That David Brooks' columns are poop is a well-established fact. So you don't need me to tell you about that David Brooks' columns are poop, nor that his latest execrable emission is something that the editors of the New York Times should have demanded was dispatched via courtesy flush before anyone else had to suffer, just like every other thing Brooks has ever written.

But wow, really wow, about casually appropriating Sandra Bullock's life for an opening salvo in a truly cynical attempt to make his stinking deposit look more "hip" and "relevant."
Two things happened to Sandra Bullock this month. First, she won an Academy Award for best actress. Then came the news reports claiming that her husband is an adulterous jerk. So the philosophic question of the day is: Would you take that as a deal? Would you exchange a tremendous professional triumph for a severe personal blow?
Ha ha what a terrible, terrible question posed by a terrible, terrible man.

Who, by the way, doesn't even attempt to justify raking through the life of a person he doesn't know for a piece that's ultimately not even about answering his philosophic bullshit question, but is really about how money can't buy happiness. (Spoiler warning: It can't buy love, either.) And, as my pal Drifty points out, only a smug, lazy, condescending poop-spewer like Brooks
…would have the amazingly poor taste to crap out sentences like this—

"Most people vastly overestimate the extent to which more money would improve our lives."

—at literally the exact moment when tens of millions of American men and women are watching their tomorrows being obliterated in a brutal tsunami of lost homes, lost jobs, lost savings, lost health care, lost retirement, lost marriages and lost futures.

And in the face of such widespread fear and pain, who but an utterly oblivious and insufferably privileged asshole would have dared to print such drivel in the New York Times, reminding us yet again that, as millions of hardworking citizens go broke, David Fucking Brooks—for reasons that passeth all understanding—continues to be inexplicably and lavishly remunerated, year after year, for cranking out what are essentially two, perfunctory, 800-word, C-minus high school book reports a week.

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