49 Wrinkles

    I’d imagine that, to my ex-girlfriend's friends and well-wishers, the tale I’m about to tell is a popular one, a piece of indisputable evidence that I am, was, and always will be a low-down nogoodnik, capable of both acts of woeful recklessness and unconscionable cruelty.
    Well to them, except for my ex’s friend Sophie, who I still think I have a shot at boning (fingers crossed!), I say suck on this! (I'm pointing to my groin.)
    The issue stems from my habit of unwittingly running over my ex’s cats with my car, which I seemed to do two or three times a week for the entirety of our ill-fated relationship.
    My ex would always feign surprise whenever I had run over one of the Wrinkles--all of her cats were named Wrinkles, Wrinkles 1, Wrinkles 2, Wrinkles 42, and so on--but really, I couldn’t help but think she was faking it a little bit. After all, It was nothing new after even our first week together. Picking her up for our first date, for example, I was pulling up to the curb and I heard a loud thud underneath my car. What was that thud?
    That’s right, a sleeping homeless man.
    But pulling away from her apartment, I heard another, more feline thud--one gets used to the thuds different animals make. Sure enough, I had killed Wrinkles the First before I ever even got to make a clumsy attempt at her bra strap.
    The second time it happened was later that week, when, despite my having killed her cat before the appetizers arrived on our first date, we went on our second date. This time, I was dropping her off. “Sorry about that. Lucky the little guy has nine lives, right?!” I said after the overrunning, elbowing her in the shoulder, bucking her up. “Wanna have some sex?”
    But she said no, and just stared at her cat with tears in her eyes, and I guessed my “nine lives” joke wasn’t quite as funny as I thought it was.
   
    All told, I ran over 49 Wrinkles in the time that my ex and I were together. I bear responsibility for all of them, and can tell you with some din of redemption in my voice that I only intentionally ran over one of these--it was Wrinkles 26, who made a habit of being cross and looking down his nose at me. (Who’s looking down at who now, Wrinkles 26?!)

    So what do I expect to come from this apology for running over cats, and in a few cases, kittens?
    Money? The Guinness World Record for running over a significant other’s pets? A harem comprised of the girls from The Secret Life of the American Teenager?

    All of these would be nice. But I guess most of all, I just want to clear my name, to let my ex-girlfriend know that I’ve changed, matured, and apologize for all of her cats that I’ve run over since our breakup (7). That, I guess, and the money thing.

