SCOTT PETERSON'S FAKE BIOS
Scott Peterson came to writing at an early age, publishing his first story while he was still in the womb. A prolific author, Scott had written over 53 novels and countless political essays before he was out of diapers. Now an established presence in the international writing scene at the ripe old age of five, Scott has stated that a midlife career change may be in the near future.
Scott Peterson is perhaps best known as the “father of modern nonsense” after a particularly scathing review in the New York Chamber of Commerce Newsletter’s classifieds section. Rather than run from the label, Peterson embraced it and has since generated tome after tome of worthless blather.
Scott Peterson grew up on a chicken ranch in Northern Kentucky during the Great Depression and those lean years became a great influence on his writing. His characterizations of the people and their relationships during that troubled time have come to symbolize a triumph over adversity that many say is pure bull.
Scott Peterson is an author whose adventurous life and unapologetic love of the ladies have rivaled those of the characters he writes about. He grabs life by the balls and squeezes out every drop of semen. His legendary duels and brushes with the law have sometimes threatened to overshadow his literary achievements, but Peterson wouldn’t have it any other way. “Carpe diem and then carpe thy neighbor’s wife!” is a joking slogan that this writer swears is his personal mantra.
Scott Peterson didn’t become an author until the fateful day when he learned his life was almost over. His doctor calmly informed him that he had a raging, full body, incurable case of chlamydia and gave him roughly six months to live. Despite the fact that this “doctor” was a guy selling organic vegetables out of his trunk, Peterson took the diagnosis to heart and began to write. His hope was that, through his literature, he could live on in some small way. It didn’t really work because, honestly, he’s still dead, right? These are just words on paper. He’s six feet under. Immortality is a lie.
Scott Peterson is one of the most reviled men on the planet, a sanctimonious ass who acts as if the world owes him something. He treats people as stepping-stones, when he deigns to acknowledge them at all, and his temper is legendary. Unfortunately, his literary work is so stellar and emotionally nuanced that, much like Woody Allen or Bill Cosby, his artistry cannot be diminished by his abhorrent personal proclivities.
Scott Peterson is the literary world’s personification of the phrase “lightning never strikes twice.” His first attempt at fiction was heralded as a revelation, “a shining example of the potential of America’s new breed of writers.” Fans across the nation, and across the world, eagerly awaited his next masterpiece, but it never came. He was a one-trick pony, or what those in the music world would call a “one hit wonder.” Or what those in the sanitation community would call "an old trash can full of rotting vegetables."
Scott Peterson is a convicted murderer on death row. The former fertilizer salesman was found guilty of killing his wife Laci and their unborn child. Clearly, that wasn’t the best turn of events for him, but it was a blessing to the world of creative writing. While incarcerated, Scott turned his homicidal mind toward the slightly less destructive act of coming up with short stories.
Acclaimed author Scott Peterson hails from Bridgeport, Minnesota and if you’ve ever seen hail in Minnesota, you know it comes down at you like icy golf balls, and so does he. It’s actually quite dangerous if you’re out in the open and unprotected… from the hailstones or Mr. Peterson. In fact, if you have a choice between Peterson and hailstones, I’d say go to hail.
Born in 1967 in Mexico City, Scott Peterson is the leading mixed media artist of the generation that emerged in the wake of the influence of Gabriel Orozco and Francis Alÿs. His early work is acclaimed for his acute attention to form as he refined his own visual and conceptual vocabulary through his focus on the points of intersection between architecture, sculpture, and spatial analysis.
Scott Peterson is perhaps best known for his internationally best selling bumper stickers and greeting cards. “Honk if you love honking” and “Wazza-wah!” were two of his most popular catch phrases that adorned the back ends of millions of cars -- and people -- in the 80’s. His line of pet death consolation cards took the populace by storm in the 90’s as people began sending his cards when no one had died.
