As you all know, my spiritual father, Charles Bukowski, admonished his novitiates for thinking that their lives meant anything or their efforts would be rewarded, no matter how ambitiously noble and
Anyone recall the halycon days when these dingbats and dongholes spent time finding a way to make it against the law to put a remote camera in the tank of a portapotty after someone did just that at the Rose Festival? Oregonadians (living in our wunnerful cooperative community police state) at the time were shocked to discover that there was no law to charge the pervert who installed the cam. He was allowed to go free and develop a series of Web sites that exploited modern technology and primitive jurisprudence to amass an obscene fortune by harnessing the ineptitude of ordinary buttheads to master social media.
Ever vigilant in their determination to be the most politically, emotionally, religiously, and liberally laughable state in the NOMF, many ordinary voting age Oregasmic idiots argued at the time that if such behavior were not against the law, it should be, and the usual hilarity and inanity ensued. I'm sure Ken Kesey died laughing — looking back, forward, and in place.
I used to read sections of the ORS as part of my ludicrous career working for ludicrous middle managers who would more gladly squat on their own heads for comfort than ask WTF are they working for (or — more frequently — not working for). Looking at that useless compendium of crap on a bookshelf is bad enough. Realizing that the tapeworm it hides would be truly terrifying, if it wasn't so funny. I'm sure Kyron himself would be laughing, if anyone bothered to tell him what the world is really like before he went missing.
So adding another section to the ORS is like pulling an Anthony Wiener and posting your pud on You Tube.
I often never went to school, because I could make good money elsewhere, usually breaking the law. My folks never once got a message that I wasn't where I was supposed to be. In fact, I had to call them up one day after getting mugged on the way to Brooklyn Tech and coming to at Union Station. My head still hurts.
This is not news, has never been news, and that this dying print publication has staked it's continued existence on a story about a dysfunctional collection of embarrassing posers who managed to forget about their kid is the kind of story that makes me joyous that there is no God, no justice, and no free lunch.