The Brothers Scumbag

    In our fair hamlet of Scumbag, Texas, the story of our city’s founders, the Scumbag brothers, is as well known as the area code (555), or the shape of Elena Thompson’s nipples (starfish). Strolling down the city square, one can see tourists taking in the story of our town’s founding with wonder, as if to say, “Who is this person?” and “Why is he shouting about scumbags?” and, other than the time Mike Thompson beat up one of our citizens (me) for talking about his sister’s starfish-shaped nipples, it’s about the only interesting story we have. And here it is:
     There were three Scumbags in the bunch. The oldest was Jedediah, a crusty man, both in texture and temperament. Next was Jonah, who wasn’t as crusty as his brother. More dusty. It was well known in those days that if you slapped Jonah on the back, a great cloud of dust would explode in the air, then inexplicably settle back on his shoulders. “Why are you doing this to me?” he would plead, as the townspeople gathered to slap his back. The youngest was named Bartholomew, who was always wet and sticky for some reason. Bartholomew could be seen, in those days, walking through the streets with lint and spare change sticking to his person. Whenever someone would see him, they’d point and yell, and everyone would stop hitting Jonah on the back and start throwing coins and rocks at Bartholomew, seeing if they’d stick.
    The Scumbags had been known in the Civil War for their utter lack of mercy, the brutal way they went about their duty, their penchant for inflicting pain. Some have since called them the worst medics of the Civil War. The Scumbags themselves were actually told this by a great many of their patients, but they’d just say, “meh,” and dismiss the notion with a wave of the blood-soaked hatchet, and go on hack-hack-hacking away.
    There’s no evidence to suggest that the Scumbags intended to be particularly cruel, but rather, their ineptitude stemmed from the fact that they weren’t actually doctors, but lied so they didn’t have to do any fighting.
    After the war, the Scumbag brothers returned to their hometown of Rake, Georgia to find that all their favorite brothels had been sacked in the conflict, as well as all of their preferred houses, of grog, burlesque and ill-repute--all of them torn asunder. Dismayed, the Scumbag brothers left Rake for good and headed southwest, to Texas. The Scumbags didn’t so much settle on the plot of land that now bears their name, but rather, decided to stop traveling when Bartholomew got stuck to a mesquite tree.
    Some have compared this scene to the Aztecs’ vision of the eagle clinching a serpent in its talons, atop a prickly pear cactus. Others say that the Scumbags were just lazy, but hey, I don’t see them discovering any towns.
    The Scumbags’ dream was to found, not so much a city, but the seedy underbelly of a city. The only problem, of course, was that there were no hookers, a prerequisite of any underbelly, let alone a seedy one. Not the most ambitious trio of Scumbags ever, the brothers just kind of hung out for a couple years, sticking to things, gathering dust and wishing they had some booze and hookers. “Ugh,” Jedediah once wrote in his diary. “I want some hookers! Now!”
    It was in May of 1870 that the brothers shanghaied a wagon train hauling 500 head of prostitutes from Santa Fe to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. The founders put the hookers to work immediately, taxing them as the proprietors of the city. Several of the men in the wagon train remained, as they got stuck to Bartholomew, and the town that would become known as Scumbag was born.
    The brothers served as the town’s proprietors, as well as the town’s only doctors. However, all the money the brothers made from taxes and operating unnecessarily on the townspeople went back into the brothels, so the town remained stagnant, yielding only a few bastard children and several cases of syphilis (which were treated, poorly, sometimes fatally, by the Scumbag brothers).
    The town may never have survived, had Andrew Carnegie not come to what is now Scumbag in 1879. Officially, Carnegie is said to have remarked on the natural beauty of the area, and the clean, disease-free hookers it offered, and immediately signed a check, so as the area might flourish. However, it’s well known that Carnegie actually just got stuck on Bartholomew, and was pick-pocketed by the other Scumbags before he could pry himself loose. “You dastards,” the townspeople heard Carnegie growl, as he used a broomstick to pry himself from the youngest Scumbag’s preternatural stickiness. “Dastards!”
    “We’re not dastards,” Jedediah said, crustily. “We’re Scumbags.”

What My Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech Might Sound Like

    Friends, physics nerds, medicine geeks, chemistry dorks and hangers on, I’d like to begin by saying (sarcastically) “Thanks a lot.” (make jacking-off motion with hand.)
    I make my money by telling stories, stories of ducks, and deli aisles, and guys with funny names like Dick Harden. (Pause for long applause.) Today, I’ll tell a different story, a story about a young man who was regularly referred to  by his college advisor as “a stupid dumbass”; a man whose middle school girlfriend left him for Ron Pilson; a man who spent eight months of his adult life trying to dig to China before city workers came and told me to stop, but not after I broke through every one of their precious pipelines and cable wires.
    Well, I’d just like to say to all of you, to my college advisor, to Ron Pilson, to Julie, my middle school girlfriend and you city workers: suck it. (Raise arms in triumph. Wait for applause to subside.) I always knew that I was better than all of you--and actually, I routinely told you that I was better than you--but today, I have a trophy to prove it. (Hold up trophy. Flex muscles.)
    “Oh,” they said, “You could never win a prize with a book about a girl named Julie and a guy named Ron Pilson being pelted by rocks for 400 pages.” “You can’t win a prize with a book titled, ‘Love In the Time of Rock Peltings,’ with the subtitle of, ‘Suck It Ron and Julie,’ but alas, here I am today, triumphant, pleasant-smelling and smarter than the dickens. (Flex. Grab crotch defiantly.)
    I’d like to say that the other nominees were just as deserving of this prize, but I can’t. Because I haven’t read any of their work and probably never will. I much prefer television and low-rent pornography. Anyway, I guess if they were just as deserving they’d be standing up here. Ha! (Pause for applause, laughter.)
    A lot of you may be wondering what’s next for this old genius. Well, I can tell you right now that it’s not writing another book. That was hard. No, I’ll probably use Mr. Nobel’s money to purchase a fleet of jet skis, a house boat and enough Old Crow to get an army of bull moose schnockered.
    I’ll finish by saying thank you, and you’re welcome, and if any pretty Swedish women want a mustache ride from a brilliant genius, I’m in room 318.
    Laters nerds.
    Crisp out.
    (Throw microphone on ground, walk off with arms raised in triumph.)

