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David Mamet is making fantastic time in his macho, myopic trot toward senility, first with his sloppy jeremiad against "brain-dead liberals" in a March issue of the Village Voice, and now in the new issue of Vanity Fair. In the magazine's traditional issue-ending Proust Questionnaire, the playwright / screenwriter / director brings his terse, complete sentences to bear on subjects from... well, Mamet can speak for himself:

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
My idea of perfect happiness is a healthy family, peace between nations, and all the critics die. ...

If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be? If I were to die and come back as a person or thing, it would be a person. ...

What is your most treasured possession?
My most treasured possession is the urn containing the ashes of my dog Fluff. There is not much difference between contemplating the urn and looking at my current dog, asleep on the couch. But I do not have to walk the urn.

"I have tried to walk the urn, but its stout belly forbids it," Mamet reportedly wrote in an early draft of his questionnaire replies. "Fluff's still heart rejects pills, prods or fists. The urn is blind to me. The urn is blind to mercy. My couch dog's hind legs twitch, knowing that ashen end. Fuck that ashen end. Fuck that urn. Fluff got ugly, and ugly got Fluff. Arf. Huff. Harrumph."