Editor's Note: Scott may be gone, but his dream of completing his masterwork, Scott The First "T" is Silent, continues. Brock Armstrong was burning down Scott's old office, when he stumbled across a green trapper keeper full of Scott's writings. They formed a lost chapter to his unfinished book, and also contained an alternate ending to Lord Of The Rings (to be published later). For now, enjoy this delightful lost chapter. Until Scott reappears somewhere on the planet, or is found buried in a field just off I-40 near Burlington, this will be the last we'll read of him.

Men will understand this one. I’m in the men’s bathroom finishing up, and I go to the sink and the soap’s out. It had been a rough day on the high seas, so I really needed some soap to clear my name, if you know what I mean. I look over at the urinal to see a form of soap, at least in my eyes.. the urinal cake. I pluck it out and scrub up. All the way up my arms and everything. I didn’t want for suds or a fresh scent. It supplied both just fine. Once I was done, I tossed the urinal cake back in the urinal and slapped the guy who was standing there on the back. As the guy stared at me, I mused to him, “what’s the urinal soap doing in there anyways.? I mean what is it cleaning? Your urine! Did that splash up on you. I'm sorry.”

Leave it to my dad to find the most ridiculous ways to save money, especially on Vacations! He found ways to get us out of the house without spending much. Like the time my little sister wanted to swim with the dolphins. She put dolphin stickers everywhere, even on my dad’s hair coloring kit. So finally he priced a “swimming with the dolphins” trip. Not happening. But she was daddy’s little girl, so he looked for something to replace it. What he came up with is something they do in Jaimaica called “Swimming with the Elderly.” My sister tried to act happy when Dad showed us the brochure. We flew to Jamaica and it was right into the pool. My sister cried a bit when they opened the gates and let the Elderly in the pool. It was creepy, cause they wouldn’t let them talk to you and their eyes were just sunken and hollow. But to my dad’s credit, they were very gentle and the wrinkles on their necks kinda resembled gills on some of them. They would swim right up to you and except for the constant coughing, it really wasn’t all that bad. You could buy creamed corn to feed them, but they get kinda chippy later in the day and will bite your hand.

Why do eggs come in cartons of a dozen… but egg buns come in bags of eight? Somebody please explain this to me.

Had a scare the other week. Our IT department was looking into everyone’s personal computer files to make sure no one had been abusing their computers. Bad news for me, since I run cutepuppy.com from my desktop at work. Luckily, I had a contingency plan in place. Immediately, I printed out all my illegal documents and shredded them in the office paper shredder. Talk about abusing the company property. I have a few more documents to print out and shred, but other than that, I’m now clean. They can’t prove a thing.

Are there women who have a fetish for guys with thin wrists. I have a friend who would be glad to know of any.

Last night the news anchor reported on a Transformer fire that cut power to part of the city. They didn’t say which transformer it was. I hope it wasn’t Optimus Prime. He is a great leader.

The Little Engine That Could tested positive for steroids last week. This is going to be a long conversation with my kids. They refuse to idolize me, so I guess it's back to idolizing Barry Bonds. (for more on baseball and steroids, see below)

I learned SOS in morse code.."Save our Ship".. but can’t remember it exactly. I don’t know if it’s one –short- one –long- and one –short- or long-short-long. One is SOS.. but I guess the other is O-S-O. I don’t know what that stands for in Coast Guard lingo. Maybe “only soulful originals.” Rescue crews might take that as a radio promo instead of a cry for help. Could it mean “On Sweet Oasis?” That’s even worse, why would the Coast Guard rescue you from an oasis? They’d just turn around and go back to their buoy and watch movies.

