Last night, while Mr. Sheen slept, tangled in sheets between Bree Olsen and Natalie Kenly, his distraught, polka-dotted pachyderm, Trixie, led us into the actor's chilly, cavernous bedroom and laid on her side. She pointed with her trunk to a lone leather chair in front of the gas fireplace. I sat. Setting down the potato sack of peanuts she'd requested as payment, I whispered:
TMG: Patty, tell me, how is Mr. Sheen?
Trixie: (Popping a dozen peanuts in her mouth.) He's bi-winning. He's winning here AND there. I'd love to do air quotes for but, look -- no fingers.
TMG: How are you holding up?
Trixie: I'm about to burst. I'm twenty-one months, two weeks along and it feels like thirty.
TMG: Don't know how you elephants do it. That gestation period is ungodly.
Trixie: You're a male mammal. You have no freaking clue.
TMG: Are the twins Mr. Sheen's?
Trixie: Who else's? The man is into everything. I've put on about ten pounds a month since he did that Ferris Bueller's Day Off gig, then when putting on weight alone wasn't enough, BOOM! there was nowhere else to go but self-replication. Quite frankly I'm surprised I'm not going to be the sequel to the octo-mom.
TMG: Have you thought about leaving?
Trixie: I'm his elephant. By definition, I'm stuck. The bigger his mess, the deeper the mud I'm in. What paper are you with again?
TMG: The New York (coughing) Mind Gazette.
Mr. Sheen stirred. He woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across his head. I quickly hid behind Trixie. As Mr. Sheen left the room, he yelled, "Trixie, you're huge, ha-ha! But I love you! And you're welcome for those peanuts!"
Trixie grabbed more peanuts from the sack and laid them in her mouth. She chewed slowly.
Trixie: Time to go.
TMG: One more question?
Trixie: Shoot.
TMG: How's Oliver Stone to work with?
Trixie: Out.
TMG: Fine, but Charlie's downstairs.
Trixie: He won't notice. He doesn't notice people till about noon.
And with that, I left the room. Halfway down the stairs, I froze with my back to the wall as a nude Mr. Sheen passed me by, leaving the strong scent of peanuts and Trixie in his wake.
article by Michael Calienes