Scott Peterson was at a strange place in his life when he began writing. His wife had just left him for another species. His house had been tented for fumigation with him inside. He’d been seriously beaten about the head and neck by a roving band of Rastafarians. His pet frog committed suicide… with a chainsaw. It had been a bad week.
Scott Peterson (1582-1921), the Anglo-English mystic, moral philosopher, and romantic poet, is widely considered the seminal writer of the English language. A prominent satirist, essayist, and realist author, he created profoundly rich characters of moral ambiguity that garnered him the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1902.
Scott Peterson, author, raconteur, and bon vivant, is a lover of life first and foremost. He enjoys horse-riding, walks on the beach, and a curling up with a good book by the fire. His turn offs are heavy cream, barbed wire, and “mean people.”
Scott “Jazz Hands” Peterson knows how to put the lime in the coconut and mix it all up, but was never able to make a living at it, so he turned to the surefire, easy peasy world of typing words on paper. Almost instantaneously, muscular men in hard hats began backing up truckloads of money to his door. After that, Scott never looked back… and consequently was crushed beneath one of the cash-filled trucks.
Scott Peterson rarely bathes. Time that others spend on hygiene and maintaining a professional appearance is time that could be better spent working on his craft. If that adage is true, then Peterson is the foulest-smelling auteur of this or any other generation.
Scott Peterson isn’t worth the ink on this page. He’d sooner kill his own mother than take a dump on the subway. He’s a lying, toothless, backstabbing louse – although I guess including the toothless part wasn’t fair. There’s no reason to pick on a man for a hereditary gum disease issue that he had no control over. I hereby order the word “toothless” be stricken from the record. You will disregard any mention of his having or not having teeth and forget that you heard anything one way or the other.
Scott Peterson? Why, Scott Peterson hain’t been seen in these here parts for nary twenty years I reckon. Not since the twister of ’94, a devil of a cyclone that done did tore these parts to pieces and nearly destroyed us all to boot. Scott, well, he was tryin’ to save a lost hound dog from them there whirlwinds and didn’t make it back to the storm cellar in time. Mister, Scott Peterson is dead. So the Scott Peterson you done ran into musta been... his ghost!
Look up the word “procrastinator” in the dictionary and you’ll find a picture of Scott Peterson. And the picture will only be half-finished. Slow and unsteady loses the race when it comes to this shiftless layabout. Peterson is, and always was, a put-it-off-til-tomorrow-if-you-can-do-it-today type and had a penchant for laziness. (I had a penchant once, right above my left knee, but I went to the doctor and it cleared right up.)
Scott Peterson. Defender. Protector. Hero. These words are too small for a man such as this. For how can mere words describe a man who singlehandedly saved us all from the greatest threat our nation has ever faced? The newspapers warned us of the dangers overseas while literature said we should look to the skies for our biggest threat. But when the apocalypse hit our lands, it came from within us. It came out of our noses. And only Scott had the gravitas, the bravery, and the generic brand tissues we needed to stop the enemy in its mucousy tracks.
Scott Peterson’s ten best selling novels – Big Shrimp Stink Hole, Bad Temper/Bad Tipper, the Dictionary, Mama’s Butt Cheeks, Moist, Lola, Lola Returns, Lola’s Back Again, and Damn Lola Get Out of Here Already – have sold more than 20 million copies around the world. He is financially and emotionally stable with a house, a car, and a well-trained beagle. What? That’s not enough? Who are you to judge? What have you done with your life that’s so freakin' exciting, huh? Huh?!?
Scott Peterson feels what every writer feels, the weight of his own mortality crushing down on him like a steamroller flattening a tiny kitten. But it the transience of our time here that makes it precious and it is only when the end approaches that we are able to fully grasp the portent of life’s unanswered questions. Why are we here? What does it all mean? What's that spot on my shoulder?
Scott Peterson was a parapsychologist and documentary filmmaker who disappeared during an investigation into a series of purportedly supernatural occurrences at the Ridgegate Sanitarium and Fun Park in Lincoln, Nebraska. The bodies of his companions, investigator Nadia Marquez and photographer Nathan Reilly were found at the scene, posed to look like French-Canadian circus performers.
