It really doesn't 'sound reasonable' ... but Max's beloved Hoosiers win the college football crown, while he and Merrily serve as heavenly hosts with beer and fried crappie for St. Pete, etc.

 If Max Moss was right, and there is a God, then I'll bet he showed up to work late today after spending the night downing Sterling beer with Max after Indiana University won the national college football championship Monday night.

Max, a lifelong Hoosiers devotee and proud alum, died in October of 2020, always thinking that only his Hoosiers basketball team, especially with asshole coach Bob Knight beating up players and throwing chairs, would find sports success.

Now the Hoosier football team, which barely held off a feisty Miami squad, are the kings of Bloomington, Indiana. I'd say kings of the world, but I don't have that authority. Anyway, as soon as the game clock ticked down, I thought of Max, who was my journalism mentor, my biggest fan and also one of my best friends from the last three-quarters of a century. I figure Max, Clarence, St. Pete, Gabriel and The Big Boss all watched the game together. Max chain-smoked during the game -- he already died of cancer, so what's the matter with few smokes in heaven? can't kill you twice -- and kept on making sure everybody had a Sterling beer. Or, he also had his beloved 7 and 7s on ice as backups. Max also likely passed out victory cigars to the guys, while his wife, Merrily, made sure everyone had drinks and she fried up crappie for the guys.

Former IU football coach Lee Corso, who is not dead yet, also was allowed to attend, since his health is bad and it kept him away from GameDay Monday night. He was just a guest of Max and God at this point, but he was watching the game and picking out his furniture for the future.

It was a great game and also an example of how things have changed in the NIL and portal era, since Coach Cignetti dumped the squad that was at IU when he got there two years ago and he went out, cash in hand and furiously chewing gum and glowering, and bought or recruited the best talent he could find. I do wonder what type of NIL money it takes to make a guy move from Berkeley, California, to Bloomington, Indiana?

Max Moss spent the evening watching his Hoosiers win the national football crown

I should also mention that here, on the ground of the U.S. (off the coast of Greenland), our dear "young" News Brother Jim "Flash" Lindgren and his red-hot wife Brenda Myers (who was my intern back in my sports writing days at the old Leaf-Chronicle and whose father, the late Forrest Myers, who likely nursed a 7 and 7 while sitting with Max) also are IU alums. Like idiots, they majored in journalism, which is a dead profession. Rob Dollar and I told you that was coming in our best-selling obituary to newspapering, "When Newspapers Mattered: The News Brothers and their Shades of Glory" available on amazon. He and I both were run out of journalism, finding out too late, that God had put a time limit on newspapering. Rob was jerked out of the newsroom with a bright, red noose on his throat. I was dragged to the curb by a team of Korporate horses' asses.

I'm sure there was wild, X-rated fun in the Flash Household. Or perhaps they spent the evening watching the game with their fellow Indianapolis Swedes (they are part of a group of Swedish descendants who get together frequently and play with each others' pickled herring.)

Just joking. I love the Flashes.

But Monday night was for Max. He sucked hard on a Winston red and threw the butt toward earth when the game ended.

I do mention that he had great company, but one of his friends, Bob Knight, wasn't watching the game with the angelic sports enthusiasts and their Big Boss.

When Knight died, he tried to make it through the portal and go to heaven, but no one wanted him and he went straight to hell.

By the way, I really do miss Max. He was like a big brother and he taught me many things about journalism, including the art of chain-smoking while stalking the sidelines with a camera in one hand and a scorebook in the other.

So, when you hit your knees tonight, I want you to pray that Max is enjoying this historic moment in sports.

Newspapers are dead, as 'paper' and people mean nothing to Korporate assholes; Atlanta's historic daily slaughtered at age 157

In looking for something new and of value to News Brothers and our apostles today, I was looking online for a good story about the Atlanta Journal-Constitution ending its 157-year print history and going fully digital January 1. Interesting, slight attention was paid to the human cost, not just in the newsroom, but in the pressroom and other things associated with putting out a newspaper.

I did find many stories justifying this mad butchery of an American institution, but most of them were behind paywalls.

I sure enjoyed a good Saturday night, waiting for my cohorts, to finish their stories so I could oversee Sunday's newspaper. NewsPAPERS are dead, you know, unless you had your head up your ass.

I admit to being old and in the way. And, at 74, most of my life has gone by. But my life, and it was my whole adult life, was dedicated to print journalism. You know, the kind of thing where you would print Aunt Bessie's obit, Uncle Elmo holding up a giant catfish, in-depth stories about the county commission, Little League ball scores, full-scale coverage of cops and courts, movie theater times, TV listings and maybe a nationally awarded columnist writing tales of real folks.

That kind of newspaper is dead now. Oh, there are a few print publications, like The Leaf-Chronicle, where you can read the latest press releases from Fort Campbell and the Chamber of Commerce honors on the front page.

Of course, getting rid of people who loved real print journalism was part of the motivation for sticking a flaming poker up my ass 18 years ago at The Tennessean.

You guys and gals -- even those who deserted journalism to go into public relations -- all loved old-fashioned newspapers. And now you are all fucked.

No going back, as my best pal, Colonel Dollar laments.

I have one request of the korporate amerikan assholes who killed print publications. Since there no longer are pages of paper filling up with ink as they roll through the presses, I wish those bastards would stop calling them "digital newspapers." There's no fucking paper involved in these soulless and cold on-line distributors of drivel.

Fuck them all.

Now I can get on with my day.

Love, Flapjacks

P.S. -- As an aside, I know that most of you have neither purchased nor read the book Colonel Dollar and I wrote that celebrated newspapering while forecasting the korporate assassination of the industry. "When Newspapers Mattered: The News Brothers and their Shades of Glory" remains available on amazon. Some assholes, who still had "newspaper" jobs, attacked me for writing something so pessimistic about their "profession." Most of them have since lost their jobs and are rotting in PR offices or on their front porches asking "Why?" through their tears and rotted teeth. We answer that question. By the way, when it was published, I gave a copy to Karen Brown, then top dog at Poynter Institute, which then was the most-respected newspaper think tank. She thanked me for the book and said Rob and I were "very brave" for taking on Korporate Amerika. I continue to pay for my stance and my beliefs. I know we have lost. And I can't believe most of you assholes haven't even read the book.

Photo by (I believe) Toby Tobler or Larry McCormack or the then-late W..J. Souza: Leaf-Chronicle Associate Editor Tim Ghianni waits for the last story for the front page of a Sunday morning newsPAPER. It could have been about a murder, a zoning issue, a sex scandal or an escaped monkey. Oh, meanwhile, he was waiting for Foston's or McReynolds-Nave and other funeral homes to drop off obituary information for free publication, sometimes taking up a page and a half, of the newsPAPER for free as a service to the community. If I needed more space to get all the obits in, I'd talk with Glover Williams and Ronnie Kendrick, and we'd go up a couple of pages, filling any excess up with a house ad if necessary. Meanwhile, across the newsroom, Jerry Manley designs the front page after one last edit, Rob Dollar checks in with the cop shop for information about a deadly wreck or a prostitution sting and Larry Schmidt and Ricky G. Moore work on the agate page to make sure bowling and Little League scores get in the newspaper.

Schmidt grabs a smoke, reads the scores, and begins his two-finger typing speed to grind out a local golf story for the jump page of the sports section. 1 a.m. beer or flapjacks await.