Dear Noirfuck,

Just want to get people up to speed with your ignorant temper tantrums aimed toward my friend Lyman before I repeat my advice to you. You first sent hate mail to him after his incredible story The Switch was published in Thuglit accusing him of stealing a sacred spot that you for some reason thought was reserved for you. You blamed him for your shortcomings. I responded to your asinine suggestions then.

Flash forward a couple of months: Lyman gets nominated for a Spinetingler Award for the same story you deem inferior, and you poke your ignorant face out again to criticize not only Lyman but the whole crime publishing world. Lyman responded, as is his custom to not back down from a fight and defend himself. However this time you draw more attention to your dimwit ideas, along with exposing more people to Lyman's story; a great boost for Lyman since the awards are done by popular vote. Real smart move, dickwad. I think that's called the Bill O'Reilly bump, which drove Al Fraken to the #1 spot on the NYTimes Bestseller list.

Now, noirfuck, in the middle of all of this discussion, I offered you some advice, which you didn't respond to. Maybe because it hit a little too close to home. But I want you to think about it, so I'm reposting it here. I hope you'll take my advice, noirfuck.

OK, fuckhead. The sheer fact that you're talking about strict guidelines within genres only proves that you have no clue. Let's talk about these idiot polluters who mess with the genre lines, I mean real assholes, like Jonathan Lethem, Michael Chabon, Charlie Huston, Duane Swierczynski, Walter Mosley, Stephen King, Joyce Carol Oates, Jorge Luis Borges, Caleb Carr, Scott Phillips, Sara Gran, Richard Russo - I mean, the world is full of ignorant people that you're going to need to educate. How will you ever find the time?

Now Mr. BFA, oh, I'm sorry, Mr. sophmore year BFA, you don't know what the hell you are talking about. You seemed to find it OK to mess around with a guy who knows more about genre theory than you do about that small stump between your thighs that you like to call a dick. Yeah, I'm thinking a couple of MFA's trump your three semesters as a "writer."

I'm having a real bad week and guess what, you've just become my whipping boy. What I want you to think about tonight when you crawl into bed and grab hold of your tiny prick, before you start jerking off to pictures from the Sears Wishbook, I want you to think about all those stories that are crowding your desk drawer, or your computer's hard drive; you know the ones, those stories that aren't being published; think about all the rejections. They aren't worth it, are they? You know deep inside that the tap tap tap that your fingers type out only lead to third-rate material that wouldn't entertain the world's most ignorant Seventh grader. Then think about whatever pathetic writing group that would have you as a member, imagine all those people reading your shitty manuscripts, giving you "constructive" criticism. You've sat there and compared yourself to them, rating each one as better or worse than you, trying to figure out who the best writer of the group is; I'm thinking that you're not at the top. Now, I'm going to tell you something: these peers don't like your writing. They hate your stuff. They force themselves to skim over your material and scrawl half-ass, benign comments in the margins. You know those notes that don't make any sense, that make it so obvious that the reader didn't even read the manuscript. These peers sit in bed and read certain sentences aloud to their wives, boyfriends, dogs and then laugh; their wives, boyfriends and dogs laughing right with them. If anything, you've made a couple of people feel better about their own talent because they see what the "competition" is like.

I mean, come on, if someone whose work you absolutely hate can get published in places that you've only been rejected, what kind of self comment is that? You don't think your writing is that good. Every time you turn a corner, there's a brick wall; you can't find a way out of this maze. And guess what? There isn't one for you. That little voice that tells you that you're no good and should give up is right. Abandon that pathetic dream of ever becoming a writer. Hurry up and switch your major before you waste another three-and-a-half years.

Oh, and do you know what else you can do? You can lick my hairy ball sack, you ignorant douche bag. Go fuck yourself.

Now go on now and leave the adults alone, you fucking dickwad.