What Jesus reads when he's naked
By Mark Morford
Often do I hear the scintillating words, "Oh sweet Jesus Mark, that column you just wrote about neurotic fundamentalists/the Zen of Obama/divine kinkiness/Canada's vile oilsands/gay Vatican lust/the need for more awe in the workplace just made my day/blasted coffee through my nose/completely wrecked my fragile relationship with my angry, born-again sister in Florida, and for that I should probably thank you.
"Not only that (these fine voices often continue), but so orgasmic/overcooked was that piece of writing that I decided before I even made it past the headline/second paragraph/part where you mention genital tattoos/high-fructose corn syrup/dark matter that I would forward it on to a select group of like-minded Wiccans/inmates/Texas Board of Education members, just to make them smile/convince them to sleep with me/ensure they hunt me down like a Mormon lesbian in Salt Lake City. Just FYI."
Yes, I get that a lot. Sometimes such sentiments are even followed by the hugely generous suggestion/drunken bar bet that I should consider gathering the finest, wildest and most incendiary columns I've ever written into some sort of bound, printed material that you can easily transport and about which you will not worry if you accidentally drop in an active volcano/leave behind at the NRA meeting/in the fetish dungeon. It's a wonderful sentiment, and I've been deeply flattered by it for years.
So I decided to do exactly that. ...
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