Making My Case For People's "Sexiest Man Alive"

Dear People Magazine,

Last week, when Ryan Reynolds was named “Sexiest Man Alive” by your publication, I nodded at the selection and grunted approval. “Gruh,” I said. “Mm.” But in my post-announcement sleuthing, as I moved my eyes across the pack of super-hunky also-rans on my screen, I found a curious omission from the conversation: me. “Am I not as sexy,” I asked my co-workers at the paper burning plant, “As, if not Ryan Reynolds, George Clooney, or Brad Pitt.” Did former winner Mel Gibson’s anti-semitic, and misogynistic rants not open up a space for yours truly?”
    Oh well.
    That night, I found sleep hard to come by. What is sexy?
    Chiseled good looks? A good sense of humor? A big honkin’ wing wang?
    No, my looks aren’t as chiseled as Van Wilder. But many women find me to be sexy all the same... Somewhere between my matted hair and the rogue way I sprinkle idle conversation with curse words, girls find an undeniable charm...a sexiness, perhaps? I was once told I have the beard of a young Stonewall Jackson. The girl snickered then, and I tried my best to gnarl my lip like Mick Jagger, because women find Mick Jagger sexy, or at least did, until he started to resemble an arthritic crypt keeper. Then tobacco juice rolled down my chin.
    Oh well.
    As for a good sense of humor, well, allow me to offer this:
   

    There was a young girl from Devizes

Who had tits of different sizes

One was small

Almost nothing at all

And the other was big, and won prizes.

As well as:

There once was a man from Nantucket

Whose dick was so big he could suck it

He said with a grin

As he wiped off his chin

If my ear was a pussy I’d fuck it

    It seems to me, your gaffe is becoming ever clearer. But to really drive the point home, consider this little ditty about an Indian man and his testicles:

There once was a man from Madras

Whose balls were made of fine brass

In stormy weather, his balls clanged together

And lightning shot out of his ass.

    Haha!
    So if a sense of humor truly is sexy, well... It’s obvious I’ve got that in spades. Speaking of which, I just thought of another funny joke. I won’t tell it here, so as to avoid what my friend Terrell calls a “down-home ass whoopin’” but maybe another time.
    Do I really belong among the hunkiest of the hunky?
    Well, I don’t know about that. Determining levels of sexiness is your business, not mine. All I do know, I guess, is that I have the looks of a young Stonewall Jackson, the sense of humor (and manner of speaking) of Andrew Dice Clay, and what’s been described as an “okay-sized” honkin’ wing wang.
    It’s your move, People Magazine.
    I leave you with this:

There was a young gigolo named Bruno

Who said, "Screwing's one thing I do know.”

While women are fine,

And sheep are divine,

Llamas are numero uno!"

    Llamas! Haha!


Sexily,

Scott

Today's Episode of Maury Povich: The Short Story

    The two women could have been sisters. Corpulent, swaggering women with black wavy hair, each with the gait of a pack animal. All that set them apart, really, was their dress--Latika wore a parachute of a blouse which might have been taken from the hide of a turquoise leopard, if such a beast existed, and a pair of glasses. Catrice wore a subtle sweater of navy blue and a trying pair of bluejeans.
    Maury welcomed them with hugs. He pointed out that, normally, when two women have babies by the same man (allegedly, at this point), they don’t get along all that well. Now, clearing up that word--allegedly. That was the order of the day. As to Maury’s question, the women demurred.
    “It’s not about him, it’s about the kids,” Catrice allowed. Latika agreed. Somewhere a crowd cheered at the goodness of that statement. 
    It was upon the introduction of the “alleged” father Brandon and his girlfriend Pasha, whose name was inexplicably, to this writer, pronounced “Porsche,” that things began to get heated. Brandon walked out, bellowing indecipherable curses at no one in particular, Pasha following close behind, gesturing wildly, like an epileptic flamingo. Somewhere, a crowd booed them wildly.
    The happy, allegedly childless couple sat down--Pasha in the front row of the crowd, Brandon onstage, but not before moving his chair a few feet from its original place, so as to make clear that he wanted no part of the turquoise leopard, or her subtle sidekick. 
    Brandon was a shabby looking guy, his corn rows bursting at points, allowing little geysers of wisps here and there, and a fledgling mustache that stretched the length of his upper lip.
    Maury asked a predictable question. The onslaught began.
    “I’m a million percent positive!” Catrice said improbably. Somewhere, a crowd cheered. Brandon shook his head.
    “These girls are liars,” Brandon said. “I know Catrice was pregnant before I met her. She used to come over to my house and eat up all my food like she was eating for two people. After this test proves that I’m not the father, you need to stop harassing me!”
    There was some yelling. There was a lot of yelling. Somewhere, a crowd bristled and laughed and bristled again.
    “He told me he quit his job so he didn’t have to pay child support,” said the turquoise leopard. Somewhere, a crowd bristled and happily booed the villain. Brandon called Catrice, the one who ate up all his food, a bitch.
    “You left a bitch for a ho,” Catrice said, gesturing toward Pasha, and again for effect, “You left a bitch for a ho!”
    For some reason, the accusation prompted Pasha, pronounced Porsche, remember, to stand up and turn around, show her backside to her verbal accuser. “I’m all woman,” she said, popping her hips from side to side, like a recently struck sway bag. There was some more yelling. The turquoise leopard said she had slept with Brandon in August. That was after he had begun his relationship with Pasha, whose name was pronounced like a German car. Pasha went silent. Somewhere, a crowd oohed and ahhed and cheered happily.
    Finally, Maury said that it was time. A faceless someone handed him an envelope, from which he pulled out a sheet of paper.
    “When it comes to two-year-old Brylen,” Maury said, “you are the father!” And then: “When it comes to two-month-old Braylon--you are the father!”
   
