Sean Penn on Haiti and Wyclef Jean

"Ini Kamoze! Now I’ve been the victim of a media hatchet job on many occasions Wally, but this article about me in the Chicago Tribune is a bloodbath. Worse than anything my man Wes Studi did in Last Of The Mohicans."

But then I’d rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I’m not, as a wise man once said. I think it was Tupac. Possibly it was Thomas Jefferson or that backing dancer who was married to J-Lo for about ten minutes. What was his name? Trevor or something.

Now what that reporter from the Tribune failed to understand is that I’m always frank and earnest with women. In California I’m Frank and in Mexico I’m Ernest! HAHA .

All jokes aside, the humanitarian situation in Haiti is a stain on the conscience of the world. Worse than Darfur. Hell it’s worse than that Battleship film. Call me the plumber, cos I’ve seen some shit, but Port Au Prince is like a thief in a bakery my friends. It takes the cake.

Well … I’m not one to idly stand around while my fellow earthlings descend into barbarism, so post-earthquake I hotfooted it down to Haiti on my private jet, armed with nothing but food, medicine and a sense of blinding righteousness. And a 38 special loaned to me by Mad Dog Madsen.

I leave the photo ops to these Johnny come lately A-listers like Brangelina. Fuck that, I like to get my hands dirty, so I hit the mean streets of the city to do some good.

There was one shanty town that was said to be in a total state of lawlessness. Death, decay, people swimming in their own filth, it was complete anarchy on the streets and no hope in sight. Sort of like Glasgow on a Saturday evening.

I marched in there with a few boxes of protein bars and some drinking water and they received me as a God. But what I didn’t expect was some no name rapper fuck trying to steal my thunder. None other than that douchebag Wyclef Jean, a true buzzkill and champagne socialist motherfucker.

That asswipe flew over the shanty town in a US military chopper, yelling “one tiiiime!” at the top of his lungs, festooning its residents with remaindered Fugees albums on CD. 

Jumpin’ Jesus, it was like a hailstorm of shitty music and polycarbonate plastic.

Anyway, I was determined to set that dreadlocked bumbaclart straight when I got back to the embassy. I started cracking skulls like pistachios, slowly working my way through his bullshit entourage. His cousin Pras stepped to me but I dropped that one hit wonder cunt quicker than he was dropped by his record label.

Wyclef was acting a bigger bitch than Lauryn Hill in Sister Act 2, and that pussy got himself airlifted Saigon '75 style with some extended Duvalier family members only moments before I caught his $5 ass and made change.

He's trying to play it cool these days, but rest assured when I catch that low rent Urkel motherfucker I'll massacre him, worse than how the Fugees massacred that Bob Marley record back in 1996."