An Open Letter to Mr. Larry J. Slimfast, Retard.

Dear sir, it has damn come to my attention that you have spent countless hours decoding the password to my personal web-based pamphleteering project, taytyme.blogspot.com, in order to get in on the good loving that follows a self-published self-publisher everywhere he goes.

Kudos to you. I heartily suggest that you cease wearing both a belt and underwear post haste as such apparel will only hinder the private and public displays of wanton lust you will no doubt become familiar with in the coming days. Perhaps unbeknownst to you or perhaps not, veritable herds of beautiful women read the internet. Heed a word of warning from a veteran of the world-wide web's shit-talking scene: these herds are currently surging towards you. When they converge, it will not be pretty, but it will be awesome. You will smell funny for weeks. You can't scrub it out with lava soap, brother.

That being said, I'd like to offer you a few pointers on your story style. For instance, more than once this week I’ve overheard a young female complain, "Did you see where Larry Slimfast hyjacked taytyme? He sounds hot, but I bet he'd just talk your ear off." Larry, this may be a sign that your post was too long. Hey, I didn't say it, the hottest piece of ass in Bent Fur did. Maybe here’s a good rule of thumb: if your shit is three pages long in Word, publish it in installments.

As a favor to you, Mr. Slimfast, I will publish my own version of your story later this week for you to use as a template for any further hacking you may have planned. Until then, take care, use protection, and for god’s sake quit listening to Pearl Jam.

All the best,

Taytyme.

This ain't taytyme…

It's Larry J. Slimfast time, and I know how to use a spell check… among other things. Why is it Larry J. time? Because the stories have been coming in too slow on taytyme (he's been busy looking for the "Church Bell" setting on Rock Commando's keyboard) and I figured out his password (it's 'anal-stage' spelled backwards). That's right. Taytyme has been hacked.

So here you go…

Story number one: I hyjacked taytyme.

Story number deuce: The other night I had to go to Layl'a Rul, Jay Pennington's new cocaine bar on 20th avenue. I went for a birthday party. Normally I wouldn't go to a place like that for such nonsense but it was my girlfriend's birthday and I like to have sex so I went. If you've never been to Layl'a Rul, it's kinda like a Hotpipes show - boring, noisy and there is always some weasely, slightly balding weirdo screeching over the top of everything at unnecessarily high volumes. But like I said, I went anyway because those things are really of no concern to me when it comes to keeping my favorite lady satisfied.

I wasn't in there long before I knew I that had better leave or I was going to get pissed off. I was right as usual but not before I scored a really awesome weed hook-up from somebody's ex-girlfriend's old roommate's brother. Things were actually going fairly well until the party moved upstairs. Upstairs was supposed to be a "dance party" but it was really just a bunch of snotty Vandy kids and rich scene-ster wanna-bees that think they are much more sophisticated than they really are. There are also some really low couches, some tall, wooden cubes that serve as awkward tables, a small dance floor and a lighted "dance podium" that is only allowed for use by females. I find this last feature to be sexist. What about the flamboyant gay dudes that want to put on a show? You'd think a place like this would cater to queers but… whatever.

So I got a drink (ten lousy bucks for a vodka and tonic) and found a "table" near the back of a couch with my friend, Hard C (it was his birthday too) and some others. Now, there are no places to sit at these tables because there are no fucking chairs in Layl'a Rul. Apparently chairs don't fit the vibe or something and they only want people to lounge around on the couches while they snort their barbs. Ol' Hard C and I sat our asses down on the back of that couch and commenced pondering our existence. It wasn't long before some squirrelly little bouncer dude comes over and tells us that he "can't have people sitting on the back of the couches."

C hops up and says. "Aw man this is BULLSHIT! I'm leaving!"

I kept on sitting and said, "What is this place, my grandmothers 'good room?' Whatever dude." Mr. Bouncer scattered off after that. It was then that I really knew I had to leave or I would be angry. This sucked because A) angry dudes usually don't get sweet lovin' and 2) neither do guys that leave their date's birthday party early. I could only do one thing… get kicked out for a bullshit reason. I've never been kicked out of a bar before (that I can remember) but this seemed like the perfect opportunity.

As I sat anxiously, some burly guy with an Abercrombie & Fitch knock-off flannel shirt and a goatee came up and introduced himself as "Chad D." He wanted to bum a smoke and use an empty glass at my table as an ashtray while he waited on some people. I gave him a menthol and told him to have a seat on the back of the couch while he waited. We had the following conversation.

