Pick a random word and do Google image search on it. Check out the eleventh picture it brings up. Write about whatever that image brings to mind.

Well, my random word (as chosen by the internet random word generator) was Conflict. The eleventh image on a Google image seach is just two cartoon guys, glaring at each other nose to nose, with the title “Interpersonal Conflict”.

Kind of generic and harmless. Cartoon image implies a sort of conflict-lite, so despite the two angry-looking guys, it’s probably not going to get too serious. Let’s see what the Brain of Chaos™ turns up:


“You’re breaking the Bro Code, you know,” complained Stan.

“The what? Get serious.”

“You’re supposed to be my wingman here. Look at her, she’s friggin’ gorgeous.”

“I know, which is why I don’t want to wingman for you. You know she’s totally out of  your league, man. Let me handle this one.”

“No way, I winged for you on the Redhead last Saturday. At the time, you said ‘She’s gonna have my babies’. It’s my turn.”

“She didn’t put out.”

“Right. Out of my league, Mr. Failure To Launch?”

Bob winced. Below the belt, time to backpedal.

“Ok, ok, maybe I do owe you one. But not this one, come on now.”

Stan raised his drink in triumph. “Yep, this one,” he said, turning confidently toward the blonde in the classic Little Red Dress across the bar.

Her eyes sparkled, watching him as he approached.

“I’m Stan. Can I get you a drink?”

She smiled. “After that performance? You boys shouldn’t objectify people.”

Stan’s confidence vanished. Glancing quickly back at Bob, who was a hundred feet away across a crowded and noisy singles bar.

Backpedal and cover, as required. “Like what?”

“Like your friend over there, who fails to close the deal with the Redheads.”

At this point Stan was genuinely baffled. “How could… You heard…?”

“Oh Stan. I’ve seen you and Bob here before. The two of you always choose a woman, pick her out of the crowd based entirely on appearance, and then one or the other of you tries to take her home. Classic objectification.”

Floundering. Stan knew the boat was sinking fast, torpedoed out from under him. Go down with the ship!

“I uh… I’m sorry, the way you put it, it sounds pretty terrible, I guess.”

“Now I never said it was terrible, Stan. Get your little pathetic bro-boy butt out to my car and pull it around, bitch.” She yanked his head back by his hair, hard, enormously strong. Dangling the keys before his eyes. “It’s the orange Mustang.”

Her voice was deep and commanding, a growl. Claws raked his chest as she shoved him violently in the direction of the exit. “Now, boy.”

And Stan knew for certain this one was way out of his league when he saw the fangs.

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Fetch! And no Scooby-snacks, either.