    Brandon crouched with Brylen and Braylon, kissed one of them on the cheek. Convincingly, I guess, because Maury said, “See that? I know you’re going to be a good father.” Hm.
    Somewhere a crowd cooed and cheered with delight at the goodness.

Getting Booed Off-Stage At The Apollo, Revisited

There is a rolling energy that starts in the back, and wells up through the increasingly boisterous crowd. I look to my side, where the other performers are standing the wings shaking their heads and yelling for me to just stop it. The clown is there now with his broom and you’re being swept offstage--literally. You’ve been booed off the stage at the Apollo. Your one-man show, “Scott on Scott: A Night of Comedy, Song and Pizazz,” a labor of love, written over a two-year span--your magnum opus, you’d thought--will be labeled a monumental failure.
    You go home. You look at yourself in the mirror. You drink some. Back to the mirror. Crying. Drinking. Self-abuse, or masturbation. Crying. Sleep.
    Then you wake up the next morning and ask yourself, “Where did it all go wrong?”
    In my case, I’ve narrowed the list to eight possible explanations for my being booed off the stage at the Apollo:

1.) Too much glitter. This one is self-explanatory, but it’s worth noting that even I, in my more anxious moments leading up to the show, thought to myself, “This is a fucking lot of glitter.” Anyway, I opted to go heavy on the glitter--glitter on my face, glitter on my bare inner thighs, a cannon full of glitter that was, itself, covered in glitter and so forth.

2.) The 15 minute long interpretive dance. The dance was based on Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice, only with a lot of pantomimed sex acts and no English people.

3.) The “Feats of Strength” portion of my show, in which I did a disappointing seven push-ups before collapsing to the ground, where I remained panting for around ten minutes. As I told to anyone who would listen that night, the only reason I didn’t do more was because I did a lot the day before, and I assure you that had I been rested, that number would have grown to 11 or 12.

4.) Not enough glitter.

5.) My unicycle act. I should’ve realized that including it was a mistake, as I can’t ride the unicycle. I just kind of assumed I could, and unfortunately, I was wrong.

6.) The saw-the-lady-in-half trick. I’ve seen this trick performed a million times, just the way I did it, only without all the screaming and blood. The only logical conclusion, albeit a dismaying one for me, is that I don’t possess magic powers. I now know that, and though I can’t un-saw Ms. Campbell’s torso, I wish her a speedy recovery.

7.) My burlesque-style strip show to the tune of “The Andy Griffith Show.”

8.) The duet with Michael Richards.

