Remember when...

You were a child and the world was like this big fucking box of donuts and you couldn't wait to get all that cream? It would just gush out and you'd be all like, "Yes. Fucking Yes. More of that!" and then the world just exploded with flavor.

Goddamn I miss those days.

(#2) S.A.S. On: The Drug War in Mexico

Our second feature here at Scotty Stapp L.L.C.. This week we will be talking about the Drug War in Mexico...



The Drug War in Mexico started in 1865 as the Civil War in the United States came to a close. Pissed off with the way black people were running the country, all of the Mexican'ts decided to runaway to the south of the United States, in Texas.

Texas president Daniel Boone said, "Uh-uh, Beanies. Not on my hog-watch." He then proceed to kick them out to the uninhabited region south of Texas. This is how come Mexico is called Mexico--because it was founded by Mexicans who had been kicked out of America.

Mexico then celebrated its new independence with a two-day rum orgy. One older gentleman fucked a Sun Bear. According to a very stoned witness the act was, "Pretty nuts, dude."

Soon after the fucking of the Sun Bear (which lead to the fall of Drunk Farmer Politician Pancho Villa) a young man named Cesar Chavez was born (yes, as a young man), and he celebrated his birth by immediately inventing cocaine out of the extract of the Bolivichan Coca plant.

Flash forward to six years later and Mr. Chavez was all up in that cocaine business. All was going well until Cesar decided to shoot the president of the united states of 'merica in the face.

Thus began the great Mexican Drug War and the Merida Initative.

-Reportage by Scottalanstaaaaaaapp.

Bones...

Is a pretty good show.

Minus the glaring and numerous scientific inaccuracies...

-Dr. Dr. Dr. Scott Alan Stapp.

it turns out...

As much as I want everyone to like me... well, maybe somethings just aren't mean to be... maybe some people just think I'm a total boner and a jag. I mean, who knows? I don't want to be a jag but maybe there's nothing left other than a jag for me to be right now? I dunno... it seems like a difficult thing to think about--jag this, jag that--but what isn't as nuts: who's the jag now? Huh? Total jagoff, amitright???

I came

to bring the pain hardcore from the brain
Let's go inside my astral plane
Find out my mental based on instrumental [enjambment]
Records hey so I can write monumental
Methods I'm not the king but niggaz is decaf
I stick 'em for the cream check it
Just how deep can shit get - get deeper than your fists
And brothers is mad pissed accept it
In your cross colors clothes you crossed over
And now ya totally crossed out and Kriss Kross
Who da boss niggaz get tossed to da side
And I'm the dark side of the force of course
It's the method man from the wu-tang clan
I be hectic and comin' for that headpiece protect it
Fuck it two tears in a bucket
Niggaz want the ruckas? so bust it at me son now bust it
Stylez I get buckwild method man on some shit
Fuck'n niggaz foul son I'm sick
Insane crazy drivin' miss daisy
How the fuck am I? now I got mine I'm swayze
Is it real son lemme know it's real son if its really real son lemme know it's real
Load it up and kill one
Load it up and kill one
Load it up and kill one
If it's really real
When I was a little stereo I used to be the champion
I always wonder when I would be the number one - hey hey hey
And now you listen to me darcon darcon
- - -
And all you niggaz come and test me test me
I'm gonna lick out your brains
Mothers wanna hang with the meth bring the rope
Cuz the only way you hang is by the neck
Nigga pump off a set comin' through all your projects
Take it as a threat or better yet it is a promise
Comin' like a vet on some old Vietnam shit
You can bet your bottom dollar that I'm on it
And it'll get even worse word to god it's the wu
Comin' through takin' niggaz 'fore they're
Gone gone gone gone gone gone
Movin' to your left
I came to represent and carve my name within your chest
You can come test realize it's no contest son
I'm the gun who won that old wild west
Quick on the draw with my hands on the floor
Lovin' all those goddamn monkey rhymes galore
Check it cuz I think not when it's hip hop like propa
Rhymes be the proof when I'm drinkin' ninety proof vodka
No OJ no no straw
When you give it to me - yeah - give it to me raw I burn
Give it to me raw I burn
Chest hair
I don't need no chemical blow to pull no ho - no
All I need is chemical bank to pay her up
Is it real son lemme know it's real son if its really real son
Lemme know it's
1 2 3 4
Kill one - fuck it up and kill one
Fuck it up and kill one
Lemme know it's real

MEATBONE

STOP THE MEATBONE

STOP THE MEATBONE

MEATBONE WILL STOP YYYYYYOOOOOUUUUU

Tired...

I'm just so goddamned tired.

