Goldbugs Forgiven

I don't care what they do with the royalties anymore.

I have just reached the section on Tom Friedman, a columnist of such naivete that... well. I can't possibly describe it better than they do.

"Among the things Mr. Friedman seems to lack is a feeling for verb tenses. He goes to Bangalore and notices it is backward. His conclusion is that it will always be so."

"But to say his ideas are sophomoric or juvenile merely libels young people, most of whom have far more cleverly nuanced opinons than the columnist. [...] His work has negative merit. Every column subtracts from the sum of human knowledge in the way a broken pipe drains the town's water tower."

"There is no trace of modesty in his writing -- no skepticism, no cynicism, no irony, no suspicion lurking in the corner of his brain that he might be a jackass. Of course, there is nothing false about him either; he is not capable of either false modesty or falsetto principles. With Friedman, it is all alarmingly real. Nor is there any hesitation or bewilderment in his opinions; that would require circumspection, a quality he completely lacks."

Seriously, this book is worth the price of admission. For four glorious pages, they rip the Mustached One several new assholes.