In Defense Of Punching A Twelve-Year-Old In The Face

    There isn’t really any way to sugar coat what I’m about to say, so I won’t bother trying: I punched a twelve-year-old in the face. Now before you go calling me a “Bully,” and a “terrible person” and a “criminal,” like the child’s parents, let me try to explain how I, a fully grown 24-year-old man might punch with a closed fist the face of a child only approaching the precipice of puberty.
    It all started when I was down at the Hidey Hole, a pornography theater and well-known house of ill repute. A man bumped into me at the popcorn and lotion stand, and like I do sometimes, I said, “Watch it, bozo.” The man then responded “I know you are but what am I?” and I thought, “I’ll show him,” and punched his smug, youthful face.
    When the torso of the man flew off from his legs, I thought that I had punched him in half. I was worried, and a little impressed with myself. I thought of my high school teachers, how they told me I’d never accomplish anything. “Shows what you know,” I thought. “I just punched a guy in half!” Then I saw the little fat kid underneath, and I knew I had made a mistake. But I argue that my mistake is an understandable one.
    You see, I am not what the state would define as a smart man, or even a competent man. In my life, I have eaten no less than six pieces of wax fruit. I invested my life savings in a telegraph company--and that was in 2008. I once called 911 because my belt loop got caught on a wayward nail in my house. I spent two weeks in community college, at the behest of a particularly spiteful professor, wearing a shirt that read, in bold letters, “RETARD.”
    So when I see a six-foot-tall man in a trench coat--which, as you probably know is a fairly common sight at a smut-house--I’ll assume that, if he runs afoul of me, I’m allowed to punch him in the face. Because he is a man--and is punching a guy in the face such a crime? Should I make sure, before punching someone, that they aren’t actually two children, one atop the others’ shoulders? Should I just stop punching people in the face?
    I guess my point is this: Aaaaah! Confusing!
    Now you understand how one may be led to punch a twelve-year-old in the face, and though what happened at the smut-house last October was regrettable--as were the four times I’ve punched adolescent children since then--I hope that in time, we can all just laugh about this like I do sometimes.

Why Gisele Bundchen Should Leave Tom Brady For Me

Ms. Bundchen,

Let me just start that I am a big fan of your work. Most days, in between shifts at the rock smashing plant, I spend my time looking through photos of you on the Internet and thinking about how much happier you’d be with me, than your current husband Tom Brady.
    Let me explain.
    It’s true that Tom is at the top of his field, but, I can say with confidence that I am too. Spending all day smashing bigger rocks into smaller rocks, and then those smaller rocks into even smaller rocks and so forth isn’t as glamorous as playing quarterback in the NFL--even if you are, as I am, the best damn rock smasher in Bucktooth County--but it’s given me a grounded personality that I think you would find kind of cute. Plus, as they say in Beirut, “You haven’t made love until you’ve made love to a rock smasher!”
    Also, I don’t mean to get ahead of myself, but I think Mr. I Have Three Super Bowl rings is cheating on you. Now he never responded to those letters I sent him, in which I posed as a 15-year-old girl, but just because he’s not a statutory rapist doesn’t mean he’s being faithful. Plus, he just looks like he’s cheating, you know?
    I would be short-sighted in not addressing the disparity in looks between your current husband and (fingers crossed!) your future husband. So yes, he may be a little better looking than me. He may not have to wear an eyepatch (rock smashing mishap), or have a tattoo on his left pectoral that says “Juicy,” but many women find in me a certain charm. The charm of a pirate maybe--and what’s sexier than sailing the high seas of love with your very own rock-smashing pirate?
    I also know that Tom Brady has a lot more money than I do. He can afford the finer things in life, like deodorant and... pomegranates. But you’re probably pretty rich too, from the modeling. So we’d have that money, plus whatever you could wrangle from Mr. Good Looking Football Star in the divorce--boom! I quit the rock-smashing plant, fulfill my lifelong dream of owning a store that sells hats with quirky, snide remarks on them (one idea: Hey, those are my figs!) and bone Gisele Bundchen--you.
    This is going well already, don’t you think?
    I feel like we’ve known each other forever.
    If I said you had a beautiful body would you let me feel you up? (Haha!)
    But before abandoning your family for a life with me in my apartment, I have a few questions to ask of you:

--Don’t you think Con Air is, like, the best movie ever?
--My apartment is pretty cramped already, so would you mind leaving your son with Tom?
--I can’t really afford a ring, so can we just use the one that Tom gave you?
--Can you bring a model friend for my friend Gary to have?

Thank you in advance, and I know we’ll have years of happiness together.

Love,

“Rock Smashin’” Eddie McRoyal

PS. Tell Mr. Dickface Three-Time Super Bowl Champ that the tuck rule is horse shit. Love and kisses!