Who is Scott Savino?

Who you ask? The Question is “WHAT?” WHAT IS SCOTT SAVINO? Scott Savino is the resounding opus of a generation. Scott Savino is the 42rd symphony that Mozart wrote on speculation before he was killed by a vampire bat with a shotgun and a political agenda.. Scott Savino is not a person. He is a concept. He exists in everything, everywhere all at once. He lurks patiently in the cracks between your thoughts waiting for your refrigerator’s warranty to expire. In the time it takes for a dropped slice of toast tied to an anvil to hit the floor., he exists in absentia as the chair that you’re still sitting on.

Do you like sitting on Scott Savino? Do you think that is very POLITE?

Some say he was born from the swirls of bubbling foam and the residue of sheen left behind by leaky oil pans at the base of a malfunctioning carwash in the New Arkansas settlement on the planet Neivena. Others say he simply appeared one day as the worm squirming within your apple, and when the bite of your foul teeth shorn his head clean off, he began to grow and never stop. Some say that he is taller than the Appalachian mountains and that his contemplative thoughts are as deep and endless as the Mariana Trench. What sorts of things does he think about? If you could only know the perils that lurk in the corners of his imagination, you would find yourself desperately, madly, and unquestionably in romantic love with your own sister. If you have no sister, then your brother. If you are an only child, then your unquestionable love shall be given to a Home Depot bucket of porcupine intestines filled with duck semen—those intestines, dried to jerky in your grandfather’s smoke shack will then be painted with two and a half cans of Rust-Oleum spray paint in the hue and texture of hammered copper.

He writes stories, but only the kind that can only be read on your cellphone whilst underwater during lunar eclipses. He doesn’t “create”—he redistributes reality into shapes that make everyone uncomfortable but they can’t quite explain why.

What Does Scott Do?

He does important things. He once folded a blanket so perfectly that the covetous linen closet devised a pocket dimension and made it disappear so only the darkness could enjoy its crisp splendor. He taught a chihuahua to use a graphing calculator and then continued to tutor that small canine until it scored a miraculous 1570 on the SAT. He once taught a xenophobic zebra to sing the national anthem in three-part harmony. He has been banned in the tri-county area as well as two adjoining states from using zippers in public because of “The Incident,” which no one will ever explain to him, and that’s fine, because he already knows.

Mostly, he collects things: the scent of forgotten promises, the texture of a Thursday afternoon, a wheelbarrow full of used toothpicks that an oil prospector assured him were the essential key to success at Scrabble. His biggest achievement? He once licked the soles of the youngest Jonas brother’s house slippers while standing at the foot of his bed as Nick slept.

Rumors You Should Ignore

There’s been a lot of talk lately, and I just want to clear the air:

He did NOT install Wi-Fi into a block of cheese. That would be ridiculous. It was a wheel of cheese.
The neighborhood meeting about “that strange, foul smell” was NOT a discussion about him or his fondness for three-bean chili, despite the suspicious timing.
The shadow puppets on his bedroom wall are not alive and have never whispered his name in unison.
It is rumored that he knows what’s in the box under your bed. He might. Would he tell you if he did? Absolutely not.

Contact Scott

Do you need him? He’s already beside you. He’s the whisper in the wind that has spoken your name these past three nights at the stroke of 11:24pm.

If you need to reach him through unconventional means, attempt the following:

Tie one end of a shoelace around a sea urchin and the other end around the pinky finger of your left hand. Place the sea urchin inside of the left front pocket of your sport coat and lick your lips seductively. He will appear beneath your bathroom sink shortly.
Approach a mirror and lick the cheek of your reflection 3 and ¾ times—but not a single time more, lest you offend him. Open your kitchen window and await the arrival of the flock of pigeons cresting the horizon. He rides on the largest, mounted upon its sturdy back.
You may also attempt emailing him at bizarroscott@scottsavino.com but do not believe any reply received until you can determine a means to verify that the man who wrote it has a prominent, villainous mustache.