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The Metamorphizer

Am I the only person who finds Thomas Friedman and his self-fellating style of writing maddening? He seems to have a logical three to four step plan for anything as though he's the only one actually "thinking" (I mean really, really thinking) about the whole picture. And he can't help but present his view with metaphors that you know he thinks are oh-so-clever:

Our country has congestive heart failure. Our heart, our banking system that pumps blood to our industrial muscles, is clogged and functioning far below capacity.

Give me a break. Probably my favorite part in the today's column is the following:

Economically, this is the big one. This is August 1914. This is the morning after Pearl Harbor. This is 9/12. Yet, in too many ways, we seem to be playing politics as usual.

Friedman, born in 1953, was only around for two of those. Granted he has some good stuff to say, but he's so patronizing, tossing out ideas that I've read on other blogs who don't shy from speaking in much more detailed and technical language than him.

He reminds me of this character in Proust, an author who when he first starts writing modestly brushes of people's enthusiastic endorsements of his writing with remarks like "Oh I guess it's a pretty thing" or "Well it is worth saying." But in his twilight years as a writer this same author uses these exact same comments to tell himself what he is writing is worth the paper it's written on "Well, it is worth saying." I can just imagine Friedman sitting in his cushy chair with his laptop reading over his latest masterly metaphor saying "Well, it is worth saying."

And yes, I realize I am totally pretentious for referencing Proust. I'm off to find more things online to hate.


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I love this. Friedman is such a pompous ass.

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Austin Diaz


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