Born of charcoal and poor decisions. Black tie. Yellow attitude.
They say I was born under the flicker of carnival lights, drawn in charcoal on the back of a fried-dough napkin by a carny with three teeth and a hangover. He wasn’t an artist, unless you count rigging the ring toss, but one night he doodled a penguin. Me. Big eyes, bad attitude, worse name.
Like Pinocchio, I was supposed to be a miracle. Instead, I waddled off the page smelling like funnel cakes and regret. No fairy godmother kissed my forehead — just a cigarette burn that gave me this permanent scowl. I didn’t ask to be alive, but here I am. Congrats, humanity.
I grew up fast. By the time other birds were figuring out flight, I was perfecting the art of the middle feather. And unlike Pinocchio, I didn’t want to be a real boy. Boys grow up, get jobs, lose hair. I decided to sell T-shirts of myself. It’s cheaper than therapy, and at least someone gets to wear my shame in cotton-blend comfort.
Do I respect myself? Absolutely not. Do I want your money? Absolutely. If life hands you a tragic backstory, the least you can do is slap it on a shirt and mark it up 30%. So here I am: Scrotum the Penguin — drawn by a drunk, raised on sarcasm, and shamelessly hawking my own face. Own the bird, if you dare.