Justin, you’re seriously delusional. In what little fantasy world does Pulp Fiction rate 10 stars? Maybe if your scale goes to 11 . . .

So I have to say: Justin, you’re going soft. You’re handing out ratings stars like they were stale candy corn (or is that redundant?). I’ve been worried about this for a long time now, but how do you tell your best friend “I care about you, man, but your critical faculties are completely whacked”?

I mean, really — Quentin Tarantino’s brilliant dialogue, the career-defining performances by John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson, the humor that’s wrenched almost alchemically out of horrifying violence, the inventive plot twists, narrative construction and cameos, the realization that Bruce Willis was destined to do some excellent work in the years to come — are you seriously trying to say that this truly excellent film rates higher than 9.5 stars? You must be smoking crack.

So go ahead and suck up to Tarantino and his legion of starry-eyed fanboys. Glossing over this film’s infinitesimal deficiencies may contribute to the general decline in the quality of American cinema, but it’s no skin off my nose. Or something. The real world will still be here waiting for you when you come to your senses.