After months of delay and unequivocal efforts to make things smaller and cut out the larger fish from the discussion, the “final statement” and “conclusion” has been delivered in the form of a conference call.
The basic message from National: There was no misconduct, get it through your thick fucking skull.
Also: It’s in the past! It doesn’t matter!
Also: You fucked up! You trusted us!
Fuck you, National. No wonder you are despised. You did fuck up. You did take liberties with the facts presented by the subsidiary, and it did a shitty self-serving job using the powers entrusted to it. You screwed us over.
This was not about civil liability. It was about fraternal honor. You lack the courage to even say “sorry” or “we should have done better.” No accountability. No contrition. No character.
The ad hominems on those who dare point out the shortcomings? No brotherhood.
I will honor my oaths, and maintain my brotherhood with my chapter, but I am done with you fuckstains. National is dead to me.
For most of the last 20 years or so, my kids would ask me about tattoos. My grandpa had a prison homemade one, my brother has several. I would always tell them I was not a big fan of them getting tattoos – as my children, they were perfect as is.
As a human being, an American, a college graduate and a third-degree member of Phi Sigma Kappa, I am aghast at the conduct of SAE at the University of Oklahoma. I’m not terribly surprised, though. SAE has always been synonymous with dickweed (at least at Western and ASU). Back in the day, SAEs were notorious moneyed assholes. At ASU, in just the last couple of years:
Thank you, Sirius 70s on 7. Thank you for transporting me back to 1982. Rae? Mae? Some Phi Mu with curly short hair. Somehow, a kegger ends with some face mashing in the upstairs mini room with this song in the background. Thanks for the memory that I can’t shake.
Better a fond memory than the herpes. Trust me on this – Todd S.
We’re off to SEMA. Yes, we’re meeting up with old classmates while there. No, there is not an agenda or an expectancy, except Vegas-y Vegasness, clogged with crazier-than-usual cars. And that’s plenty.
We would call it “the Chevette of 1980s mid-engined ‘sports’ cars,” except that it involves Russell the stoner. We nearly got in a fight with him about his previous car, a Pontiac T1000. We called it a Chevette by any other name: he was adamant that not only was it NOT merely a re-badged POS, it had “completely different wiring” and components.
Uh, no, sorry. Go hit that bong again, dude.
So, we’ll just say “Oh look” and be glad this one doesn’t have a JC Whitney vinyl bra like Russell’s.
The chapter: Let’s make a corporation to own the house. We’ll pay ourselves rent. We’ll make it endure for 30 years, to see how things go. All Phi Sigma Kappa members will be stakeholders. The state: Sounds like a plan.
Crip and Gingerman: Let’s just make the corporation permanent, so we don’t have to remember to re-up in 2021. The state: Sounds like a plan. Just file those annual reports.