from your first cigarette to your last dying dayDo not step to Scotty McClellan. He will straight cut you. He will pop a motherfuckin' cap in your ass, and then he will piss on whatever's left. Scotty M is an OG from way the fuck back when you were suckin' on momma's titty like the punk you are. He is a stone-cold gunslinger, like you do not want to know firsthand.
At a press conference following the release of Osama bin Laden's latest "fuck you I'm still here" tape, the White House spokesman was asked if the government was considering the bearded one's offer of a negotiated truce. And guess what? Scotty M so motherfuckin' hard the motherfucker just came straight back with it! He served the shit cold: ""We do not negotiate with terrorists," he said. "We put them out of business."
Oooh, snap! Suck on that shit, Osama bin Fuckety-fuck!
I missed the video, but I like to think McClellan gave a little growl when he Came With The News, like, "We put them out of groooowwwwlll," way down low in the throat like gravel, like Elvis Aron Motherfuckin' Presley or that guy with the battery on his shoulder. Like maybe Osama could one day wake up, and stick his head out of the cave, and Scott McClellan would be standing there waiting for him, hands on his shootin' irons. Like, "The name is McClellan. I'm here to put you out of business." (Spits on ground; cold squint.) And as Osama died, Scotty would put a harmonica in Osama's mouth, and Osama's eyes would get wide, like, I KNOW YOU, and then bam, dead.
And so then anyway, what happened is, Scott McClellan said, "We put them out of businessgrowl," and then he snapped up the collar on his black leather jacket, and hopped up on his Harley, and rode the fuck away, with Natalie Wood riding sidesaddle on the back, all gazing at his greased-down hair and thinking who is the man, this beautiful dangerous man?
And than all the sniveling reporters were all, like, "But Scott? Scott? Didn't Osama bin Laden declare war on the United States a full ten years ago, way back in 1996? And didn't his followers attack American targets in 1998, 2000, and 2001, and he's still at large, and we haven't found him or shut him down, and both the administration you serve and the administration before that each had five years to kill him, and he's still out there untouched and sending messages telling the last putative superpower to fuck itself, and we can't find him?"
But Scotty M wouldn't even hear that shit. 'Cause he'd be riding, out into the darkness, feeling the heat of the engine between his legs and the warmth of Natalie Wood at his back and the cold cold steel of the knife at his hip, thinking Who dies tonight? And he loves Natalie Wood, sure, but it's a kind of love that makes him hurt so much, so goddamn much, and some poor luckless bastard is gonna pay for Scotty's pain, in the hours before dawn, holding his hot oozing guts in his hands and wondering who in the hell that dark-eyed stranger could have been who just robbed him of his life.
Know this, Osama: No more than another decade or two for you. We will find your ass, and we will shut you the fuck down. By 2035, very latest. And we -- we...Scott? Scott?
Don't go, Scott!