Brimfield is the fellow who sent me the following e-mail message at 9:48 on the evening of Jan. 24, 2000: "You should personally apologize to every tree that had to die to carry your dribble about a stupid cat joke in last week's N&O. I just moved to N.C., and if that is your best effort at a news column, I will have that much less to read every morning in the paper."

I found a printed copy of that message last week, after launching an archaeological excavation of my desk and file cabinet. I had no recollection of a column about a "stupid cat joke," so I had to look it up. Sure enough, seven years ago I wrote about a Chapel Hill student's fruitless crusade to get David Letterman to tell a joke about a cat she'd gotten from a candy wrapper.

OK, maybe that column wasn't my finest hour. But "dribble?" C'mon, Jonathan, you're killing me. If you're gonna scorch my earth, at least get the term right. It's "drivel."

Anyway, I caught up to Brimfield a few days ago to give him this bit of news:

Jonathan, it's safe to read the paper again. This is the last bit of dribble you'll ever get from me. Here endeth my column.

I'm tempted to explain this turn of events by vaguely stating that I've decided to return custody of this space to the News & Observer's overlords, that I'm looking for a new adventure in life, that it's time to make way for a new generation of columnists, blah blah blah. But that would commit the journalistic sin of truth-shading. Fact is, I had to be dragged away from this column. Threw a tantrum and generally behaved like a spoiled child, I did. But it was all to no avail. A sweeping reorganization of the news staff is under way, and I've been assigned to a new gig. I will become the N&O's "profiler" -- which is to say, I'll be writing profiles of notable and interesting people.

That, or I'll be compiling psychological snapshots of serial killers. The details are still being worked out.

In either case, what I won't be doing anymore is writing this column. And that's too bad, because (1) there were a dozen or so people who liked it, (2) it gave me a job title that was impressive to, speaking theoretically here, Hooters waitresses, (3) it was always fun to hear elderly Southern matrons refer to "your col-yoom," and (4) it performed the valuable social function of giving the Jonathan Brimfields of the world something upon which to focus their ire, which will probably now be directed at other targets. (Like editors. Have at it, Johnny. Don't get all soft on me now.)

Actually, Brimfield turned out to be a decent guy. We chatted for a while after I tracked him down last week to get permission to reprint his 2000 message. "I vaguely remember writing that e-mail," he said.

Brimfield went on to say that not only is my departure from this space not good news, he'd even refined his opinion: "I've become a fan over time."

That was a gratifying note on which to bow out. I hope that momentum of good karma holds when I have lunch at Hooters today.

Speaking theoretically.

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