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.