Recall God

Mark Morford takes the "Recall" fad one step further. Snippet:

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.

That's just the tip of Mark's iceberg.