Posts tagged: scott stapp

King of Creed


Scott Stapp sat in the back of Creed’s tour bus, bouncing up and down with the bumps on the road. He was writing a heartfelt song about his love for his son while getting serviced by one of his numerous groupies. Suddenly, he had a mental block, and stared off into the distance. He tapped his pen to his notepad, steeped in deep concentration.

“Roxetta, what’s a good word that rhymes with son?” He asked the groupie at his feet.

Roxetta wiped off her mouth, and, after a few seconds of thought, said, “How about HoneyBun?”

Scott Stapp processed this for a bit, then finally shouted, “Perfect!” Roxetta beamed with pride, a wide grin plastered across her face as she looked at her hero.

Scott sternly made a motion to get back to oral sex. Scott focused his attention back on his notepad, and what would surely be a #1 record.

Before he wrote a single letter, however, both Scott and the groupie were slammed against the side of the bus, and the lights went out. The tour bus had gone off the road, and was rolling down a large hill.

Around and around they went, the floor becoming the ceiling over and over in rapid succession, all the while in complete darkness. “This must be what it was like for Mark McGrath in Sugar Ray’s I Just Wanna Fly music video,” Scott thought to himself, “God that guy got a lot of tail.” That thought turned out to be his final. The tour bus was finally stopped by a tree, which snapped the bus in half, killing everyone inside. The entire band, their managers, their groupies, the Clear Channel representatives, all dead. Rock and Roll would never be the same.


“God… God? We need an answer, God.” Scott Stapp heard faintly.

He opened his eyes, and was hit with blinding light. Everything around him was white. Finally, his eyes adjusted. The ground looked like it was made up of clouds. Pretty weird. He looked at his hands. They were covered in gold rings with giant rubies. And his hands were emanating light. Also Weird. Then, he felt his head. It felt weighed down by a heavy hat. He took off this hat, and found that it was a giant crown, also gold and covered in rubies.

Scott was sitting in a giant throne, more elaborate and expensive looking than even the one he had in his own house. In front of him were two angels, wearing white robes with giant white wings coming out of their backs. They were looking at Scott quizzically. Then, it came to him. He must be God or something.

“Whoa, this is just like Bruce Almighty…” Scott muttered.

“What?” one of the angels said.

“Oh, uh, nothing.”

“God, we need an answer,” the angel said, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Um, what was the question again?” Scott asked, rubbing his eyes.

“Ugh, God, alright, but this is the last time I’m explaining it,” one of the angels said, rolling his eyes. “On planet X-Z8 in galaxy Xubpuron, the Romulons are fighting the Potrorons. Which species will bring order to the Cosmic Ordinance of Plathfurox?”

“Um, the first one?” Scott said, confused.

“The Romulons? Are you sure, God? The consequences are dire; if the Ordinance of Plathfurox does not regain order, the entire galaxy of Xubpuron will collapse, killing billions upon billions of hyper-intelligent beings!”

“Yes.” Scott answered.

“Very well.” The angels said. They turned around and floated off into the distance, eventually disappearing with a twinkle of light.

“God, that was fuckin’ weird.” Scott said. His entire body ached, he felt exhuasted. “Man, I could really use a Coors Light,” he said to himself. Before he finished the sentence, however, there was a Coors Light in his hand.

“Awesome!” Scott said, cracking it open and taking a large swig. Then it finally occured to him: He was God.


Scott breathed heavily, his heart beat quickly with anticipation. He held a surfboard with his right arm, and was completely nude except for the giant gold crown on his head. On a white platform, floating 30 feet above a violent ocean of pizza slices, he waited nervously for a big enough wave.

After letting three or four decent sized waves go past, he spotted an enormous wave forming in the distance. The pizza slices were caving in on eachother, splattering cheese and marinara all over the place, and he could tell this would be the biggest yet. The wave looked like it was going slow, but that was only because of the enormity of it.

Scott waited in breathless premonition, and then finally the wave was directly before him. With a burst of testosterone, Scott lept from the platform, and put the surfboard below his feet.

He landed smoothly onto the wave of pizza. He faltered a bit, but then regained balance. He felt his long hair blowing in the wind. He rode along the front of the wave, and watched the wave of pizza tower over him. He was going incredibly fast. He was riding the wave.

