Charlie Sheen to Make a Stage Appearance in Cleveland

Hot off the heels of his successful media tour, the artistically-minded intellectual’s intellectual Charlie Sheen, will be showcasing his veritable cornucopia of talents in Cleveland. Sheen’s medium, a professionally produced and expertly performed stage show, will debut at cultural centers across the country with venues that include at least one in Ohio. This will be one of Sheen’s first appearances in the Northeast Ohio city since his pitching days as a closer for the make believe championship Cleveland Indian’s baseball team in Major League. Sheen, who will most likely bring along his brilliant and compassionate life partner, Bree Olson, and his pack of well-behaved Welsh Pembroke Corgis, plans to “Wow” the crowd with “insightful rhetoric” and “tasteful commentary” on “life and human-ness”.

His performance will draw upon the collective works of George Bernard Shaw and J.M. Barrie to create a piece, “reminiscent of the tones of classical theater” but “accentuated with the positive attributes and optimism that seems to underscore the 21^st century.” Sheen, plans on delving in to what he terms his “own-ness” or “Sheen-ness”. “I want the audience to be a part of my transition. I want to explore not only my inner-self but also their inner-self…their Peter Pan.” Sheen called this exploration or “inter-twining of being” the “Sheen-ness of becoming.” “By delving into their (the audience’s) most sacred rituals I wish to unmask that which hasn’t bloomed. Be that rosebud of desire, that sweet moment between virginity and knowing.”

In a special media attended dress rehearsal, Sheen in his minimalist attire barefoot, wearing just a pair of dark herringbone patterned slacks and a summer-weight ribbed turtleneck sweater, mounted the stage and addressed the audience directly with bravado, “I COME IN PEACE!” He then led the group in a breathing exercise he stated would “align chakras.” “You’ll feel it (the chakra), if you are doing it correctly,” spoke Sheen between labored controlled breaths. “Like an orgasmic lightening shooting up the spine.” Several in the invited group let out joys of adulation as their alleged chakras released. Sheen too displayed a mighty conversion as his hands which previously lay upon the knees of his crossed legs, shot upward. The stage lights exploded into a colorful kaleidoscope of what could only be termed a transcendental super-nova, and Sheen let loose a primal scream. The master had begun his art.

Sheen, son to the equally talented and didactic Martin, undulated to deep booming almost tribal drum beats. A gong crashed and he rolled upon the stage. Drool frothed from his mouth as he convulsed upon the bare black performance space, and then almost as suddenly as the violent shaking began, Sheen stopped. The stage went black. The lights increased in intensity until Sheen was once again visible. Lying still, his hands slowly rose and, when his arms reached 90 degrees, the music began.

A mix of Sergeant Pepper’s and The Moody Blues, Sheen’s self-composed score brought a visible tearful reaction to some in attendance, as the performer’s body met the sound with masterful movement. Then, he stood motionless. Silence. A stool was brought out to the now trance induced artist. A microphone was pinned upon his breast. At this moment the audience readied itself for dialogue. The anticipation was palatable. “I am a man,” Sheen quietly announced, and then, what at first was an almost silent whimper became waves of what could only be described as inconsolable crying. “I…” spoke Sheen between deep gesticulations of tearful sadness, “…am just a man, but… together… we will… find our peace… our hope… our lost youth.”

The program maintained its deep philosophical and symbolic meaning throughout the six and one half hour pageant. His show also highlighted the genius’ use of words that fans recognize as shaping meaning in an entertainment community that seems to lose itself in the spectacle. “If God is here let him see me now,” vocalized the now resolute Sheen. “Let him see me, my flaws and accept me—the man, the spirit, the great truth of being.” Sheen then asked the audience to stand as four child-sized masked and red satin robed shamans swiped each aisle with smoldering smudge sticks. He then slathered his face with what he called “Ox blood” and asked all in attendance to “join me in prayer.” The master-artist then slowly grasped a hold of his microphone and with an almost tired voice “blessed” all in attendance using phrases and words the spiritual Sheen asked not to be written or recorded. But his power and sacred beauty cannot go unrecorded. If any performance were required it would be this one.

Sheen’s national tour is not to be missed. His lessons on life and love lost are painfully displayed with such humility and splendid power that even the most hardened hearts will be softened with his message of hope. If anything can save Cleveland, it will be Charlie Sheen.

Professor’s senility mistaken for class on Dadaism, students shocked.

Case students were shocked to learn that an Art History course titled “Special Topics” was actually just 16 weeks of a madman’s ramblings.

“I guess in retrospect I could see how some of that stuff he did was a little crazy,” said a former student of the class. “But I was really into the lecture, especially when he took a dump on the overhead and told us it was our short paper prompt. I was like, ‘Hell Yeah!’ That’s a prompt I can do something with.”

