- by Mark Morford Recall God And Fake Orgasms
Screw the whiny CA politicos and their PR machines. Let's recall things that really matter
Do you feel the pulse? The surging urge for delicious politician-free change? That's right! It's recall time!
Because this is your opening. This is your chance. Here is the insane inane circus of the California recall, and here is this huge gaping maw of political idiocy and infighting, and apparently they just really, really want you to know that all you really need is a million bucks and a million signatures and you too can change history to suit your whiny conservative whims. Ah, democracy.
Ha. You will show them. Because this is your chance. To harness the bitter energy of the bitchy little pundits and the hysterical media stories and the desperately weird Schwarzenegger campaign ads featuring all those "normal" citizens sitting around a classroom shooting the Mumbly Meat Man broad-stroke questions about CA's never-ending fiscal crisis as if they weren't talking to the Terminator, the big dumb action hero, Conan Kindergarten Cop himself. God but the world is strange.
But now is your chance. Leverage the hell out of all of it, make it personal, spin it all your way. They want a recall? You shall give them a recall.
Here is what you do: You ride the recall wave. Hop the glorious supercharged recall bandwagon. Only you do not stop with pallid politicos and desperate governor wanna-bes and Indian casinos and water rights and energy woes and talk of just what the hell to do with all those icky homeless and retired and mentally ill and newborn poor people.
You start with, say, beer commercials. Yes. Cast your vote now. Let us recall dumb frat guys toasting Michelob Lights and ogling anorexic frigid beer babes in loud bars. Let us recall beer-bellied lug nuts who wear grungy sweatshirts and baseball hats and last 1.7 minutes in bed before passing out and dreaming of, well, their next beer. Is that a good place to start?
But don't stop there. Let us, furthermore, recall hugely overweight football-jerseyed lumps hawking giant Round Table pizzas and sniffing the slices as if they were a fine wine, before jamming another hunk down their throats and clogging their arteries and saying good-bye to the notion of ever seeing their toes again. Recall the toxic garbage-food obesity epidemic.
Recall the idea that if your ass isn't making a permanent indentation in your $149 Ikea couch every Sunday for six hours straight during NFL season, you are somehow betraying the very notion of manliness and testosterone. This is your choice. You are the only voter that matters. Do you sense your power now?
Recall the toxic beauty myth. Recall Glamour and Cosmo and Modern Bride and the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition and every other mag that Photoshops the living hell out of Giselle's overpampered ass and makes you somehow believe true divinity lies in having just the right $400 Gucci purse and $500 Botoxed forehead and 10 Tips to Force Him to Marry Your Desperate Needy Self.
Recall broken vibrators. Recall fake orgasms. Recall Escalades. Recall gum-snapping Marina girls with names like Taylor and Dakota who can't parallel park those very Escalades because their cell is ringing and they forgot which way to turn the wheel because the L'Oreal Ultra Magenta has leeched into their brains.
Recall J.Lo. And Ben. Do it now.
Recall penny loafers and airline food and giant molded plastic lawn play sets for children that slowly bleach in the sun and last 15 million years and look like something hacked up by a screeching five-headed Wal-Mart hellbeast, and that sell for $38.97 and get used twice and are then left in the corner of the yard to pollute the planet forevermore.
Recall Monsanto. Oh dear god yes. Dump big agribiz, vile pesticides, food additives you can't pronounce but which they swear on a stack of buried cancer data won't hurt the integrity of your kids' bones over 10 years of sucking down corn-syrup solids and triglycerides and MSG. Vote for organic. Vote for locally produced, seasonal organic produce delivered to your door. Recall Safeway.
Recall Coke. Recall "Don't bother me, I'm eating" gluttonous slop. Recall those disturbing packets of flavored yogurt that come in those little plastic tubes at Target that don't need to be refrigerated, ever. You really want to put that into your body? Vote no.
Recall the Catholic Church. Oh sure, Catholic charities worldwide do some grueling and thankless work in some of the world's grimiest, most poverty-stricken places. But as any altar boy or desperately gay seminary student or casual reader of a best-selling Dan Brown novel can tell you, the church has covered up more vital spiritual history and religious truth and brutal violence in the name of God while inflicting more harm on the notion of true individual divinity than just about any organization in history.
Extend this vote to almost every organized money-hungry religion in modern times. Watch as lightning doesn't strike you dead. Vote for healthy lickable blasphemy. And while you're at it, recall the karmically poisonous notions of guilt, sin and hell. See? Isn't democracy fun?
And then, recall God. Not just any god, but that angry bitter Christian God, the one that says we should bomb with impunity and kill anyone who stands in the way of our petrochemical profits and our savage empire building.
The one who has apparently hand-picked America as his preferred land o' gluttony and who really loves dogma and hates choice and gays and book learnin' and European cars, the one who likes to count among His hollow self-righteous adherents born-again U.S. presidents who can't even spell "Buddha." You know the one.
Recall patriotism. Or, rather, recall the idea that patriotism somehow means if you don't sneer at the very idea of foreigners, if you don't somehow wish hot steaming death upon each and every detractor of America, if you don't wave the flag at least as high as your TV antenna and believe everything Rumsfeld & Co. hisses your way, you must be an impious fag traitor communist tree-hugger.
Recall the notion, in short, that if you have the gall to believe that peace and nonviolence and independent thought and personal spiritual questing and divine open-mouthed orgasms are the most patriotic notions of all, well, you do not belong in this fine country. Recall redneck thick-necked homophobic myopia.
Recall that stale recurring thought pattern. Recall that noxious diet, that sour road rage, that odious and stagnant treatment of your lover, wherein you have somehow forgotten the power of her eyes and the smell of her skin or the way he looks when he makes you dinner and laughs at sitcoms and sings old Def Leppard songs in the shower.
This is all within your power. This is all within your purview. They want you to think it's not, that you are weak and trembly and that terrorism is ever ready to swoop in and eat your children and rearrange all the stations on your car stereo. They want you to believe you are powerless and small. This is, of course, utter BS. Your vote counts, perhaps more than it ever has.
So you vote, with all your might, to do everything in your power on a day-to-day basis to crank your divinity and lick the left nipple of your own personal Jesus and discover that the god you seek is actually you, is your true Self.
And you beam that healthy sexy individual robustness out to the world every goddamn day, minimize the refined sugar and the garbage food and the stomping of the planet and maximize the orgasmic sighs and the organic highs and the holistic everything.
What, you want me to tell you to vote no on the recall, yes on Bustamante, e-mail your senator, complain to management? As if. That ain't the half of it.
Recall fear. Vote now to kiss with everything you've got, love deep, f--- with full intent, feel the divine's hot breath on your skin at every possible moment, buy the best wine you can afford, read your ass off, hunker down, grit your teeth, scream your joy.
There. See? Politics isn't so bad, after all.