Scott Peterson is perhaps best known as the “father of modern nonsense” after a particularly scathing review in the New York Chamber of Commerce Newsletter’s classifieds section. Rather than run from the label, Peterson embraced it and has since generated tome after tome of worthless blather.
Scott Peterson grew up on a chicken ranch in Northern Kentucky during the Great Depression and those lean years became a great influence on his writing. His characterizations of the people and their relationships during that troubled time have come to symbolize a triumph over adversity that many say is pure bull.
Scott Peterson is an author whose adventurous life and unapologetic love of the ladies have rivaled those of the characters he writes about. He grabs life by the balls and squeezes out every drop of semen. His legendary duels and brushes with the law have sometimes threatened to overshadow his literary achievements, but Peterson wouldn’t have it any other way. “Carpe diem and then carpe thy neighbor’s wife!” is a joking slogan that this writer swears is his personal mantra.
Scott Peterson didn’t become an author until the fateful day when he learned his life was almost over. His doctor calmly informed him that he had a raging, full body, incurable case of chlamydia and gave him roughly six months to live. Despite the fact that this “doctor” was a guy selling organic vegetables out of his trunk, Peterson took the diagnosis to heart and began to write. His hope was that, through his literature, he could live on in some small way. It didn’t really work because, honestly, he’s still dead, right? These are just words on paper. He’s six feet under. Immortality is a lie.
Scott Peterson is one of the most reviled men on the planet, a sanctimonious ass who acts as if the world owes him something. He treats people as stepping-stones, when he deigns to acknowledge them at all, and his temper is legendary. Unfortunately, his literary work is so stellar and emotionally nuanced that, much like Woody Allen or Bill Cosby, his artistry cannot be diminished by his abhorrent personal proclivities.
Scott Peterson is the literary world’s personification of the phrase “lightning never strikes twice.” His first attempt at fiction was heralded as a revelation, “a shining example of the potential of America’s new breed of writers.” Fans across the nation, and across the world, eagerly awaited his next masterpiece, but it never came. He was a one-trick pony, or what those in the music world would call a “one hit wonder.” Or what those in the sanitation community would call "an old trash can full of rotting vegetables."
Scott Peterson is a convicted murderer on death row. The former fertilizer salesman was found guilty of killing his wife Laci and their unborn child. Clearly, that wasn’t the best turn of events for him, but it was a blessing to the world of creative writing. While incarcerated, Scott turned his homicidal mind toward the slightly less destructive act of coming up with short stories.
Acclaimed author Scott Peterson hails from Bridgeport, Minnesota and if you’ve ever seen hail in Minnesota, you know it comes down at you like icy golf balls, and so does he. It’s actually quite dangerous if you’re out in the open and unprotected… from the hailstones or Mr. Peterson. In fact, if you have a choice between Peterson and hailstones, I’d say go to hail.
Born in 1967 in Mexico City, Scott Peterson is the leading mixed media artist of the generation that emerged in the wake of the influence of Gabriel Orozco and Francis Alÿs. His early work is acclaimed for his acute attention to form as he refined his own visual and conceptual vocabulary through his focus on the points of intersection between architecture, sculpture, and spatial analysis.
Scott Peterson is perhaps best known for his internationally best selling bumper stickers and greeting cards. “Honk if you love honking” and “Wazza-wah!” were two of his most popular catch phrases that adorned the back ends of millions of cars -- and people -- in the 80’s. His line of pet death consolation cards took the populace by storm in the 90’s as people began sending his cards when no one had died.
Scott Peterson was at a strange place in his life when he began writing. His wife had just left him for another species. His house had been tented for fumigation with him inside. He’d been seriously beaten about the head and neck by a roving band of Rastafarians. His pet frog committed suicide… with a chainsaw. It had been a bad week.
