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Aramec's F***D Up Review of Hadrian X’s F***D Up Report of Khotko’s F***D Up Index:

"Our cabaret is a gesture... Every word that is spoken and sung here says at least this one thing: that this humiliating age has not succeeded in winning our respect."
― Hugo Ball

Greetings my fellows:
I'm Aramec. F**k me.

For all of two seconds I've been copy/pasting most of Hadrian's article about Khotko's review named F***ed-up Report of Khotko's F***D Up Index (FUROKFUI) in order to do a review of my own.

Goal 1: summarize the positive and negative aspects of Hadrian's review of FUI.
Goal 2: and Germany is off to a commanding lead this game.
I should thank somebody. Anybody. Maybe that guy that I stared at yesterday as he cut me off in traffic and then swapped back into the right lane, only for me to pass him by and give him that stare, a stare that meant "What on this earth did you hope to accomplish? Where have your dreams gone? Do you know the sound of dying? It is your breath. Every breath is your swan song. But nobody will clap. Nobody will cry. For we are singing too loudly of our own to hear it." So, thanks to that guy.

Methodology:
I'm gonna call people - mostly Hadrian - a bunch of incendiary things. I think everyone's gonna enjoy that a lot. Get a real kick outta it. Hadrian's such a good guy, you hardly see anyone try and take him down a peg. He's so handsome; of course that's just based off his avatar that makes women wetter than a Sri Lankan monsoon, but I hear he's that good in real life too. Maybe one day we'll see. Maybe one day we'll put an actual face to his fake name. Or maybe his last name really is X, and we've all been duped by a sexy, digital ghost who has come back to haunt us with dreams of importance and impotence. Anyways, points much like grades will be assigned. And, much like grades, they're nothing to write to Stanford about. Or your parents. Not that your parents care about you anyways.

Foreign:
Here, in this section, Hadrian admitted his faults. Chiefly that he knows nothing and he does not care. This is a good approach to life, not only just to Foreign Affairs in a browser game powered by Romanian gerbils desperately running from the cat the gypsies set to keep them motivated. Wild Owl cares, and look where that's gotten him, placed at the top of some list. I'm sure he's proud. I'm sure Hadrian is proud of his ignorance, of how skillfully he manipulates the lines and curvature of linguistic gymnastics to make people feel the beating of their own hearts again. I'm sure they applaud in their minds. I'm sure they forget death. I'm sure, like the ocean, that they are churning ever onward, toiling over their breaks and their tides, retching up the salt of their day upon the vast, emptied beaches of purpose we all hope hold meaning. But there is just sand. There has only ever been sand, and our footprints wash away every day on it. They wash away. But Hadrian made us forget that. Now, like Hadrian, we can admit it: that we know nothing, and do not care.
SCORE: Half a mozzarella bread stick resting in now cold marina sauce left on a plate beside a partially crumpled receipt.

Internal:
Here, Hadrian asks us to look above. And so I did. I saw the stark white of my ceiling, whose paint has a speckled, dimpled texture. I looked up, and I remembered my childhood. I remembered the years I had spent with people I now no longer share days with, thought of the words and memories I exchanged with friends I no longer now exchange words or memories with. I thought of the wavy, endless hole into which we toss our ignorance, our innocence; it is without return. It only takes, and takes, and we are not filled. We are emptied. We are smote upon the ruin of our former wonder and watch as our aspirations are ravaged like an aging whore. We are ourselves the enemy, our greatest detractor, and no lie can tarnish this fact. I looked above me, and there was not a heaven. I looked above me, and there was only structure, and imposed order, and a house, and electrical wiring I could not see, and pipes I could not hear. I saw the cage of civilization enveloping me. And I remembered the quote about language being a mind prison, and I saw my sentence lain over my head like a sword. I saw this all, and then read that Hadrian wanted me to replace that with "domestic policy" and everything went a lot better after that. What a rube, that Hadrian. Roasted you. Ha.
SCORE: A mime clapping audibly.

Community:
Hadrian really goes to town here, if a town was a metaphorical construct for engaging heavily with an idea in a strongly worded way. He said this is where it got good, and he was right. Both about his article, and the other guy's. Hadrian was mentioned, and he seems to be feeling really positive about how positively he was mentioned, which sucks because I want him to not feel positive but I'm not doing a very good job of it in this article. I promised incendiary comments. I promised character assassination. So, in the interest of making this section as interesting as Hadrian's section where he found something interesting, I'm gonna go to town. *ahem* Hadrian sucks. Gosh is he just full of meat. His meat is much softer than everyone else. Probably because he doesn't eat good food. What a joker, right? Anyways, Hadrian once kicked a puppy. It's true. There's posters of it that I've drawn by hand. Hadrian sucks so badly that vacuums are envious. Hadrian is such a good father that his own father compliments him on doing a good job. I mean, who's a good father in this day and age? Roasted you, Hadrian. Great job at being a father, you pathetic hipster. And speaking of your hips, you should try eating more good food, so that your squishy, disgusting meat doesn't sop around your hip bones like that. You animal. You discarded prom date. You dumpster fire of a human being. I hope astronauts talk about you. Yeah, you heard me. Gloves are off. I hope astronauts discuss you, because those guys know what a vacuum is, Hadrian. They know the endless void of space, and how it can pull a man apart, and I think they would be really impressed by you. Because you suck. You suck so badly, astronauts would rather talk about you over space. You know, the thing they get paid to do? Talk about space? Speaking of space, Hadrian, god you are such a waste of it. I can't believe you were gone, I missed you so much. Don't ever leave me please, I can't do this without you. Please don't leave. Please.
SCORE: five McDonald's Hercules plates your aunt got at a Dubuque yard sale.

Extra Credit:
After providing a total, Hadrian goes on again to talk about himself. Frankly, I'm not sure why he even bothered after that devastating takedown I just did of him. Probably because he wrote in the past and I'm writing this in the comparative future, so he didn't yet know how he felt about it. More's the pity. I must say, the most disappointing thing about Hadrian's article and the biggest failure between his work and khotkho's has been the lack of me. I mean, at least khotko mentioned me once. Hadrian spends all this time talking about himself. What a narcissist, right? It's almost like his article was a parody or something. Who does that in this day and age. It isn't respectable, and as such, he gets points off here for over-indulgent satire.
SCORE: Caitlyn Jenner.

FINAL SCORE: 3.3 F**D Up as defined by writers like you.

Good job Hadrian. Well done. Fantastic stuff, really. You did really cool things there. Great work, H. Wonderful writing, dude. Groovy moves, slowpoke. What a grand pile of stuff that was, eh mate? Far out. Just far out. Just so far out. So far out. So far. So far...

This article has been presented to you by Hadrian's cat: