I was reading a story online yesterday when a line in the piece made me stop and re-read it.

The story was from the Indianapolis Star, and it was about a person who was injured during the filming of a stunt for the “Transformers 3” movie.

After reading that the police did, in fact, confirm that someone was hurt, we got to this line from the “reporter”:

“A hospital administrator, who refused to identify herself, said she had no information on the victim of the accident, nor the extent of the victim’s injuries.”

Well . . . good thing you put her in the story, then!!

What, may I ask, does putting that line in the story add? If you paraphrase it, it could say:

“This reporter talked to a woman who was leaving the hospital and who appeared to possibly work there, but she had absolutely nothing to say on the topic.”

How does this kind of shoddy journalism happen?

Did the journalist think that she was required to “quote” someone from the hospital, even if that “person” refused to be quoted, and had absolutely nothing to say?

Or was the journalist just lazy, and rather than trying to get past this unnamed “administrator” to someone who actually knew something, she just “quoted” (to use the term mildly) the first person she came across so her boss would know she at least went inside the hospital?

Was she under so much pressure to file the story fast before the 24-hour-news cycle got it and beat the hell out of it that she just didn’t have the TIME to get an actual quote, or actual information?

Regardless of how it happened, it’s shit journalism.

I mean, we don’t even pull that kind of shit journalism in our employee publications, where we practice all kinds of other shit journalism. I mean, if we can’t get a quote for one of our stories, at least we have the decency to make one up!

Can you imagine if we did what this reporter did? We’d have lines in our internal stories like this

For a story on a major company initiative: “A company executive, who refused to be named, said that he had absolutely no information on the initiative, and would not confirm that the initiative actually exists.”

For a story on a major project in the company: “A mid-level manager, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, said he had no idea how the project was progressing, and refused to put any sort of timetable on the project, or outline any benchmarks for success.”

For a story on a new benefits plan: “An HR executive, who requested anonymity because she is not authorized to speak on the subject, said there was no information regarding the new plan that the company is releasing at this point.”

Here’s a good rule of thumb for writers and journalists everywhere: Don’t put someone into the story if they have nothing to add.

If you spend any time on Facebook (and who doesn’t, these days?), you know that after reading someone’s “status update,” you have four choices:

Choice #1: Read it and move on to the other 75,000 status updates that people have posted in the past hour.

Choice #2: Read it and say to your spouse, regarding the person who posted the update: “So-and-so is an asshole.”

Choice #3: Read it and hit the “like” button, to show the poster that you like the status. (There is no “dislike” button, which is why option #2 exists).

Choice #4: Read it and hit the “comment” button to join a discussion about that person’s status.

I think we need more options. The other day, I read a status update that I thought was kind of cute: a birthday message from a mother to her daughter. So, I hit the “like” button.

And with that action, I thought I completed my end of the Facebook social contract. You posted, I liked your post, let’s move on to other things, shall we?

But no, that’s not how it works. Because now, whenever I either “like” or “comment” on something, any time anyone ELSE comments on that same status, I get e-mails alerting me to that fact.

I don’t want those e-mails. I liked the damn status, and that’s enough. I want my relationship with that particular status update to end once I hit the like button.

It’s like a one-night stand versus an ongoing relationship: If I wanted an ongoing thing, I would have commented, not just hit the like button.

Because once you comment, you should be committed. People might comment on your comment. The original poster might reply to you. To just blunder into someone’s Facebook post, spew a comment, and then move on, is the move of a social buffoon . . . comparable to walking up to a group of people at a party, blurting out your opinion on what they are talking about, and then leaving immediately before anyone can reply.

But “liking” something isn’t the same as commenting. Liking something shouldn’t put me in a long-term relationship.

(I know what you’re going to say: I can change my preferences on Facebook so that I don’t get e-mails when someone comments on something I “liked.” I don’t have the time, nor the inclination, to figure out how to do that.)

I can’t put it any plainer: We need more options than “like.” Here are my choices. Please feel free to add your own:

Addition #1: The afore-mentioned “dislike” button. That way, when someone posts a narcissistic, self-serving post that irritates you, you can hit the “dislike” button. This simple option could dramatically improve the quality of status updates. If enough people dislike asshole posts, said assholes might not post as much.

Addition #2: The “You’re an idiot” option. This would be for when you really disagree with someone, but don’t want to get into an online firefight with them in the comments section. It doesn’t have to mean that you think the person is an idiot all the time. You just happen to think that this particular post just happens to be idiotic.

For example, when Obama passed his ill-conceived, poorly-thought-out, reckless Health Care Reform Bill that will lower the quality of health care, add 45 layers of government bureaucracy to the system, and quite possibly bankrupt this country, lots of people on Facebook put out status updates saying some variation of:

“Yes! THAT is change we can believe in!”

I don’t want to debate health care with these people. It never does any good. For most of them, Obama could shit in his hand and they would say: “Yes! That is change we can believe in!”

But I want them to know that I think they’re idiots, on this particular topic. So I would gladly hit the “You’re an idiot” button and move on with my life.”

