http://geekbiker.net/flame-o-matic.php

It’s completely random each time, so hit refresh for additional insults.

Aaaaw crap.

That’s right. I used the caps.

Once upon a time I saw Wonderment at every turn, the bewildering diversity of an infinite Cosmos was my playing field, at least in my mind’s eye.

Then Fate bitch-slapped me with an errant search engine screw-up and I was doused with the most wasteful use of modern information technology officiated by none other than one John Scalzi.

That’s you, Scalzi, you fugly little turd.

As if you don’t see your name in print enough. Do you even recognize it anymore? It’s like saying a word over and over and over again and the brain refuses to associate with anything.

Put the game controller down, splunk-nugget. I’m talking to you.

Attention obtained?

Good.

Feel like I wasted some precious time?

Fantastic.

The feeling’s mutual.

Here’s a “story” for ya: they led me into one of the examining rooms of the ER and told me that a doctor would be in to see me shortly. I sat there for a while in a personal darkness, my eyes bandaged heavily. When the doctor came in he asked me what had happened, but didn’t wait for an answer before he continued: “Let’s see what those eyes look like.”

Mind you, I was blind, so my other senses were elevated. I could feel the blood pour out of my ears when the last bandage came off and the doctor screamed, the sound like a meteor piercing the atmosphere.

“I GOTTA MY WIFE! I GOTTA CALL MY WIFE!” I grabbed what I thought was the doctor and slapped an IV bag instead of his face.

“Why are you screaming?”

“Because it’s finally happened! Nuclear war!”

“What?”

“Your eyes! They…they melted! You’ve obviously looked directly at a nuclear blast!”

I slapped the IV bag again. “No, no Doc. Calm down. There’s been no blast.”

“But only one thing could have done that. What do you remember last?”

“Reading the first sentence of “Old Man’s War.”

“Oh. Well there you go.”

So, Scalz, I’m blind. Forever. I’m doomed to Braille for the rest of my days. Of course, should I accidentally run my fingertips over one of your books they’ll dissolve as if I’ve dunked them in acid; audio books are out too, obviously.

Certain things have a measure of “suckitude:” The Los Angeles Clippers; ice milk; O’Hare Airport; Henceforth these things shall instead have a measure of “Scalzitude.”

Yes, Scalz, you suck. Everything about you sucks. Nature abhors a vacuum. If nature got its hands on you, it would disembowel you with a pair of tweezers, scrape out your eyes with a dental pick, and drag you by your nipples behind the Midnight Zephyr.

Maybe I’m over-reacting. I’m looking forward to everything smelling like a dog’s ass. It’ll be fun when people who I think love me put clumps of used cat litter on a bun and tell me that it’s a hamburger. I always thought sunsets were over-rated anyway.

Since you did blind me, perhaps you could do me a favor. Maybe you could go for a drive on a lonely country road just after a herd of cows have crossed, and your car could hydroplane on a stream of bovine menstral blood, causing you to skid upside down on the pavement just long enough for your skull to erode and your brain to fall out onto your lap. Then when the car comes to a stop, you can shove the brain up your rectum, thereby achieving anatomical symbiosis.

Yeah, we’d be cool after that.

James “Vision Quest” McCarthy

Back when I was in college, I went on a date with Marjorie Derkins. Tall, willowy and with a figure that could drive the flameiest of Fire Island regulars to his knees in a sudden flare-up of heterosexual lust, Marjorie was the girl that every man in my class dreamed of, masturbated to and then denied said masturbation even if caught in the act while screaming her name. We’re talking a hotness of Biblical proportions.

And brilliant? She majored in Japanese, Theoretical Chemistry and Modern Dance and made Dean’s List every semester. She translated for exchange students with an accent that made them feel right at home. Her research papers used to leave her professors in tears, not only for their sheer brilliance, but because her professors realized they would never find another bright light of scholarship like her and that the remainder of their careers would be one long, disappointing slide towards mediocrity into oblivion. Her solo recitals were so stunning, a mixture of Gene Kelly energy and Martha Graham grace, that the theater critic from the Times actually quit and moved to a hut in the woods because, as he said in his resignation letter, “No other art will top what I saw, so I might as well skin weasels for the rest of my life.”

And do I need to mention her volunteer work at the local soup kitchen? Or the way small children and dogs trusted her? Or that despite her seeming perfection she was humble and charming and didn’t have an enemy in the world? No gossip chased her, no rumors dogged her. She was like some ethereal being from on high that had come down to earth to give us mere mortals proof that, yes, there is a God, and He loves us because He made someone like Marjorie Derkins.

