T-Bag Tyler first acquired his moniker after an unpleasant sexual encounter with the love of his life in senior year of high school. Granted, after his actions left a sour taste in her mouth, she was no longer his destined dream lover. Instead, he gained a sassy nickname that would stick with him for the rest of his life. Social networking, of course, provided the means for this namesake to follow him every which way he traveled, be it New York, California, Germany, China, or South Africa. Believe him, Tyler tried to shake it off at first but with no avail. Even the remote Aborigines he encountered while touring the world started calling him T-Bag.
However, there were some benefits and perks to this gig, where his moniker proved to be an inspiration to aspiring young men looking to bring their activities in Halo over to their love lives (or lack thereof). That’s why he was here. That’s why he was adjusting a silver tie in the bathroom mirror of a high school restroom. He needed to give a speech in twenty minutes on why tea-bagging someone after defeating them in a long battle of the wits in puzzle games was simply not cool. The degradation. The screams. The chilling, maniacal laughter at a job well done. It wasn’t all just fun and games.
He made the papers that day. Embedded deep within the community section of the local tribune was a short, one-paragraph article about a young man who assaulted a high school sweetheart and Miss McKinley 2005. Every subsequent publication or article concerning him, and there were an ample few, listed him with his proverbial scarlet letter. The graduating class of 2006 for McKinley High had a lovely picture of him smiling with “T-Bag Tyler” scrawled in dry, plain font.
“You got what you deserve,” his old man said to him. “You think I go around tea bagging your mother every time I beat her at Scrabble? No good pervert.”
His mother was another story after the incident. She wouldn’t even talk to him anymore, let alone make eye contact. When it came time for family dinner on weeknights, she’d set his plate down full of food before anyone else’s at the farthest end of the table, as if he were a leper or something.
“It’s what you get for dragging your Goddamned sack across someone’s face,” his old man had said when he tried to question his mother about this new treatment.
On the bright side, however, this new treatment helped push him to finding his own self-sufficient form of employment. He moved out within three months, living in an adjacent town in this rural area of the country. He hoped no one here could shame him, but that dream was short-lived when word travels around so fast these days.
Being ridiculed did have its plus side. He was able to write his story and then sell it to a major movie studio before his former high school sweetheart could. Sacked: A True Love Story hit the New York Times bestseller list before Nancy could even bother to finish her Balls Deep in Hell manuscript. Naturally, then came the book tour and the subsequent movie deal. At this particular moment, he was on his third tour of the country as a motivational speaker on what not to do with one’s life. Even Oprah Winfrey was optioning him for her show, so that he could share his story of torment and redemption in this age of depravity.
That was the issue though, wasn’t it? Depravity. T-Bag Tyler was just a victim in a world gone mad, a measly pawn in a well-choreographed attempt to turn America’s children into little Caligulas easily manipulated by their corporate masters. At least that’s what the conspiracy theorists always told him when he was asked to guest spot on their shows.
A victim? That’s it. That sounded great. It was like standing up at an AA meeting and admitting you had a problem, except in this case, Tyler was able to make a shitload of money at it and earn immeasurable sympathies. His publicist and ghost writer coached him on how to speak with the greatest emotional response and what words to hone in on. The audiences ate that shit up, often crying and sobbing at the state of the world, viewing him as a misguided peon that needed a helping hand.
Young women his age would come up to him after shows, telling him how moved they were by his bravery. These full-bosomed girls with great rear ends would tell him secrets of their own depravity, and he nodded intently, his eyes focused on the slow rise and fall of their cleavage as they breathed and spoke softly. That smooth, soft skin. T-Bag Tyler just wanted to bury his face in those fleshy pillows while these women revealed their feelings to him, grope them gently as they sobbed about their own shortcomings.
The power – it was beautiful. Who could ever imagine that humiliating someone in such a manner was such a gateway leap to success, wealth, and fame?
Tyler felt like Elvis, like Jesus, like God, like the President of the United States, preying on the emotions of those neurotic idiots out there to feed his deepest, darkest desires, sleeping with those very young women who shared their innermost tormenting fears.
Unfortunately, all glory was fleeting as Tyler soon found out. The girls dried up, and along with them, the tours, the attention, and the thrill of it all. People began to ignore him. He was no longer the “Tea-bagger of Torment”. Rather, he was just regular old Tyler now, and it sucked. He was just that hopeful, imaginative little boy day-dreaming in class about his high school heartthrob again, desperately begging Fate to have mercy and deliver her to him. Tyler needed to think of something.
The answer was simple really. If it worked once, why not try it again? Why not just up the ante a little bit and give the people what they really want – more of the same?
The few months sitting in county jail was a fair trade for the following Rolling Stone article, “Sack Races”. The feature showcased his rise to fame, his victimization, his redemption, and then his fall from grace as Tyler was shown (in a hefty photo spread) running amok throughout a major city tea-bagging all sorts of pedestrians on the street. He would charge up to an unsuspecting man or woman, both old and young, shove them onto the ground, and then whack them with his unshaven bag, screaming “Slayer” or “Double Kill” if he was able to nail a two-for-one.
He was back, baby. The attention started up again, and his career found itself sky-rocketing like never before. Everyone loves a sequel.
Tyler cleared his throat into the mic as he stood before the high school student body in the darkened auditorium. He took a second to pause and survey all those blank, empty faces, see all the boys and girls awaiting him to speak and prolong them as long as possible from doing any sort of class work. Tyler tried to keep a straight face, but the left side of his lip curled into a salacious grin.
“My name is T-Bag Tyler, and I suffer from a severe case of depravity that is sweeping this great nation…”
