Sure, Mark Morford has awards and a full time job doing what I wish I could be doing for a living. He has the adulation of deluded fans. He even lives way closer to a beach than I do.

But Mark Morford’s stunted soul isn’t a thing to envy. It’s not that he disagrees with my politics and my religion and my belief that Wal Mart isn’t the root of all evil; it’s that he believes the absolute worst about his opponents. It’s that his world is a twisted one where his professional mandate seems to revolve around vicious personal attacks and cruelty.

Example:

Barbara rules. Owns the house, despite how she hasn’t lived here in over 13 years. Laura can only look at her in numb awe, her own stiff skirt pleats appearing humble and small in comparison to Barb’s massive teal dress ensemble, so epic and balloon-like it would seem to envelope all it comes near, like a giant ocean algae bloom, a massive amoeba, a cloud of righteous know-it-allness that makes easy mockery of Laura’s little beige blouse of meek sexless humility. Barb is a force of nature, commanding the staff and chatting up the various heads of state and smiling at everyone with that glassy omnivorous stare. They all hate her.

See what I mean? It’s bad enough that the SF Gate considers Morford worthy of employment, but he’s like a bloodthirsty miniature poodle. In the long run, all his barking and biting don’t actually do much harm, but it irritates the hell out of the neighbors.

So, at 1:43 AM, while I’m saying my first “Happy Thanksgiving” to all y’all, let it be known that I’m thankful I’m not Mark Morford. At least there is some thread of decency still nurtured in my being whereas he seems to have gone right ‘round the bend.