Chapter 1: Scotty Fillets ~ Roasted Scotty with special (very special) guests, Boothead & Boxhead
Eleem: Abigail, babe, every time Scotty approaches me, my soul shoplifts a backpack and sprints for an exit. He’s got that aura of like he reads social queue’s with the skill of dying houseplants. Like he’s the supreme allied commander of an imaginary army of disoriented gnats on speed and he smells like mildewed wallpaper and disappointment. I bet he ate paint chips off the walls of his mobile home as a child. And I bet his mobile home was up on blocks because his mommy hocked their trailer tires at a pawn shop for beer money. It’s like he’s planted his flag and declared our church to be a goosepeople universe. Scotty’s such a douche-hole, He’s like, “You gonna take some CLEPs?” and I’m like, “Did you take a break from being obsessed with my future?” Touch grass, sir, sorry, I meant Toilet Face.
Abigail: The freak-tard keeps saying I’m “wasting my potential.” I’m like, “Look bum-waffle, my potential packed its bags and left years ago. It’s living in a cabin in Montana under a fake identity, and it has more friends than you. My potential sends me postcards sometimes. “Wish you were here, but also… not really.” Meanwhile Scotty so Snotty’s out here acting like he’s the FBI’s Most Wanted for Academic Intervention. Bro-girl thinks he’s the Dean of Teenage Souls and eats swamp biscuits or something.
Eleem: I’m like, Mayor-McFuture-Fart, keeps checking in like we’re gonna suddenly become motivated. And I’m all like, Scotty, you silly little Butt Dumpling, if motivation was a person, I’d file a restraining order. Mr. Fruity-licious sounds like he’s narrating a self-help audiobook nobody asked for. “Ladies, today is a great day to chase your dreams.” Sir Trash Panda, the only thing I’m chasing is the DoorDash driver because the freak forgot ketchup for my fries. Again.
Abigail: No because SAME. Mr. Butt-Muppet’s all like, “You could finish a bachelor’s by 19 and not pay real money,” and I’m like, “Look, Sock vomit, I could finish 12 family sized bags of Hot Cheetos in one sitting, but here we are, Mr. twiddly-twat.” You’re so right, Mr. Sewer Pixie tells it like he’s narrating a B-movie documentary about wasted potential. “Here we see the modern teenager in her natural habitat: avoiding success like she owes it money.” I’m all like, “Look, Phlegm weasel, the only thing I’m finishing early is my lifespan because of stress from having to listen to your mental landfill of so-so ideas.”
Eleem: Literally. Scotty, you giant flying hairdresser, we didn’t take CLEPs. We didn’t even take a shower. We roll on iced coffee, spite, and delusion, and well maybe the faint hope that the universe will take pity on us. Spoiler: it won’t, you bone-smuggling garden gnome. He’s like a persistently irritating walking pop-up ad that’s somehow immune to being closed with that motivational podcast voice, like he’s the CEO of Personal Growth for people with no arms or legs in an all black universe. I think his love language is bullying.
Abigail: For real, I’m all like, “Scotty, sewer rat much?” You slithering dork-wagon, because that’s so attractive. He sent me a whole degree plan spreadsheet. The second I opened it I felt my soul leave my body like it was fleeing the scene of a car crash because I don’t have insurance - I don’t have a license either - and Oh crap, I forgot to learn how to drive, and then my soul started dying of boredom like it’s been banished to the shadow realm. Makes you sort of wonder if Scott-hole has the same effect on other life forms. Turd Burglar. The spreadsheet had tabs. TABS, Eleem. Color-coded like he’s planning a military mental meltdown operation. I clicked one and immediately felt myself prematurely aging, like I’m a 30-something now. Whenever I see him I swear I can hear the Windows XP shutdown sound somewhere off in the distance. Mr. Swamp Ferret’s the human version of a pop quiz - unwanted, stressful, and there’s never a good time for him. I dream of the snot gobbler getting vaporized like that cat one day.
