Not to flog a horse that, if not dead, is at this point in mortal danger of expiring. But yesterday, someone shot another bullet into the dying animal that is the newspaper.
It was not a fatal shot, but the accumulation of wounds must trouble even the most blindly optimistic of us. Moreover, this was a rather insulting shot, an embarrassing one, even, one that strikes at dignity itself.
To put it into other words, it is as if someone shot the New York Times in the balls.
Way back when, when I was college, I used to work at a newspaper, on the editorial side. And we often made fun of the business department -- also called the dark side -- for doing anything for a penny. The joke we repeated most often was that the business department would gladly sell full page ads on the front page.
Now it seems the joke is on us. It ain't a full page ad, true, but your heart has to break just a little.
Somewhere, The Sun's former business managers are doing a happy dance.
The only solace for the editorial side is that maybe, just maybe, the dark side will let us raise the thermostat one degree in celebration. Maybe we won't need to smuggle in ghetto space heaters. Maybe we'll be able to take our shirts off and not immediately regret the decision, instead waiting until the morning to regret the decision.
True, I no longer work there, but I know people who do. And I empathize with them. Now they won't have to wonder whether the beer will stay colder in the fridge or on the desk.
In any case, ads on the front page are an unfortunate trend, but we all must make compromises in order to survive. I mean, we all need steak on the table.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to report to my pimp.
Update: The End is Nigh! cry the not-so-distressed masses.
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