Likewise, if anybody posts anything positive about Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck, or Ann Coulter, I don’t want to waste time talking to them . . . but I’d like to tell them what idiots I think they are.

My third and final addition would be a “I like this, but I don’t love it” button. This means that I like your status, I enjoyed my time with it, but I’m done with it now so please don’t send me any e-mails if people comment on it.

If I really liked it enough to sign up for additional e-mails, I would have commented. Since I didn’t, please leave me alone.

I think those simple three additions would dramatically improve the quality of life on Facebook. Do you have any you’d like to add?

Our “Unbelievable Quote of the Week” comes from Mexico City, where the Mexican Supreme Court recently legalized gay marriage.

The ruling did not sit well with the archbishop of Guadalajara, Juan Sandoval Iniguez, however. Archbishop Iniguez took some time away from covering up the Church’s pedophile priest scandal to comment on the ruling.

First, he accused the Mexican Supreme Court justices of accepting bribes to produce the “bucket of spittle” ruling that allows same-sex couples to marry.

Then, he had a question for reporters during a news conference:

“How would you like to be adopted by a couple of faggots or lesbians?” he asked them.

At that same the news conference, this devout holy religious man of God also issued his opinion on the topic of allowing gay couples to adopt children.

“Who in his right mind would allow children to be given in adoption to pairs of faggots and lesbians?” he said.

If this clown is a man of the cloth, the cloth must be a dirty diaper . . . because he’s a real shithead.

As regular readers of this blog know, I have an older brother who has severe cerebral palsy.

Nicky, who is now 46 years old, has spent his life in a wheelchair, and needs help with the most basic things in life—eating, drinking, going to the bathroom, turning on a TV, blowing his nose.

But Nicky knows what he wants. For example, he loves McDonalds, and God help you if you show up to visit him without a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake.

He knows that when he comes to my house for Thanksgiving, he wants to sit on the balcony, even if it’s 25 degrees outside and he’s the only one out there. He wants coffee in the morning. He wants pop with his food. He wants to listen John Denver and Simon and Garfunkel. He wants to sleep until at least 10 a.m.

And for the last five or six years, Nicky has wanted something very specific: To go on our boat, “The Friendly Confines,” which is docked in Lake Michigan.

In fact, every time I’ve seen him the past five years or so, the first thing out of his mouth has always been: “When am I going on the boat?”

“Soon,” I’d say. “Soon, buddy.” But I always had a bad feeling in my stomach . . . because I was scared to death of taking him on the boat. I’m not scared of much . . . but for some reason, this thing had me by the balls.

I wasn’t sure how I’d get him from his chair to the boat. I carry him up three flights of stairs every time he comes for an overnight visit at our condo . . . but a boat is different. A boat moves. A boat isn’t stable. And a boat is on water.

I had horrible visions of dropping him in the harbor and not being able to save him.

And . . . once he was on the boat, where would he sit? Boat seats are not made for people with cerebral palsy who have little control over their own body. There aren’t any seat belts. What if he fell off the seat and broke a bone? What if he somehow fell over the side into Lake Michigan?

I thought about strapping him to the front, like Bill Murray in “What About Bob?” but if the local papers ever got hold of that photo, I’d probably be arrested for abuse.

So I did what most people always do when they are scared . . . I put it off. I stalled.

“Soon,” I’d say when he’d ask me about the boat. “Next year for sure,” I’d say. “We were hardly on the boat this year, Nick,” I’d say. “Next year will be a better year, and we’ll do it for sure.”

Well, next year never happened, and I always felt lousy about it.

Then, this year, something happened that forced my hand.

Every summer for the past 40 years or so, Nicky has spent eight weeks at Shady Oaks, a summer camp for kids and adults with cerebral palsy.

It’s the highlight of his life. In January, he starts counting down the days until camp starts in June. At camp, he has his own private counselor, and he gets to swim and have bonfires and go to parties and do crafts and all the other stuff people do at camp.

Well, in what is a vicious Catch-22, the price of Shady Oaks has gone up dramatically every year, as they lose more and more campers who can’t afford to go. And the more campers who drop out because they can’t afford it, the more the price goes up.

And this year, for the first time in 40 years, Nicky couldn’t afford to go for the full eight weeks. Even with my entire family chipping in, and my mom working hundreds of volunteer hours to raise money, we could only send him for four weeks.

Needless to say, he was devastated.

And my mom, who has dedicated most of her entire to Nicky’s happiness, was even more devastated.

When I talked to her on the phone a couple of weeks ago, she had an idea:

“You know, Nicky really wants to go on the boat,” she said.

No kidding, I thought.

“I think now would be a great time to do it,” my mom continued, not knowing that the little gerbil of fear was already gnawing away at my stomach lining.

“It would really lift his spirits and make him forget about camp for a while,” she finished.

Well Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick . . . there it was. What kind of sissy would I have to be to continue to stall, when my mom made it so clear that this needed to happen.

So I said screw it. If he drowns, he drowns, It thought. At least he would have gotten on the boat before he died (unless I dropped him in the harbor). So we set the day for Friday, August 20.