Scott Peterson (1582-1921), the Anglo-English mystic, moral philosopher, and romantic poet, is widely considered the seminal writer of the English language. A prominent satirist, essayist, and realist author, he created profoundly rich characters of moral ambiguity that garnered him the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1902.
Scott Peterson, author, raconteur, and bon vivant, is a lover of life first and foremost. He enjoys horse-riding, walks on the beach, and a curling up with a good book by the fire. His turn offs are heavy cream, barbed wire, and “mean people.”
Scott “Jazz Hands” Peterson knows how to put the lime in the coconut and mix it all up, but was never able to make a living at it, so he turned to the surefire, easy peasy world of typing words on paper. Almost instantaneously, muscular men in hard hats began backing up truckloads of money to his door. After that, Scott never looked back… and consequently was crushed beneath one of the cash-filled trucks.
Scott Peterson rarely bathes. Time that others spend on hygiene and maintaining a professional appearance is time that could be better spent working on his craft. If that adage is true, then Peterson is the foulest-smelling auteur of this or any other generation.
Scott Peterson isn’t worth the ink on this page. He’d sooner kill his own mother than take a dump on the subway. He’s a lying, toothless, backstabbing louse – although I guess including the toothless part wasn’t fair. There’s no reason to pick on a man for a hereditary gum disease issue that he had no control over. I hereby order the word “toothless” be stricken from the record. You will disregard any mention of his having or not having teeth and forget that you heard anything one way or the other.
Scott Peterson? Why, Scott Peterson hain’t been seen in these here parts for nary twenty years I reckon. Not since the twister of ’94, a devil of a cyclone that done did tore these parts to pieces and nearly destroyed us all to boot. Scott, well, he was tryin’ to save a lost hound dog from them there whirlwinds and didn’t make it back to the storm cellar in time. Mister, Scott Peterson is dead. So the Scott Peterson you done ran into musta been... his ghost!
Look up the word “procrastinator” in the dictionary and you’ll find a picture of Scott Peterson. And the picture will only be half-finished. Slow and unsteady loses the race when it comes to this shiftless layabout. Peterson is, and always was, a put-it-off-til-tomorrow-if-you-can-do-it-today type and had a penchant for laziness. (I had a penchant once, right above my left knee, but I went to the doctor and it cleared right up.)
Scott Peterson. Defender. Protector. Hero. These words are too small for a man such as this. For how can mere words describe a man who singlehandedly saved us all from the greatest threat our nation has ever faced? The newspapers warned us of the dangers overseas while literature said we should look to the skies for our biggest threat. But when the apocalypse hit our lands, it came from within us. It came out of our noses. And only Scott had the gravitas, the bravery, and the generic brand tissues we needed to stop the enemy in its mucousy tracks.
Scott Peterson’s ten best selling novels – Big Shrimp Stink Hole, Bad Temper/Bad Tipper, the Dictionary, Mama’s Butt Cheeks, Moist, Lola, Lola Returns, Lola’s Back Again, and Damn Lola Get Out of Here Already – have sold more than 20 million copies around the world. He is financially and emotionally stable with a house, a car, and a well-trained beagle. What? That’s not enough? Who are you to judge? What have you done with your life that’s so freakin' exciting, huh? Huh?!?
Scott Peterson feels what every writer feels, the weight of his own mortality crushing down on him like a steamroller flattening a tiny kitten. But it the transience of our time here that makes it precious and it is only when the end approaches that we are able to fully grasp the portent of life’s unanswered questions. Why are we here? What does it all mean? What's that spot on my shoulder?
Scott Peterson was a parapsychologist and documentary filmmaker who disappeared during an investigation into a series of purportedly supernatural occurrences at the Ridgegate Sanitarium and Fun Park in Lincoln, Nebraska. The bodies of his companions, investigator Nadia Marquez and photographer Nathan Reilly were found at the scene, posed to look like French-Canadian circus performers.
