Yo, bros! Here’s that Larry J. edit I promised back in the day. Dig it!

This ain't taytyme…

It's Larry J. Slimfast time. See, Tay’s been so busy rocking the hotties that he’s probably forgotten he even has this shitty website. Well, I figured out his password (it's 'anal-stage' spelled backwards), and I aim to fill the void. That's right, byitch. Taytyme has damn been hacked.

So the other night I was at Layl’a Rul, Jay Pennington's kick-ass cocaine bar on 20th avenue. Normally when I go there it's to hang out with my friends in Auto Vaughn, but they were out of town at the Revlon convention. This tyme the occasion was my girlfriend's birthday party, and I figured that if I went to it I’d get to sex her afterwards. If you've never had sex with me, it's kinda like a Hotpipes show - boring, noisy, and there’s always some weasely slightly balding weirdo screeching over the top of everything at unnecessarily high volumes. Yeah, I like to keep my favorite lady satisfied.

I guess I’ve never really looked aroud Layl’a Rul with what you might call a discerning eye before because I’m always so enamored of the Auto dudes, but with them not there it was like I was seeing the place for the first tyme. I hate to say it man, but the place is wacker than the goddamn Murfreesboro “music scene.” They have these really low couches paired with tall wooden cubes that serve as awkward tables and this small dance floor with a lighted podium allowed for use exclusively by females. I obviously hadn’t thought about this before, but now the blatant sexism put my nuts in a sweaty-ass wad. What about the flamboyant gay dudes who want to put on a show? I mean, seriously. Luna Halo, the Pink Spydrz, and Jack White are in there like EVERY NIGHT and they’re probably eating themselves up over not being allowed on that shit. You'd think a place like this would cater to queers, right?

Lost in such lofty thoughts, I set my cosmopolitan on a table-cube and realized for the first tyme that there are no places to sit at said table-cubes because there are no fucking chairs in Layl'a Rul. See, chairs don't fit the vibe there because they want people to lounge around on the couches while they snort their toots. I looked around and thought, “Wait a second . . . these assholes hate the gays AND regular sitting.” When I then remembered that my cosmo had cost me fucking fifteen dollars, I knew the shit was on. I guess I had what the Mormons call an epiphany and what the losers at A.A. call “a moment of clarity.” I began to undress and make my way to the dance podium.

Now you guys know I can get naked quicker than David Copperfield, and by the tyme I gave Tay’s baby sister my number and threw her off the podium I was strikingly beautiful, looking like Michelangelo’s David or some shit. Yeah, I’ve got those crazy Abercrombie muscles that hold your dick up. Anyway, once I got up there I was like a man possessed by the whole population of Fire Island circa 1957. I was quoting Frank O’Hara left and right, stirring up a frenzy with some “Having a Coke With You.” Bitches started sweating, dudes got hard, and Layl’a Rul was sore afraid, brothers. I was all, “Fellas unite! Get up here and helicopter with me! Let’s get hott togevuh!”

I’d let you in on what happened next, but I ain’t one to kiss and tell when it involves dudes. Let’s just say that if you go down to Layl’a Rul anytime soon, I won’t be there because I’ve been “totally banned for life.” Like I said, fuck that place. They eat more dicks than I did that nyte.