Of what?

Of people saying that they are the god damn nipple kings when clearly all that is happened is that they have grown a wuss-tumor in the form of turd cancer, and they are scared of the turd-pastor rising up and massacring them.

What TOTAL FUCKING FAGGOTS.

AMITRIGHT?

Re: All dat butt...

In regards to all that butt:

Look. Here's the thing.

Butt is as Butt does, but Butt will never, ever be a science.


I can sit here and auto-erotically asphyxiate myself until the fucking stars go blue in their nuts, but the fact of the matter remains thus:

Butt no science.



The sad truth is is that butt will be butt. You can't change butt, nor can you love butt, because butt is as butt does. Butt isn't quite a state of mind, but butt is a butt of the conversation.

I've heard some talk 'round these parts of The Moon lately.

I want you to know that this is fictional.

All them pretty words, all that stuff you been hearing about a so-called Moon is gib'rish.

The only thing real is the butt.

It is a harsh mistress, but it is at least a true one.

Thanks and god-damn-bless,

Scott, The Ass-man, Stapp.

GIMME

GIMMEE GIMME GIMME GIMME GIMME




ALLL DAT BUTT.

(#1) S.A.S. On: The Dog

This is a new feature here at Scott Alan Stapp Entertainment. L.L.C., it's called the Scott Alan Stapp On: and will be a hard-hitting editorial on the day's most important issues.

If I'm leveling with you it's because I recently got in trouble for putting my meatsack in a bowl of soup that displeased me in a public place. This is supposed to be the newer, more mature look of Scott A. Stapp.

And it's starting with dog's and the funnier things their penises are capable of.

Dog facts:
The dog is part wolf and part house cat. It was born in the 1500s because white people liked the way they smelled.

Currently there are no dog politicians, though certain dog factions wish to change this. Often cited arguments are the valuable contributions of Dogmonauts in the space race.

The space race was an opera about a race war in space. It took place under Nixon.

Long a popular president, Nixon was a closeted dog-hater and, therefore, a totally tricky dick.

There are long standing rumors that a dog's penis resembles lipstick but this is false because you can't apply a dog-donk to your nuts and have there be evidence 48 hours later.

****

Scott "Hitting facts hard" Stapp, out!

I'm a bit worried...

So apparently consumerism is the new big thing to criticize about 'merica, and I just don't like it.

I, for one, think we should be buy buy buying more all the time.

Like yesterday when I bought a can of reddi-whip and filled a tupperware container with it and then porked it with my hog.

Almost can't believe it myself...

But this site hasn't been shut down yet. I guess the government is getting lax on how much they let radicals like me say on the internet. Back when I was a kid it used to be that we curb-stomped every commie-sounding motherfucker in the barrio but I guess times have changed...

AND FOR THE WORSE.

I'm going to have to run for office and save this cuntry!

SCOTT ALAN STAPP FOR PRESIDENT IN 2013!!!

GET SOCIAL:
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=35602417910

GET YO' FIX:
https://www.google.com/search?q=scott+stapp+for+president&oe=utf-8&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a&um=1&ie=UTF-8&hl=en&tbm=isch&source=og&sa=N&tab=wi&biw=1280&bih=771&sei=_3HFTtCiDK2msQK417m7Cw

"This is my business and my house of the gods!" screamed Apollo, quite angrily.

There you have it^. The first sentence from my all new line of erotic graphic novels geared towards women and man-sluts.

If my own boner is any gauge (it only went off, oh, like 7 jillion times when I was writing the thing, nbd...), then I am about to become fucking twice as famous as I once was.

-Scott Alan Stapp

F

UCK

as in

FUCK

you world.

You, I will buttfuck. The end.

-Scott Alan "About to Watch 'Lost' " Stapp, out!

The Super Bowl

This year, in support of rape beards everywhere, I decided to bet more than you will make in your whole life on that rapist from the Detroit Seventy-Sixes winning the superbowl. I ended up getting drunk and watching something called The Puppy Bowl instead. Did I win money? Anyone?

Update: My will has changed

Note:

Those bastards at Toyota will no longer be getting a cut of my sweet stacks of cash because head chairman Fujio Cho made disparaging remarks about my mother's rump at a board meeting yesterday.

This is Scott Alan Stapp urging you to write your local congressman and demand we go to war with Japan.

Scott Stapp, over and out.

