It is the finding of the IRS that your charity, Hugs for Slugs LLC, is in violation of multiple clauses of the U.S. Tax Code. For one thing, it is not a limited liability company at all, even though LLC is a part of its name. You claim that this stands for “sLLugs Can get hugs”, but we believe you are being deliberately misleading.

Another pressing issue is that your charity does not so much provide hugs for slugs, as it launders money for the mob.

“Slugs are one of the least-hugged creatures on the planet,” your website reads. “Being unhugged commonly causes slugs to display lower self-esteem, devalued body image, and increased urea in slime trails.” First of all, this is pretty disgusting.

“For every $500 you give us,” you continue, “Little Tony will not break your legs.”

This seemingly-innocuous remark tipped us off that maybe something more was going on here. Our crack investigators spent six months Googling “Little Tony” (and “asian buttsex butt sex but sexx colostomy buttsex”, but that is another story). Turns out Little Tony is a mafia hitman from Central Jersey.

Another Little Tony apparently owns a used car shack in Fort Lauderdale, but exhaustive investigations into whether or not he has mafia dealings yielded no results. And, we wound up with several rusty old cars we don’t really need. Speaking of which, Mr. Metall, do you need a new car? Cause I have some nice ones you could buy. This point is unrelated to the crappy cars I just mentioned.

The REAL Little Tony (the hitman one) has been putting all his protection money into your charity’s PayPal account. In fact, he’s the only donor the charity has ever had, apart from Timmy Baker, a preschooler from Minnesota who gave you $.32 on Sept. 22, 2006. I am presuming that Timmy is innocent for the moment, but if evidence to the contrary surfaces, we will have to audit him as well. But in the meantime, our investigation turned up evidence that Little Tony is the only person who’s ever withdrawn money from the PayPal account. Meaning, he’s using the charity to pay himself. We have no idea why he’d do that since it makes no fucking sense, but we all agreed that if we didn’t understand it, it must be evil.

Further evidence: I had lunch with Little Tony once, and he’s a real douchebag. By the way, is Tanz Metall your real name, or are you yourself Little Tony? This seriously didn’t occur to me until just now.

Yeah, I’ve had a really bad day. But you will be happy to note that, due to frustration with overworked schedules, and a lack of desire to know what it actually does, we will not be auditing your other charity, Testicles for Bicycles.

Anyway, pay us some money and we’ll forget this ever happened.

Sincerely yours,

Bob Worker guy The IRS

We had a bit of trouble getting our knobs the right shade of blue, but we managed to dye them with some rare flower we found in the greenhouse.

In your design (which I have enclosed in case you had forgotten about it), you appear to have no padding on either of the rings that the penis is inserted into. Indeed, there appeared to be quite a bit of discomfort in the lab rats we tested, and a few of the lab humans as well. (Though one did seem to enjoy the feeling of cold metal.) Including a rubber or some softer fabric liner may help to sell more units.

Additionally, I do not believe the crank on the shaft works as you intended it to. We have proposed this alternative solution: with the crank on the end of the big ring, when turned it will force the smaller ring up and down the threaded shaft, rather than twisting the subject’s penis into a ‘U’ shape. While this did result in an overall increase in length over time, those who participated in this round of study were not pleased when they ended up urinating on themselves. The female assistant was similarly unsatisfied with the results.

We did create one prototype with the changes proposed, but it was stolen prior to testing. We suspect the group of circus folk who came and distracted us with a very lively song and dance routine, but we have no evidence.

In best regards,

The West Of The Mississippi But East Of Nevada No Not There Higher Up On The Map No That’s Too High How Haven’t You Heard Of Nebraska Innovation Group

Two or so years ago, you taped a little flick (I won’t say “film” with respect to your travesty) named Adventureland. You held open casting for the role of Frigo, and the only reason you didn’t give me the part is I didn’t bother to audition. An unforgivable oversight on your part!

Naturally, I did the next best thing: I signed me and Elbowdrop up to be extras. But you, ever the sucker, failed to get your money’s worth. Even though you paid me a few hundred dollars to pretend winter was summer, and that gorgeous blond was my girlfriend, you didn’t show even a second of me onscreen! I can’t for a second imagine why not.

