Adonis DNA. Fastball. Winning.

These are the new catchphrases integrated into the daily output on the radio, television and my Facebook, thanks to none other than the latest flavor of the week, the immaculate Charlie Sheen.

All I’ve heard about for the last week is Sheen euphemism this, Sheen-ism that, and I can’t take it anymore. So before I overdose on the Charlie Sheen drug and, as put by the man himself, my face melts off and my children weep over my exploded body, I will dedicate roughly 600 words and usage of my fully-functioning brain to this egomaniac and his twisted way of screwing with the world for the last time.

It was a toss-up to write an article between Sheen and Libya, and after a professional coin-toss debate, I decided to go with the topic that prevents me from making car bomb jokes.

Charlie Sheen is out of his mind. That or he’s always had the mentality of a toddler on a rapid influx of stimulants mixed generously with depressants. He claims he is sober, however, and while I believe in innocent until proven guilty, he sure acts like a nutcase.

I will admit this Sheen self-destruction is an entertaining fiasco. Truly, if you are at a bar, whom are you more inclined to pay attention to: The mild-mannered fellow chatting up quietly with some friends, or the raging belligerent fellow screaming inconsistencies while wafting in the odor of his fuming crack pipe?

I am not convinced that the man is remotely under the impression he is winning. Like a guilty child molester may claim he is innocent until he truly believes it, I think Charlie is on the same route.

Sheen is convinced the women in his life, the ones that he has paid thousands of dollars to sleep with him, are goddesses sent from the Heavens to bless his life and raise his poor suffering children. I often call prostitutes my maidens of the sea to make myself feel better, just as I would call my psychologist my best friend.

If you are paying someone for a service, you are just a client. Moreover, if one of my mistresses was a former porn-star, they had better be a sex goddess; otherwise, I might as well use my million dollar bills to put out kitchen fires.

Charlie may have a method to his madness, though. His career is sabotaged with all the trash-talking he’s done about “Two and a Half Men” writers, directors, and even Thomas Jefferson, so why not make an ass out of yourself for publicity?

The thing is, his plan is working remarkably. One million Twitter followers in just over 25 hours proves that people are interested in his oral subjugation of the English language. I would probably look him up on Twitter if I had an account and didn’t have better things to do — say, hit myself in the head with a hammer.

I might act like a fool too if I had the sheer amount of money Sheen has accumulated playing himself on TV: A womanizing lazy schmuck. I doubt I will ever garner $2.5 million per episode on a television program, and if these are the inflated consequences, I am not interested.

Perhaps Charlie Sheen isn’t as crazy as he seems. Maybe he has a grand scheme behind his ramblings. With no feasible career left on the horizon, what else is there to do besides get the world talking about you, no matter what the damage to your reputation? He even has a 23-year-old aspiring writer constructing an article on his activities.

Congratulations Charlie, you win.