Eleem: I swear Scotty was the beta version of humanity. Like God was testing out the first draft and forgot to update him. And honestly, Abigail, sometimes I look at Scotty and I’m like… “How did this man survive the dinosaur age?” Like, did he just politely ask the T Rex to stop. Like “Hey T-Bone, respectfully request you refrain from eating me - I taste skunk butt Bro, so like, as if.” It’s like he still runs on Windows 95 brainware with a cracked motherboard and a soul held together by duct tape and expired coupons. His hair isn’t even cut, it’s carved, babe. Like he trims it with a broken spork he found in a dumpster behind a dying shopping mall. Every individual hair is standing there like, “I’ll die on this hill,” and they’re all making their last stand like the Battle of Hair mageddon.
Abigail: STOP. Because he really does look like he’s fading in and out of existence, like the dizzy light of the morning when you’re hungover on life. Like he’s only 73% rendered at any given moment and his mind is stuck buffering at twenty percent. He’s a walking glitch in the Matrix. I wonder when he’ll start keeping his teeth in a cup at night? He’s the only guy I know who could get injured by thinking too hard - like if he tries to remember his password we’ll have to call 911 or a funeral home. His aura is so dusty I swear I get allergies when he walks by. He’s like a human air filter that hasn’t been changed since the revolutionary war.
Eleem: No literally - I swear he totally did too much of everything in the 70s. Like his brain is now the size of a postage stamp, and the stamp is soiled in fake cat blood and expired sometime before the year 2000. It’s like Sasquatch ate his thoughts. And dude’s so old he farts dust - actually, his bum spouts dust clouds from the remains of our ancestors - an anatomical crop duster from hell.
Abigail: I saw his phone once. 1,462 unread messages. All from his wife. All saying: “Yobo, where the F@#% are you.” Like she’s tracking a missing earring. He’s like a fossil that learned to walk upright. I bet archaeologists keep trying to carbon date him. He probably has a QR code on his back that links to a museum exhibit.
Eleem: His driver’s license says: “Hair Color: Bald Eye Color: Fading Brainwaves: Incompatible with human experience.” Occupation: Professional Disappointment Emergency Contact: Regret.
Abigail: He’s like if a midlife crisis put on cargo shorts and tried to give a TED Talk. “Ladies, education matters.” Okay, Grandpa Ronco 5000 Knees, then why does your aura smell like stale soup. Your vibe won’t be back in earth’s gravitational pull for another 17 trillion years, but you hang in there mister.
Eleem: He walks like every joint in his body is negotiating a peace treaty. He breathes like a haunted accordion. He laughs like a dying lawnmower. He’s fun like tax forms. He has God’s anointing though, he’s been chosen for early bird specials and orthopedic shoes.
Abigail: And yet he STILL has the audacity to ask, “Did you take your CLEPs today?” Sir, have you taken a vitamin since the Civil War? I heard he was there the day God made dirt - and that was before Adam. Later when he’s in the hospital eating out of a tube we can send vibes of regret through it and maybe put bugs in it. Centipedes? You know those guys that have haircuts that don’t go from front to back and that look like they were born sideways? I think Scotty’s inner voice has that haircut.
Chapter 2: Almost a bio ~ Not a poem
almost a bio by scotty:
To put this in context - I was a 3‑sport, 7‑varsity‑letter jock with the academic discipline of a mildly distracted, hyper‑sensitive, jittery herd of feral golden retriever puppies tweaked out on a Popsicle‑and‑Pixy‑Stix bender. Void of actual, developed coping skills and aggressively book and homework‑averse, I coasted through four years of public high school without ever taking a book home. I “outsourced” homework (don’t ask), enjoyed a decidedly festive atmosphere, and treated after‑school hours as a series of real‑world clandestine operations - think “3:30-6:00 football practice → 7:00-11:37 kissing practice” — with my girlfriend and… never mind, all while maintaining a gently thuggish, aspiring part‑time heartbreaker demeanor. If I can pull off 30 hours of free college credit and bypass my entire freshman year of college just by applying what I already knew, imagine what a semi‑intelligent young person could do?
not a poem by scotty:
Born girl crazy, I fell hard and fast for pretty much every type of girl on earth. Tall ones, short ones, ones who could bench press me, and the kind that might slip under the table without their booster seat. I was an equal opportunity disaster — catching feelings for smiles, laughs, attitudes, and those feigned confidence, stolen hair moves that should’ve had a warning label. I remember one girl — she was so pretty God used the light of the sun’s reflection off the moon to make the stars shine off her smile. Forgot her name. It’s okay… she gives good memory.