"Funky Cold Medina"

Kid Rock and I have ended our feud. It's done. We're friends again. And it's all thanks to none other than eighties rapper Tone Loc. Loc's bitchin song, "Funky Cold Medina" (little known fact, this is the first song that Creed covered) is all about a super sweet love drug called Funky Cold Medina. This song came on the radio as I was driving home from the pound the other day. You see, I had just come from my weekly dog selection (every week I go to the pound and get two dogs and then I go home and make them into dog jerky while screaming obscenities at Tom Bergeron from America's Funniest Home Videos), and as I was driving home, "Funky Cold Medina" came on the radio and that used to be me and Kid's jam and then I remembered that time we gave that chick seven funky cold ones and then she slobbed our hogs and I just couldn't stay mad anymore. So I said "Fuck it" and called off the goddamn feud.

Thanks, Tone. Thanks a ton.

-Scott Alan Stapp

Fuck You, Matin Sheen. Fuck You Straight to Hell.

Martin Sheen,

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

Five Reasons Science Should Invent Light Sabers

1. Because Fuck Chuck Norris.

2. So I can use them for boner jokes in my stand-up comedy act that features gratuitous amounts of prop comedy.

3. So I can shit a brick.

4. To cut flowers and shit in my garden. Little known fact: I am a fucking Master Gardner. Seriously. Ask Mark Tremotti about my Bermuda Buttercups (Oxalis pes-caprae) or my Oleanders (Nerium oleander).

5. So I can find the fucker Hugh Jackman and cauterize his balls the shit off.

Seriously.

I fucking mean it.

I'm coming for you, Hugh Jackman.

I'm fucking coming.

One night, you will hear what sounds like the rustle of trees and you will think it beautiful and pleasing for some existential reason, but really it is going to be me spying the fuck out of your ass and waiting, waiting and biding my goddamn time and then the rustling will grow louder and I will fly through your fucking window and end you not with a whisper but with the motherfucking loudest bang.

BANG. JACKMAN. DESTROYED.

I'M COMING FOR FUCKING YOU.

THIS JUST FUCKING IN:

I've decided my balls are going to get Alopecia.

I've come to this conclusion based on the fact that they are quite hairy and every time my personal groomer monkey comes to help groom me, all it does is root around in there for ticks'n'shit.

So, once my balls are sweet and smooth and hair-free (thanks to my newly got ball-Alopecia [alopecia-testicles]), I will reward the ladies of the world with a five-hundred day streak-a-thon where, much like Tom Hanks in that movie about the guy who invented basically everything in america through sheer dumb-fuck-retardary, I will run across the country. In the buff.

Thanks for hearing me out.

Love,

Scott Alan Stapp

Woah wow we woah

Hey Guys (but mostly ladies....sweet, sweet ladies),

It's been so long since my last update, and I need to explain why.

Here's why:

After I beat Mephistopheles to death with my cock and summarily escaped the underworld (I was dead, remember? Ate that bag of heroin and a shark with a gun for a face?--try to keep up, dummy) I re-entered Earth by kicking open the gates of Hell.

Turns out the gates of Hell are located between York Street and Downing Street on 13th Avenue in Denver, in a shitty little place called Cheeseman park. Now, I know what you're thinking, because I was thinking about The Stinky Cheeseman and Other Fairly Stupid Tales as well when I saw the shithole park in the shithole city I was in, but hey, I had just committed (and defeated) suicide twice over. I did it for my son, Jagger.

Seriously, that is my kid's name.

Funny side story, his name was supposed to be "Jager" as in "Jagermeister-von-Boss-Hog," but when the little tyke popped out his momma, I found, to my Great Dismay (the title of my 17th solo album, coming soon), I realized that the would-be Jagermeister-von-Boss-Hog was not actually born with a "Boss-Hog." I slapped the doc and told him to put the little bastard back in, let him stew a bit longer so that his junk could grow to proportions as great as mine, but the doc said something about "maternal death" if the baby got jammed back up in them guts, "And besides," he said, "Four inches is nothing to be ashamed about at birth."

"Maybe not for you, you fuck," I said, as I unzipped my pants, "But look. Look and behold and be scared," I said as the glow over took him.

"My god... my god, I was so.... it's glor.... It's glorious. I will sing It's praises," he said, while down on his knees, blinded by my monster-hog's awesomeness.

So yeah, anyway, I ended up getting real drunk on Jagermeister, to lament the fact that my son only had a 4 inch dork, and yeah, by the time they came around to ask about the birth certificate, I was like five or six bottles of Jager deep, and as anyone knows, that's one short of the magic number of AWESOME, and I was on this big Doors kick at the time and I was just thinking, man, FUCK the Rolling Stones. Fucking Mick Jagger. Bane of my GODDAMN EXISTENCE.

And yeah, so I named my tiny-dicked son Jagger, because seriously fuck the rolling stones.