The Yee Haw Hat Factory Outlet
Somewhere In Texas, Who Cares It’s A Bit
Seven Minutes After Clay’s Last Salty DM
“Well slap my ass and use my shoot name, that’s a lotta hats.”
With a big fake moustache, Mike Best walks into view wearing a duster and carrying a clear plastic garbage bag full of gold nuggets. They’re real, because unlike Clay Byrd, he is not poor and stupid. But today, he’s not Mike Best. Today, he’s Layme Tyrd, tiny peepee cowboy.
Layme Tyrd: Boy, how am I ever gonna choose a hat big enough to overcompensate for my small dick energy?
He’s not wrong. It’s a lot of hats. Floor to ceiling with the hats. Most of them many gallons.
Layme Tyrd: Gonna have to be cheap though cause the only place I can afford to drop G’s is off the end of words. Yee haw. Pew Pew.
He takes a pause for the cause, pulls out his phone, and literally farts into the microphone. Then, he yells the word “BRUNK” into the speech-to-text, and hits “POST”.
Layme Tyrd: That’ll show him.
Siri comes back and says she can’t recognize the word “BRUNK”. He grumbles about it in Farthington’s DMs, before replacing it with “Dan Ryan” but being a little bitch about it the whole time.
Anyway, Not-Mike-Best ruffles around in the pockets of his giant ass duster with sleeves too long for his arms, making him look like a child with a fake beard. Seriously, go look at Clay Byrd’s roster page. What a fucking dork. Like two children in a trenchcoat disguised as Thor in a movie about the Gold Rush.
It’s not even Lee’s fault. These people want what they want. Sigh.
Anyway, he pulls a book about CPR out of one of the inside pockets.
Layme Tyrd: MYK BEST, LIKE I SAID BEFORE, IMMA GONNA GIVE YOU CPR. IF I COULD READ, I’D KNOW THAT’S MOUTH TO MOUTH, AND WOULDN’T A BEEN SUCKING YER DICK FER MONTHS NOW. Z’AT ALL YOU GOT, MYKEY? I FIGGER I’LL SAY THAT SO MAYBE PEOPLE THINK YOU DIDN’T SMASH ME LIKE A GULLIBLE PROM DATE.
Suddenly, he goes into a coughing fit, nearly vomiting on his cowboy boots.
Layme Tyrd: Sorry, had something in my throat. Sorry for sounding like a fucking idiot. HALFA HOW HAS A GULL DURNED ACCENT NOW, YEE HAW.
He shoots off a bunch of finger guns, but in the way that a super smart college man would do to prove he’s super smart. Then he mumbles something about the stock market, because Clay always has to be a fucking superhero with no weaknesses. That always makes for super interesting characters, after all.
Layme Tyrd: Anyway, about this hat.
He looks up and down the hat racks, trying to find one that fits. He ignores the ones that say “War Games Top 10” and “DeNucci Cup Semi-Finalist”, since he legally cannot wear those hats. He finally finds one that is literally 40 gallons and says “I Was Big In Japan Even Though I Ain’t Done Shit In HOW” and puts it on his head.
Layme Tyrd: Reckon this one fits.
With his hat situation handled, Layme Tyrd walks out of the store without even visiting the cashier because he doesn’t pay his dues. He walks out into a parking lot and comes face to face with people who look a lot like but aren’t technically Scott Stevens, Brian Hollywood, Scottywood, and Xander Azula.
Layme Tyrd: Aww shit, what are y’all doin’ here?
Looking up in horror, Layme sees that they’re all wearing hats that are remarkably similar to his. Like, basically the exact same hats, with slightly different detailing. All of them look like they have recently been beaten by Mike Best while wearing those hats, but Layme leaves his on anyway. Leans into the hat even harder, in fact.
The hats are a metaphor, you see.
Layme Tyrd: Oh I am for SURE gonna complain about this in a promo and call Mike Best lazy and repetitive. Anyway, off to Refueled. I have a match to lose that absolutely no one is going to be surprised by but me.
The cowboy takes out a six shooter and fires a bunch of gifs at the imposters, because creative geniuses use gifs instead of insults. Once they’re all deader than his own LSD Title push, Clay gets on his horse and literally rides off into the sunset.
THE END, YEE HAW, FUCK YOU.