Death of a Sleazeball

IT'S a lucky man who can write his own eulogy. And this, dear reader, is mine.

As I write this, I am surrounded by my friends, my beloved, and various hangers-on whose names I can never quite recall. To you, I dedicate this humble piece of prose.

Yes, it's true.

I'm dying.

For those of you who stood by me, through dark of night, through bounteous sunshine, in good times and in bad, through laughter and through tears, through bitter acrimony and parsimonious intrepidity, I extend my most heartfelt gratitude. For those of you who lent me money, I promise I'll try to come up with it before I kick the big one.

For those of you who cursed me, who hated me, who never read my column: I hope you're proud of yourselves now, shagstains. I weep bitter tears of anguish.

It all started about a week ago. There I was in the doctor's office, looking to score some glaucoma remedy, when all of a sudden the M.D. gives me this funny look.

"Christ, Rutger," he says. "You don't look so good. You look really sick."

"Just give me what I came for, buddy," says I.

"No, really," he says. "If I've ever seen a case of terminal premis overextenditus, I'm looking at one now."

"No way," I say. "How long have I got?"

"Well, with extreme care, maybe a month. But if you keep up your present lifestyle--drinkin', cussin', sweet-talkin' the ladies, with nary a moment to sleep or think up new material--I'd give you maybe one more week."

"Yikes," I say. "If I've only got seven days left on the old ticker I'd better get hopping on the good times."

If I have any regrets, it is that I never set up that pharmaceuticals pipeline for underdeveloped children in rural Africa. Every day thousands go without shelter, clothing, food, or illegal drugs. Now that I am faced with my own mortality, I realize that to be human is the most precious gift that God has given us.

Perhaps it's not too late. Perhaps, with your help, we really can make a difference. If you would like to make my expiration a happy one, please rush via U.S. Post any donation of smokable or ingestible material you feel you can spare to Rutger Fury, c/o The Harvard Crimson, Deputy Editorial Chairman, 14 Plympton St., Cambridge, Massachusetts 02138.

Ah, the bittersweet flame of lite is flickering out at last. So much, so many deeds left undone! So many sights left unseen! So many bashes left unabashed!

Ronald Reagan, where are you? My sight is growing dim. When I cross to the other side, will I meet your friendly spirit there? Or is it true what they say--that within the ruined shambles of your earthly coil, your spirit wanders still?

Ollie North! Are you there? Of all the kindred souls that passed in the night, yours was the most precious to me, for it was you, dear Ollie, who kept me from being called the slimiest grinning sleazebag on Earth.

Gorbachev, I didn't forget you, my Byelorussian buddy. I hear that you may plan to visit fair Harvard. If so, please lay a poppy on my mouldering grave. And let's get one thing straight for the record: that thing with Raisa was just a lark. I didn't mean anything by it.

But nothing shall I regret more than not being able to continue my service to the Crimson ed page, and to its readers. I think I shall never be quite so touched as when the editorial chairman tearfully took me in his arms and said, "You can't die, Rutger! How will we fill those 20 inches of space on Saturday's page?"

Ah, but it's true. And I'm sorry to be leaving my cherished friends. Perhaps, when you think of me, you could hum a few bars of the Rutger Furry Fan Club Anthem--do you still remember? It seems so many years ago; but I can still hear the fife and drums wafting through the early morning sunshine:

My baby, she knows what I dig,

A drinkin' an' a-strummin

An-a drivin' my rig.

But when I set my guitar down,

And go out for some fun,

There's just one thing that makes me big,

That's reading Rutger, son.

Rutger, Rutger, could run real far,

Stood about 10 feet high.

Rutger, Rutger, kilt a bar,

A fun-lovin' kind of a guy.

And that, dear reader, rhymes with goodbye.

Rutger Fury, formerly a living creature, was national political writer for the National Inquirer and a one-time friend of Jeffrey J. Wise.