wear to the meeting. He stood in front of a full-length mirror and studied the flame-printed silk. It went perfectly with the cocaine residue caked around his nose, and the dark bags under his eyes after another restless night of avoiding examining the decisions he’d made in life. It was getting to be almost as exhausting to avoid examining those decisions as it would probably be to just face up to them and admit to himself that they were terrible. But avoid them he did!
“Daddy, look at my shirt!” Charlie Sheen said into his Bluetooth headset as he gently tugged at his penis through his ill-fitting Dockers.
“Charlie,” Martin Sheen said, “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this, but I can’t see you when we are talking over the phone.”
Charlie Sheen frowned.
“Is it a bowling shirt?” Martin asked.
“Are you nodding?” Martin asked.
“Charlie, I can’t hear you when you nod, you need to use your words.”
“Daddy, what was it like when you were president?”
There was a long pause, and then a weary sigh. “It was incredible, Charlie. I will always cherish my work as the President of the United States.”
Charlie smiled and hung up the phone. He was at the White House. A guard asked him to sign in at the gate, and then Charlie walked up the driveway towards a side entrance. Charlie Sheen walking up to the White House! Again! Who would have ever believed it! Obviously, the White House had been different when his dad was President. It was in an airplane-hangar like building in California. But it made sense that a new president would want to make some changes.
At the door, Charlie was asked to walk through a metal detector. The guard told him that his cell phone and keychain bottle opener would be returned to him at the end of his visit.
An aide appeared. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sheen, but the President’s only going to be able to meet with you for 20 minutes, instead of the 30 minutes you requested.”
Charlie Sheen began to cry, because Charlie Sheen was emotionally unstable and had a shaky grip on reality. Finally, he looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “Why?” he asked.
“Well, no reason really, I guess,” the aide said. “The truth is this is all make believe, and soon you will wake up and this will just have been a dream. But for whatever reason, you seem to think that changing a make believe meeting with the president from 30 minutes to 20 minutes makes it more believable, and makes your case to him all the more urgent, or something, to be honest, sir, I’ve kind of lost the thread of your logic, but anyway, 20 minutes. In the Blue Room.”
The aide led Charlie Sheen into the Blue Room, where he sat on an antique, silk-upholstered couch. “You got peanuts?” Charlie Sheen asked.
“Do we have peanuts?”
“You got peanuts?” Charlie Sheen said again, a little impatiently, as if it was the other man who was stupid, and then he made a motion with his hand towards his mouth, as if he were violently shoving something into it. He made smacking sounds with his mouth as well.
“I might be able to find some peanuts, Mr. Sheen.” The aide stared as Charlie Sheen spread both arms out along the back of the couch and slouched into the cushions. Sheen’s eyes seemed to have glazed over, and he didn’t seem to register that the aide was still there. The aide left.
A half hour later, two Secret Service agents swept the room and then positioned themselves near the door. 10 minutes after that, the President walked in. He gripped Charlie Sheen’s hand firmly. Charlie noticed that the President’s hands were strong and dry, which was unusual since Charlie’s hands were always damp and creepy. “Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. President.”
“What can I do for you, Charlie Sheen?” Barack Obama asked.
“I have a number of concerns about 9/11 that I would like to present to you, because I believe that the American people deserve to know the truth.”
The President had started to sit down, but now he stood up again. “You’re the guy from Two and a Half Men, right?”
“That’s quite a compliment, sir,” Charlie Sheen said, giving a crisp soldier’s salute.
“Well it’s not so much a compliment as a question,” Barack Obama said.
“Would you say that I reminded you of the First Lady?” Charlie Sheen asked.
Barack Obama looked at Charlie Sheen. “As you wish. Please continue.”
Charlie Sheen began to explain to the President how many nights when he was just crushing on methamphetamines, he would take breaks from his compulsive masturbation and do research on the Internet into what REALLY happened on September 11th, 2001, and was about to explain how he felt it was of the utmost importance that the President took him seriously and came clean about the government’s role in the events when the President cut him off.
“I think we’re done here,” the President said, turning to leave.
“As the son of a former President of the United States, it is my right in the Constitution for you to hear out my insane ideas about a national tragedy based on things that I found on the Internet” Charlie Sheen whined.
But Barack Obama was already gone to do President things. The aide touched Charlie Sheen’s elbow, but Charlie Sheen yanked it back. “I WANT THEM PEANUTS FOR MY MOUTH!” he shouted. The aide asked if he got Charlie Sheen peanuts, if Charlie Sheen would stop causing a scene. Charlie Sheen nodded and held out his hand. The aide reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of peanuts. Charlie Sheen’s mouth watered. He could almost feel the foil wrapper crinkling between his damp, creepy fingers. He could almost taste the sweet and salt of the peanuts on his tongue. The aide’s head turned into a giraffe, and the peanuts poured out like liquid light. Charlie Sheen’s nose became a penis that he began to masturbate, but his hands could not get a grip, and he looked down to see that they were made out of pie.
And then Charlie Sheen woke up, and it had all just been a dream.