Saturday, February 19, 2011

F

UCK

as in

FUCK

you world.

You, I will buttfuck. The end.

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

Monday, February 7, 2011

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?

Sunday, February 6, 2011

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.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

"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

Thursday, February 3, 2011

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