Another student was appalled at the announcement. “One class he got up on the table, showed us his genitals and yelled, ‘Punk rock is dead!” said sophomore Tesla Peterson. “I was confused cuz what is more punk rock than twisting the beans up over the frank? And at that moment I got it. I understood Dada, and no one can take that away from me! Dr. O is the reason I understand the early 20^th century movement that was meant to poke fun at the material world. I get it, and Dr. O did that for me! ”

Case officials became aware of the Professor’s troubles when a paper titled, “Dada and Doctor Ogden: Why Dada is so Raven” was submitted as a Capstone thesis. “Apparently, students thought the entire course was a reflection on Dadaism. In fact, even some faculty thought there was an entire department that focused entirely on the avant-garde movement," said the official.

“I was a big fan of Dr. O’s work,” said William Sieben, Professor of English. “He rambled a bit, but he was by far the most incoherent and subversive lecturer on campus. He was Dada personified.” Dr. Sieben went on to reminisce on the time Dr. Ogden was caught shuffling down the Binary Walkway wearing nothing but a bathrobe. “I just remember seeing him, the wind was blowing and he was completely naked underneath, so every now and then his robe would just open for all to see; practically, stopped traffic on Euclid. He was so Dada.”

University officials remain puzzled by Dr. Ogden’s grading system and have yet to decide what to do. According to a memo released by the Dean’s Office, a few of the students received an “A” but several received a “K” and at least one earned a wagon wheel with a “well-rendered Native American arrow”. “Since Dr. Ogden is being less than cooperative, as soon as we are able to decipher Dr. Ogden’s notes, we should be able to apply the appropriate grades,” read the memo.

When asked for a comment on the course or his grading system, Dr. Ogden simply stated, “Rick James bitch.”

OP ED: Just because I have a boyfriend it doesn’t mean I am gay

It’s that time of year again, the time when I need to explain the images that seem to pop up all over the internet and on the covers of supermarket tabloids. Much is made of my yearly trips to the Caribbean or other tasty coastal regions with my fabulous and interesting traveling companion the Moroccan native Jonathan the Giraffe. Just because I might dabble from time to time in homoerotic acts, doesn’t mean I am a homosexual. Sure, there just aren’t too many images of me with female giraffes but let’s face it: giraffes male or female all look the same. In fact, the only reason you know I am a man-raffe is because I choose to identify myself as such by wearing a snappy v-neck sweater or the occasional blazer—and maybe that is my point. You people wouldn’t care for a moment if Jonathan would just wear that damn boa I bought for him last Valentines.

I am also a bit offended by the insinuation that there is something wrong with two male giraffes walking side by side along a tropical beach. If more males would take the time to intimately understand the men around them, I suggest the world would be a better more carefully decorated place. But to be honest, there is this thing I’ve got for giraffe tongues…it’s not just for harvesting leaves folks! I’ve got chills just thinking about it. Good thing I choose to wear a sweater.

Generations of Wealthy Youth Protest in DC, Threats to Throw Designer Rocks and Spit Voss Prove to Be Just That

On the eve of a vote that may mark the reintroduction of the so-called Death Tax, tens of wealthy Americans gathered near the Capitol Rotunda waving signs and occasionally shouting phrases of indignation.

“We’re here, we own an étagère, get over it!” was heard all over DC as wealthy citizens gathered to protest the right to keep their parents’ money. “It’s my dad’s (money) and I want all 30 million (dollars) when he dies,” said one smartly dressed participant wearing a Skimmer hat, blue blazer and khakis. “I’m not above giving away a few bucks but I will give away my dad’s money when I want to. Besides, he got it (money) from his father who got it from his father and so on, and every time someone dies we gotta pay a tax. Damn you Congress. Damn You!”

Wearing some of the trendiest styles and colors of the season, protesters converged on Constitution Avenue before being escorted from their vehicles and into awaiting golf carts. A few decided to forgo the journey up Capitol Hill and instead paid a team of protest proxies bussed in for such a scenario.

Also in attendance was a large contingent of anti-wealthy protesters, their less-than-classy wardrobe a grotesque representation of middle class poverty. One anti-rich protester called the wealthy an abomination in the sight of Humanism. When asked for a possible solution, he tapped his bongos and led a chant of wordless sounds then yelled an expletive. He later returned to say, “I’m not here just for this (protest) man. I’m here because I can be. I got at least another year till my dad says I gotta find a job. Until then, these rich dead dudes better pay their taxes!”

At times the protest took on the look and feel of Vietnam anti-war protest marches with the shouts of slogans like, “Hell no! We won’t go” and “Jane Fonda is a whore”, but quickly settled down when Capitol Police threatened the use of water cannons. “Oh, I am so glad it isn’t after Memorial Day,” said one from the wealthy group. “Wet linen is just ghastly.” “Go ahead,” said another. “Make me wet. I’ll throw some of these rocks and spit on you with this here water, sir.” “Fisticuffs,” said a third his long old-fashioned handle bar mustache waiving in the wind. “If that is what it has come to.”

Protests disbanded for afternoon tea, but were planned to continue the following day after morning croquet.