I was the exact opposite of her in every way. She was gorgeous; I was a pizza-faced wreck. She was smart and charming; I constantly failed classes and snarled at little old ladies. I used to pass her in the quad, and whenever she said, “Good morning,” I’d tell her to go fuck herself, just for the sheer, hateful spite of it. Because, see, I was just as in love with her as everyone else at my school, and knew deep down in my gut that she’d have nothing to do with a loser asshole like me, so what was the point of pretending to be nice?

And one freezing cold day, when I was hungover and bundled up and so not in the mood for her sunshine and cheer, Marjorie Derkins approached me in the quad and, before I could give her my usual surly greeting, said, “I’m going to a play tonight. Would you like to come with me?”

She completely short-circuited me. Her face was scrubbed and clean and smelled like freshly baked cinnamon buns. Her eyes were dewy green, her smile so generous, her entire being so pure that I couldn’t do anything but say “yes” and scurry back to my room to hide. Jesus Christ, what had I done? I contemplated suicide, then realized that would give my worthless roommate an automatic 4.0. Instead, I spent the day nursing my hangover and pondering what had just happened. Marjorie Derkins and me? There had to be some kind of angle. It was a dare or a school project or a charity project, because the alternative, her asking me because she wanted to be with me, was just too unlikely. But the more I thought it over, the more I realized, hell, that had to be it. Marjorie Derkins dug me!

When she showed up at my door around five, my hangover was gone, my hair was combed for the first time in years, and I actually felt happy. Scared shitless, but happy. She was all smiles, talking about the play and how interesting it was going to be (“It’s German” she said, “really powerful.”), and off we went.

I was a little nervous when we arrived at the theater and were met by a sea of staring, angry faces. It took me a moment to realize everyone was wearing clothes that were clean, pressed and didn’t say things like “Itty Bitty Titty Committee Member” (that was my cleanest shirt. The one I’d been wearing that morning said, “Mustache Rides: Carpool Lane Only,” but I figured the vomit stains on the front just wouldn’t do). I was completely out of my league, and everyone there knew it. I gave them an equally angry stare as I led us to the back of the theater (hey, I’ll go to a play, but I’ll be damned if I couldn’t have my back to the wall) and sat down while Marjorie put a program in my hand. The lights went down, the crowd settled, and I felt a hand on my crotch.

I jumped a little, because the seat to my left was empty and the one to my right was occupied by Marjorie, and there was no way in hell that was her hand. But as the stage lights came up, I could see, no, that was Marjorie’s hand resting on my junk. Not just resting: moving. Massaging. And she kept looking at the stage, this tiny, tiny smile on her perfect face.

Well.

Marjorie leaned over and whispered, “I like it a little nasty, don’t you?” And then she nibbled on my ear as she increased the tempo. Suddenly, it all made sense: of course she was a freak. How else could someone that perfect get through live without going completely insane? That didn’t stop me from enjoying the first act, of course.

Just as the scene ended she whispered, “How would you like a little more?” I nodded, dumbfounded, as the lights went down. I readjusted my now raging boner and sat back. Whatever was going to happen next was going to be the kind of thing that only happens in Penthouse Forum and the fevered dreams of adolescents. True, she was probably just using me because she got off on degrading behavior, but you know what? In college, you learn to lower your standards.

I was thoroughly enjoying the hand-to-pants action, so you could imagine my surprise when something slithered up my leg. Something cold. Something slimy. Something that crawled all the way up my pant leg and wrapped itself around my cock and balls. Did I say wrapped? More like enveloped, the way a Venus flytrap consumes its food.

Before I could scream, something curled around my neck and half-choked me. Something that tasted like a bottle of pickle brine mixed with rotting garbage stuffed itself into my mouth.

When the stage lights came up, I could see, out of the corner of my eye, Marjorie still smiling that little smile, but as she tilted her head toward me, the light caught her eyes and reflected back the kind of color that you only see in a nightmare, a greenish-black that accompanies gangrene and leprosy. She leaned toward me again and said, “I lied earlier. I like it a lot nastier.” And then she opened her mouth, and a whole host of tongues, all of them covered in boils and suckers and squirming like a ball of diseased worms, tumbled out as she unzipped my pants.

Now, I bring all this up because, having just read your latest prose, I am reminded that, despite the sheer horror of that evening, I enjoyed it far more than your work. Eat shit and die.

Yours,
Adam Rakunas