You know how people are always asking you which famous person you'd like to invite to your fantasy dinner party? I think I'd like to invite Dan Brown. 
 You know how, in the first season of American Horror Story, Constance makes those cupcakes with the spit and poison in them for Violet, and brings Vivian uncooked pig pancreas under the pretence that it'll help keep her unborn babies healthy? 
 Do you see where I'm going with this? 
 Okay, okay. Maybe that was faintly harsh. Sorry, Dan Brown. Just refund my time and I'll be on my way. Oh - oh, you can't? Well, then, that changes things, doesn't it? Because here I am, cracking open a book that I've been told is eye-opening and thought-provoking when in fact it's like peeling open a date and finding fly eggs inside it. Not only does it turn your stomach, because it's motherfucking disgusting (and so is the capitalist fakery that saw this book flying off the shelves by the truckload) but it makes you feel cheated, too. It does, doesn't it? You were ready for a good date, or for a good book, and you got insect carcasses. Or, more appropriately, you got a convoluted waste of paper that a chimpanzee could have written if it had sat down on a typewriter. 
 Never again, Dan Brown. You hear me? Keep your books - your fucking rehashed, recycled, pointless, soulless, money-grubbing piles of pure fail - the hell away from me. 
 Oh, and to anyone late to the party who's thinking of giving this a shot? Don't say that like 4633546573847934758 people didn't warn you.