The day dawned clear and hot, the wave report was favorable, and mom brought Nicky down to the harbor for this first boat ride.

And it was a piece of cake.

Cindy and Zach held the boat close to the pier, so I could sit Nicky on the edge of the boat while my mom held him steady. I then climbed around him and lifted him to the back seat of the boat. Done. It took about 45 seconds, after five years of putting it off.

And we were off. Mom sat next to Nicky, holding on to him so he wouldn’t slide off the seat . . . and we had the time of our lives.

I thought going up the Chicago River would be Nicky’s favorite . . . but it turns out he’s a daredevil. He loved going fast. He loved getting wet. He loved hitting the waves.

He howled with laughter almost the entire time. As did my Mom.

Later, after a glorious dinner of grilled sausages and vegetables in the harbor, when we were packing up to leave, my mom said:

“I will never forget the look on his face today. Thank you.”

No . . . thank you, Mom. Thanks for forcing my hand. Thanks for making me be a better man, and a better brother.

Not to sound preachy, but there’s a lesson here. Sometimes, whether it’s a work thing or a personal thing, you have to just do it, and let the chips fall.

Maybe at work that means challenging the approval process, or refusing to accept “the way things have always been done around here.”

Maybe on a personal level, it means facing a fear you’ve never faced, or doing the right thing when the right thing makes you feel like throwing up.

My friends and family know that I like to throw around the phrase, “Let’s not be afraid of life” a lot.

Usually, as my pal David Murray points out, it usually means, “Let’s not be afraid of having another martini,” or “Let’s not be afraid to order the $54 Porterhouse.”

But sometimes, “Let’s not be afraid of life,” really means, “Let’s not be afraid of LIFE.”

For those of you who know Nicky, or for those of you who would like to meet him, here’s a very short video clip of the day that Zach captured on his Flip cam.

The one thing I can’t stand in columnists and commentators is when they begin a column, or a blog, or a talk-show segment by establishing a “fact” and then use that “fact” as the basis of the rest of their content.

Rush Limbaugh, of course, is famous for this. He’ll say something like, “Obama is an unrepentant Socialist who has nothing but contempt for America and its capitalist system.”

And then go on to rant about that “fact” as if Obama himself had, in the past, actually said: “I am an unrepentant Socialist who has nothing but contempt for America and its capitalist system.”

It’s a cheap way to get through a column, and it’s a bullshit way to make an argument.

You wouldn’t expect such shoddy practices at a serious magazine like The Atlantic. But that’s just what I found there, in an opinion piece by a dude named Garrett Epps, a former reporter for the Washington Post who teaches courses in constitutional law at the University of Baltimore.

Epps was writing about James J. Kilpatrick, the conservative commentator who passed away this week.

Epps’ main point was that in all the obituaries and writings about Kilpatrick since he died, people seemed to forget that he was a rabid proponent of segregation, and a blatant racist. In fact, he once tried to write an article for the Saturday Evening Post based on this thesis: “The Negro race, as a race, is in fact an inferior race.”

I’ve got no problem with Epps wanting to make sure that people remember what a moral scumbag Kilpatrick was for much of his life. I think “Was a racist” should be on his tombstone.

But Epps takes the coward’s way out in his column, by starting the piece with a “fact” that helps him prove his point. Here’s his beginning:

“Americans honor history not so much by forgetting it as by turning into a Disney movie. Nothing too scary, nothing ambiguous, above all nothing shameful. The Civil War was a big mistake that really had nothing much to do with slavery. The internment of the Japanese and Japanese American was a forgivable burst of enthusiasm. Segregation was a slight breach in manners; Martin Luther King was a jolly cross between Polonius and Santa Claus.”

This, of course, lets him lead into his critique of people who are remembering only Kilpatrick’s journalist talents, and glossing over his misguided moral stances . . . in much the same way we gloss over the Civil War, segregation, slavery, etc. etc.

The only problem? Epps’ opening is complete and utter bullshit. Is there anyone out there who really thinks the Civil War had nothing to do with slavery? What kind of people is Epps talking to? Milita members in Montana who live in bunkers in the woods, waiting for their chance to cleanse the white race of all impurities?

And most of the people I know who know about the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II know that it was a horrible, awful mistake, and one our government has since apologized repeatedly for.

And segregation a slight breach in manners? I don’t know what kind of assholes Epps hangs out with, but if the people in his life think segregation was simply bad manners, and that Martin Luther King was a “jolly cross between Polonius and Santa Claus,” it sounds as if he hosts BYOH (Bring Your Own Hood) parties at his house.

The problem, which an accomplished writer and teacher such as Mr. Epps should realize, is that setting up your column with such a massive line of bullshit doesn’t strengthen your argument. It weakens it. Because it calls into question the rest of your “facts.”

It would be like writing a column in defense of Israel, and staring it by saying:

“Most people laugh off the Holocaust, or at least think it was overblown and exaggerated. The people in Israel don’t have that luxury.”

Shame on you, Mr. Epps. I hope you’re not teaching your students these cheap tricks.