Your time has come, you son of a bitch. You were in one good movie, Paths of Glory, but all I have to thank you for now is a a raging case of herpes-simplex.
How the fuck did I get the herpes virus from Martin-sonofabitch-Sheen, you ask, reader?
I'll tell you how:
Right now:
His pig-slam-drunk son, Charles Sheen. Charles-the-hog-rape-queen-Sheen.
One, 2.5 Men is the worst show I have ever seen. That little fat kid? I used to poop on kids like that in high school.
Then after high school.
Then yesterday morning.
The fat should be mocked, ridiculed for our goddamn amusement, and, if they prove too retarded to do anything else, fucking killed.
I am tired of the fat.
But, aside from the horrible, awful, cataract inducing 2.5 Men show, Charles Sheen also is responsible for banging a prostitute that I banged last week, and he gave her herpes, and she gave me herpes (but he paid--she gave it to me for free. Super free. She actually paid me--obv. I don't pay for sex).
But little did I know, I was paying.
I paid by getting the herps.
Basically, Charlie Sheen unwittingly forced me into paying for sex. This can only mean one thing:
Bloodsport.
Charles, I, Dr. Scott Alan Stapp, challenge you to fucking Thunderdome.
In summary, I plan on murdering Charlie Sheen.
Tonight.
In his apartment.
With my hog.
I will skull fuck him.
Try and prove it, FBI. Just fucking try.
-Scott
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