David Effing Mamet. Three words that no one should ever have to hear strung together. You know, as much as I love The Huffington Post—and being a confirmed liberal and pop culture junkie I do so with as little shame as possible—I just don’t have the stomach for David Mamet’s whimsically pointless brand of puketastically dismal, oh-so-heady and ever-so-heavier-handed-than-thou, unabashedly glib and synthetical, and only extra-simplistically political, uninspiredly obtuse and frankly retch-inspiring pseudocartoonery. Perchance it is that I am jealous of all of the five billion, eighty five day long Mamet worship festivals across the globe every week. Or else that I am terribly envious of his undisputed stature as one of the finest minds shitting out wannabe thinking man’s garbage today. Perhaps I just don’t like the way he looks. Or very possibly all of these. Here is his latest, excreted forth like so much sludge from the bowels of an underscrubbed ice machine, and believe me when I tell you: this has already hurt me far worse than it could ever hurt you. But use some caution: it still might kill you. I would’ve thought that after last time Little Mammy here would’ve at least hired a pot-smoking lackey to proofread his worthless fifth grade words for him. Aren’t you rich yet? You’re a grown writer now, Davey, and it’s not my “responsability” to tell you this. LEARN HOW TO SPELL, YOU STUPID BASTARD!