"Man I've never seen you here before. I come in here four or five nights a week. I fuckin' love this place."

"I don't. I think I'm about to try to get kicked out of here."

"What do you wanna do that for?"

"Oh, you know, the bouncer over there is full of shit."

"Well if you need a badass to back you up, I got you covered."

"Did you just call yourself a badass?"

"Yep." I like Chad D. He reminds me of my friend Truck. Ask the Snuggler about him.

"Well, they just don't want us sitting on the back of the couches is all. It's a load of crap."

"Really?" Chad D stands up quickly.

"Dude, sit down. It's nothing. He hasn't said anything to you yet."

"Naw man, I think I see my friends are over there."

Then the bouncer came up, said "Sir, I'm not gonna ask you to get off the back of the couch again…" and left me sitting there… again.

Pussy.

Chad D wandered off after I introduced him to my lady-friend. He also told her he was a badass and that I was crazy… nice guy that Chad D.

Sticking to my seat, I filled the birthday girl in on all of the recent developments. She only feigned support for my ridiculous cause but did not get angry. That's why she's awesome.

When the bouncer came back and asked me to get up again I politely reminded him that he said he wasn't going to do that anymore. To that he said he didn't want to have to ask me to leave. I told him he could if he wanted but he just turned around and left me sitting on the back of the couch. I sorta felt sorry for him but I kept on sitting just the same. At this point my better half decided she was kicking me out and I had to get up and leave… unsatisfied. We ended up arguing over the benefits of lambskin condoms on the way home and I fell asleep (again unsatisfied) under a pile of Arby's cheese-stick wrappers on the floor of her apartment.

Well, I was all set to help some ladies I know start a band called The Sexecutioners. I came to the idea a little late (I come to most events a little late. I get to places in tyme, not on tyme), so I missed the meeting regarding wardrobe (a librarian theme) and album title (Sexecutionary Style). I didn't mind them getting started without me because details aren't really my bag, you know? I'm more of a song title man.

Things seemed to be on the track to greatness: we had top-notch personnel, a sexy gimmick, and freshly-inked contracts going into the first rehearsal. I was excited, and then shocked by the fiasco that awaited me at the rehearsal space. Friends, I had been duped. The mere presence of a microphone transformed the Sexecutioners from the Life of the party into mumbling, wilting, floor-staring wallflowers. These girls were no Sexecutioners! They were real-life spinster librarians! And the problems didn't stop with the ladies, no! The backing band had all kinds of issues, too. The guitar player was clearly intoxicated and the drummer was a little too handsome for his own good. That guy should be in New York modeling underwear.

I hate to lay it on the line like this, but I can't in good conscience let these girls play songs with the titles I suggested. They couldn’t handle my ode to Jemina Pearl, "Talkin' Statutory Rape Blues." They would murder "A Fish Called Rwanda," and I don't even want to imagine how badly they'd butcher "Hungover Like A Horse." But fear not, cause the Snuggler and I are gonna play all three of those future hits in this Jew-rock band we started called The Orthodicks.

So on Fryday Taytyme went out for drinks with a lady friend he was trying to get with while her husband was out of town on business. Hey, she's lonely and vulnerable! Anyway, in the bathroom this dude was all, "TAYTYMEWHATUPDOOD."

The guy in the bathroom was the guy who inexplicably gives Tay coffee for cheaper than it's supposed to cost at the coffee shop. Apparently he also likes to buy Tay a shot after we pee together. Hey, you know me: I'll pee with or on anyone for free booze. So the guy goes, "See you later. No, wait. You know Jared Renolds?"

I told him that of course I know Jared. I brag about knowing Jared. He's the second greatest bass player in America, only about a mile and a half behind Keith Lowen.

The coffee guy replied, "Tell me about it. It's Keith's tone that makes the difference. But hey, Jared's got this friend who went to England a few weeks ago, and while he was there he saw a U2 concert."

"Oh."

"Yeah, man. He said that Bono came out on the stage by himself, and he just starts clapping real slow. Like clap...clap...clap, you know? And then after he's been doing it a while he says all serious and slow, 'Every time I clap my hands a child in Africa dies.' Well, right on cue this dude in the crowd yells, 'WELL QUIT BLOODY CLAPPING THEN!'"

I told the guy that this was the best story I had ever heard, and he said, "Yeah, man. I mean, I knew Bono had powers, but shit!"

What was it doing in the yard?

Goddamn and wow! I just ran over my credit card with the lawn mower by accident. How does this shit happen to me?!?