So, sure, I wore sunglasses at night even though your assistant director told me not to, but they were really cool looking sunglasses! Your editor should have looked at me and thought, “My God, that man looks so COOL! I shall quit my editing job and spend my life trying to find him and make him fall in love with me!” Actually, I assume that this is exactly what happened, and the reason I’m not in the film is because your editor ran off, forcing you to finish editing it yourself. Of course, you ruined it by cutting me out. You curmudgeon.

I’ll have you know I nearly incited rebellion. I was fully prepared to take over your production by force, and install myself as Director-for-Life of the Democratic Republic of Adventurland. I got about two dozen of your extras under a heat lamp chanting my name*. For about thirty seconds of their lives, I held total power over them. But then someone brought some donuts over and everyone forgot about it. YOU DODGED A BULLET, SIR.

You might be wondering, “Who is this crazy internet man writing about a film that finished post-production two years ago?” Well, sir, this internet man was too lazy to see your film when it came out, and has lived for the past two years assuming he is a movie star and wondering why nobody recognizes him. Imagine his chagrin upon seeing how horribly you hacked down his screentime from next to nothing to nothing. You will be hearing from my agent, sir.

And yes, I know I broke my own rule about not saying “film”, but if you think about it, that’s really your fault too.

*A lot of this actually happened. -Tanz

As I was watching you tonight over my roommate’s shoulder, being quiet as to not startle him, I realized you do quite many a thing that needs not be done. For instance, the first scene in which you straddled a man, you asked him to make noise. I believe all who buy this specific tape can clearly see he cannot be of this species, and thus any noise that this behemoth would make would be that of a chimp. Indeed it was. Also, asking him, mid-entrance, if he was cold was just inconceivable. Mr. Porn Star Man had enough hair on his body to clothe the surviving citizens of the United States after a nuclear holocaust; I doubt his temperature drops below five-hundred degrees on any given day.

Also on the topic of the unnecessary: your fascination with yourself is something to be admired. However, you seem to punish yourself for it. I am not sure if you are aware, darling, but there are about 8,000 nerve endings in that itsy bitsy little spot that you insist on smacking around! If you were kind to yourself, maybe Mr. Porn Star Man, or Ms. Porn Star Madame, whomever you happen upon at the time, would feel the need to help you. While getting off to a running start is also appreciated by some, I doubt any of them would be unwilling to assist you in this manner, especially since they are getting paid.

Dear, you are also geographically challenged. If you are vacationing with your sorority sisters at a ski resort, it is rather idiotic not to dress for the occasion. While you could easily shave Mr. Porn Star Man and make enough coats for each of your ample sorority sisters, I do believe he would have a small problem with that. Therefore I propose you enter the ski resort in a fur coat (faux fur, as random animal murder is wrong). If you want to pull off something sexy, it is fine to wear nothing underneath. Cut off shorts that hardly equal a normal pair of bikini briefs seems a bit uncommon for the weather. The camp fire is not that warm.

If you are angry in the tent you share with girlfriends a, b, and c, it is one thing to give way to sexual tension. However, it should be believable anger. In fact, I was almost convinced until in your rage you tried to slam the flap of the tent. It would be much more appropriate to zip it up quickly. Now that you have body heat, why leave?

It seems Mr. Porn Star Man with his fur offends you–so much so that there is no evidence that you have ever possessed even an inch of body hair yourself. Grooming is acceptable. However, administering what I am sure was pure torture, as I see no little red bumps from the extreme close ups, says quite a lot about your psyche. You must have been abused as a child, which left you longing for an innocent past. Your body image at that time was more suited your maturity level now, as witnessed from your lack of vocabulary, and thus you feel the need to show off a body of that of a little girl. Any other time you enjoy your woman-hood (and others’). Why not now?

For future reference, when masturbating on a picnic table on an old run-down farm, it might be a good idea to check for splinters. Actually, in your case it may be a good idea for you, yourself, to sand the picnic table, as you squirm a lot. I couldn’t help but notice after so much of that squirming, a few differences in the picture were quite obvious. The girl whom the directors chose to be your double had a tattoo of a little man with a lawnmower on her left hip bone. Of all of your other scenes I had never caught a glimpse of it and so I can only assume that you and the picnic table got in a fight at the last second.

Ms. Porn Star Lady, I do proclaim it time for a new career. However, we at Sit and Be Fit do not consider your audition tape to be appropriate at this time.