Scott dared to do a few tricks, brushing his hand against the wave, hanging ten and spinning in a 360. It was the most fun he had ever had. He slowed a bit, and got right to where the wave was breaking. The wave made a tunnel, and he rode inside the tunnel and listened to himself scream “RIIIIGHTEEEOOOUS!” in that echoey tube.

Just when the wave was at its apex, Scott threw caution to the wind and jumped off the surfboard with a burst of joy. He was immediately swept up by the wave, and submerged. Scott opened his mouth. It was the most delicious pizza he had ever had.


Scott’s days were spent trying to act out the flights of fancy that were impossible while he was alive on planet earth, either because of laws of gravity or laws of human decency. He orchestrated eight-way train-crashes, did a half-court slam dunk at an all-caucasian olympics, and had a three-way with Carmen Electra and Eleanor Roosevelt, both at age 12. Nothing was off the table for Scott, and the only limits were his own creativity.

Every couple of hours, his omnipotent stunts were interrupted by one or both of the angels, who he begrudgingly learned to be named Paul and Sebastian. They usually presented a problem going on in some distant galaxy, with stars being born, alien species with hard-to-pronounce names, or anti-matter. The questions were bizarre, complicated and winding, and Scott grew tired of them usually in the first sentence. He answered them as quickly as possible, usually by saying “Yeah, do that,” or “Wipe out the blue ones.” Whatever got those two angel dudes to shut the fuck up.

Once in a blue moon, he was presented with an issue on planet Earth. Scott took relish in banning icky gay marriage in a few states, making smoking legal in bars, and filling in almost every swamp in Florida with concrete. God, swamps are so gross.


In a seldom-visited corner of Heaven, Seabastian and Paul met. They spoke in hushed tones, and stared at the ground as if they weren’t discussing anything of import.

“Something is up. I think it’s happened again,” Sebastian said, “it’s been thousands of years since a mixup like this.”

“Yeah, I think it’s pretty obvious,” said Paul, “I walked in on him the other day and he was dissecting a 5-year-old boy. It was pretty unsettling.”

“Should we do what we did last time?”

“I don’t think we have any other choice.” Sebastian and Paul nodded to each other, then non-challantly strolled away separately.


“What do you two faggots want?” Scott shouted at the Paul and Sebastian, “I’m trying to do some blow here.”

“We have a very special mission for you, God,” Sebastian said. “We need you to go back to earth.”

Scott snorted a line of cocaine, then wiped a tear that had formed in his eye. “What, you mean like Jesus?”

“Exactly like Jesus,” Paul said, smiling.

Scott thought about it for a few seconds, remembering fondly how much money Jesus had made him in the music world. “Yeah, fine.”

“Alright, God,” Sebastian said. He then waved his hand, and a golden door formed from thin air. “Just go through this door.”

“Hold on,” Scott said, then did four lines of coke consecutively. He got up from his hands and knees, stumbled, and after regaining balance, walked to the door. He rubbed his hands together vigorously, he was ready for any fucking thing, goddammit. When he opened the door, it revealed an empty, pitch-black void. He turned around and looked at the angels hesitantly.

“Don’t worry, it’s just a portal,” said Paul.

Scott walked through the doorway, and was engulfed in darkness. He could neither see nor hear anything. He shut his eyes tightly.


When he opened his eyes, he felt completely different. He was sitting on a giant leaf or something in the middle of a very dirty pond. He was very low to the ground.

He couldn’t see his body, it was as if his eyes were on the very top of his head. He lifted his arm, and what he saw was a huge, green, warty hand. He had come back as a toad.

Still rolling off his cocaine high, he decided to go with it. He looked around, and saw a few flies, buzzing around his head. He snapped his tongue out, and it shot out like a bullet, and reeled the fly into his mouth. It was unbelievably delicious.

Scott continued catching flies, each one more delicious than the one before it. He was having a merry old time as a toad. Just as he felt his appetite was squelched, however, He heard the noise of a giant truck, and then his entire body and all of his surroundings were covered in wet concrete. He watched the entire swamp become gray, and his entire body was covered in no time. He soon lost the ability to breath. As the concrete hardened and Scott took his last few breaths, he knew he was truly dying for our sins.

Copyright Tom Van Deusen 2014.