Ever had someone mistake you for someone else. "Hey there, it's been a long time. How are you? You're Keith right?"
"No, no I'm Scott."
"Oh, I'm sorry. My bad"
"No problem."
So you let it go. And it's fine. But then you start thinking. If I find this 'Keith' guy, I'll know how people perceive me. If I get mistaken for Keith, then he must be very much like me. So against my better judgement I seek this mysterious 'Keith' out. Got a tip he works at the Gap in the mall. Finally, I'm watching him from behind a rack of corduroy sports jackets. He's slender, narrow hips, thin arms. Wears pretty-boy glasses. Dresses in a metro-sexual style. Puts his hands on his hips a lot. Laughed at his own jokes. Keith is a real dandy boy. And that's when I breathe a sigh of relief. The whole 'getting a look at what people think of me' turned out not to work at all. This guy was someone else entirely. I was so relieved I treated myself to a pair of flat-front chocolate chinos.

The Tyrannosaur Rex stood as one of the most fearsome creatures ever to walk the earth. Yet, they had those little bird like arms. What were they for? They couldn't even reach their own mouths with those things, so they can't be for eating. Not much good for wrestling either. By today's standards they'd look ridiculous trying to do one of those interpretive sign-language dances (the kind with the white gloves). My theory is we've mis-judged this saur. I think the T.Rex was a gentle and mannered creature, and he used his little hands to shake other hands. That's right, they were obsessed with the nicities. Everytime they met another creature in the woods, it was customary to shake and smile. And that's where the T.Rex got his bad reputation. It's a lot like dogs with dry teeth. He'd have to lean in with his short arms to shake a hand, but by that point his rows of smiling teeth would be near his friends neck. So often the teeth would accidently get caught on the other animals flesh. Creating all sorts of misunderstandings and carnage. Plus, if you had to eat without your hands, you'd look pretty savage too. I got kicked out of an Olive Garden trying this. I'd already paid for the bottomless salad too. It had a bottom alright.

Want to get some privacy in a hurry? If you're around people you don't particularly like, and you don't want their friendship, try this. Keep your hand dripping wet and when you greet them... "Hi, I'm Scott.." Shake their hand,and then say "I'm sorry, I have no idea why my hand is wet." Don't smile, just keep staring them in the eye. They'll think you're bizarre and won't bother you again. This works at parties, at work, or to encourage a divorce.

I keep getting called out by my fans to take a stance on this whole steroids in baseball issue. So this is for you. It's there, we know about it and don't worry about the future. Folks years from now, will understand it was a different time, just like we do. We try to compare eras in sports, but deep down we know that each era had different standards and different conditions. Like asking whether Walter Payton is better than Jim Brown. Who knows.. they come from very different environments and periods of history. Who was the better president Ronald Reagan or George Washington? Who knows. When future generations look back at this era and compare players now to other eras, they'll know it's not a fair comparison. It never is between any eras. Just like we know it's not a fair comparison when we look back at Jordan vs. Wilt. *******************
Do steroids change the game? Hey yeah. I'll use an example from my past. Most people know that I grew up working in a Chicken Processing Plant. It was hard, honest work, but we had our fun. And believe it or not, we actually kept score. How you ask? One of the most storied jobs in the plant was chicken clubbing, where you kill the chickens by beating their heads with a club. So to spice up our jobs up a little, we started keeping track of how many whacks it took to kill the chickens. Soon our most sacred record was the "most whacks before death" number. A hen named "Penelope Putz" set a record most thought would never be broken, 13 whacks before giving up her life. She seemed to get more excited with each brutal blow. I was there the day the benchmark was set. "13" *Well, five years later the amazing record still stood, and penelope was still a legend. 13 was an unsurmountable number. But that was the summer chickens starting using steroids. Hens with small breasts started showing up with gigantic breasts. Roosters strutted in with those red-glove things on their heads, enlarged like never before. And yes, less talented chickens started getting closer and closer to the 13 whacks mark. 9 one day, 11 a week later. It was all phony, but no one stepped in. Then this self-absorbed hen named "Joy Cluck Club" walks in with the largest drumsticks I'd ever laid eyes on. She takes 11 whacks without even bleeding from her beak, and then it's 13, and it finally ended at 17 whacks. Few had even stuck around to see the record fall, because it was so hollow now. I forget what the original topic of this essay was, but the point is, if you're ever in Greenville the plant is a great place to get chicken tenders.

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