Mark Morford is a wonderful columnist for the San Francisco Gate. If you google his name, the first result is a scathing op-ed entitled “Who Will Save The Children?!” and subtitled “Aww, heck. The FCC says curse words now cost $500,000! And your child might just hear one, and explode!” The column has been linked extensively throughout the blogosphere, and for good reason.

The world, it is a teeming reeking cauldron of wicked malevolent demons, with sharp pointy teeth and filthy mouths and really impressive porn collections, and each and every one of them wants nothing more than to suck the juicy pith from your helpless innocent child like Donald Rumsfeld drains color from the sky.

Morford’s premise is that our obsession with “protecting the children” from the evils of “nudity and swearwords” is a diversionary tactic. What should we really concern ourselves with?

But what actually should matter is that there are forces at play right now that are far more intent on devouring your child’s nubile soul — like, say, ultraviolent war images, and rampant obesity, and organized religion, and pharmecuetical companies, and the Olsen Twins — enerrgies that are molesting his/her sense of the world more than any hot genital reference or wanton exposed nipple could ever dream.

This guy is allowed to write for a major online publication? It is San Francisco, but still. Perusing his archived columns, one finds such gems as Because Dubya Said So!,” “Drug Up Your Teen Today!,” and “My Cell Phone Induces Orgasm.” Its all wonderfully shocking and witty and thought-provoking and hilarious. Its all wonderful.

Surprisingly, Morford won the 2003 “Best Online Columnist” Award from the National Society of Newspaper Columnists. He was interviewed by Steve Outing of Poynter and described his writing style like this:

Oh, man. I know what I strive for, but I also know I have a long way to go. It’s an evolution. I suppose I aim for one part DeLillo, one part David Foster Wallace, one part old Tom Robbins, one part stream of consciousness, one part Peets mocha, one part post-coital flush, one part orgasmic syntax abuse, one part nipple pierce for the AP style guide. It lives at the intersection of Divine and Ungodly. Where the long snake moan meets the cool intellectual margarita. Wry informed satirical thought-provoking absolutely essential effluvia to make you squirm and blush and laugh and sigh. I hope. I fail all the time. But that’s just part of the process.

Get all that? Funny thing is, he’s right, or at least as right as one can get when describing one’s work as “essential effluvia.” You’ll either love him or hate him, and if you’re anything like me, it will be the former sentiment.