Scott Stapp, the sexually dynamic solo artist most famous for beginning Creed and changing the musical landscape as we know it forever, played to thousands of fans foaming at the mouth for some genuine post-grunge garbage at Fenway Park last night. The show had sold out in a matter of seconds when tickets went on sale several months ago, with hundreds more gathered outside the stadium offering sexual favors, firstborn children, and square tons of cocaine to gain admittance to the show.

Stapp looked especially handsome, wearing a white t-shirt that was printed to look like a tuxedo– but it wasn’t a tuxedo! Do you understand? This is a hilarious gag, and an insult to tuxedo-wearers everywhere. Because it wasn’t a tuxedo, it was a t-shirt that showed off Stapp’s perfect, slightly burned nipples, and fans laughed wildly as Stapp displayed it onstage. “You should be a comedian!” they shouted. He did, and immediately became the best-selling comedic artist of all time.

As he entered the stage, muscles bulging, eyes burning, he parted his gorgeous lips and lisped in his cartoonish speaking voice: “Creed was just the beginning.” He launched into “Slow Suicide”, his most recent, chart-topping single that told the story of his harrowing life growing up as a tortured heavy metal vocalist in the swamps of Florida, and how that led him to be a monumentally successful albeit brutally violent adult. The audience sang along with every word, and how could they not? With memorable, untrue lyrics like “I’m not evil,” Stapp has his finger on a pulse the American public didn’t know they had– a bulging vein full of a viscous green liquid that, if provoked by a very specific type of post-grunge, can be lethally awesome.

Many will call this show Stapp’s “big comeback,” but as all true Stappheads know, Scott Stapp never left. Every Stapphead worth their salt will know that between his solo albums released in 2005 and last year, Stapp spent most of his time studying the flying patterns of bald eagles, entrenching himself in their culture, and eventually endangering the species after a performance of his debut album in a high pitched squeal. As the founding member of Creed and a notorious woman-hater, he’s secured his place in the zeitgeist as a very specific type of sex symbol for those who enjoy men whose hands can give one radiation poisoning due to a curse from a Floridian gypsy. Other hits played include “My Sacrifice,” “Higher,” and a home video Stapp and close friend Kid Rock receiving halfhearted blowjobs from fans in 1999 while high-fiving. It is fan lore that Stapp discovered the lyrics for “Bullets” spelled in tiny bits of hamburger in Kid Rock’s vomit, but the truth is that he found them in his own.

Stapp ended the evening the way any historically significant event does– with a three hour, looped performance of “With Arms Wide Open.” And I, Scott Stapp, promise you that no one as enjoying it ironically. I had my Stapp secret police take survey of enjoyment levels from every person in the 5,000-seat crowd, and I assure you that all patrons who were not having an incredible time were disposed of in the regular fashion. (For more information on regular disposal procedures, see Article 5a-9 in the Stapp Manifesto, which are mostly greeting cards with very tiny print that sing “It’s Not Over.”)

During the second or third hour of “With Arms Wide Open”– it is hard to tell once your skin has hardened into a lizard-like crust– the audience grew restless. Stapp was as committed to his performance as he was to the horrible crimes he has committed versus his wife, and proceeded with the performance. The audience took up a high pitched wail during the next chorus, and all at once burst into a joyous ball of flame in the shape of the stupid, stupid logo on Creed’s Greatest Hits album. The remaining, lizard-skinned patrons shouted “Encore! Encore!”, but Stapp’s mission had already been accomplished. He completed the final run of “With Arms Wide Open” in a hoarser voice than ever, though considering the original performance it wasn’t incredibly different. In a good way. Did I mention I’m Scott Stapp? I am Scott Stapp, and I remember this 80% of the time. The rest of the time, I think I am a wooden chair.

All in all, it was a memorable show for all, and Fenway Park should be reopened from the fire damage again any day now. To those of you who have written me saying, “Scott, there is no way this concert could have happened there! Yesterday was opening day!”, I say, “Bury your head deep in the ground and inhale.” To those of you who have tweeted at me saying, “Scott, there is no way Frank Sinatra sang “Higher” onstage with you! He’s been dead for over forty years!”, I say, “You are not aware of the incredible otherwordly power  this wooden chair, sorry, no, Scott Stapp has. I am not a wooden chair. Sometimes I forget.” To those of you who have smoke signaled to me, “My family member was at your show and has inexplicably turned into a ball of flame! I want justice for my relaitve with bad taste in music!” To them I say, “Aposlogahs pardshesi feslure fraeslis,” which is Parseltongue for “Scott Stapp forever,” as I am a big Harry Potter fan and not a wooden chair. Know your relatives are in a better place– specifically, my bulging Scott Stapp belly, because I mix in the ashes of the fire monsters into my morning cereal.

Stapp is redemption. Stapp is the cultural super-king. We shall overcome Creed’s fame and transcend into a prosperous solo career. Well, maybe not. The one thing I know for sure is we will definitely be fire monsters.