Speak Out, a special phone line which readers can call to offer comments, complaints and ideas to a tape recorder, has long been a popular feature for this paper.

Callers, whose comments are transcribed and printed daily, are free to anonymously spout out whatever crackpot ideas or gripes they wish. A number of those gripes have at times been directed at a certain smug columnist.

For such Speak Out People who have been so kind to me and supportive of the opinions expressed in this space, I offer you cause to rejoice.

No, this paper is not offering professional counseling for chronic Speak Out callers, though we would like to reiterate a recent Surgeon General's report which recommends that people who call Speak Out more than three times a week really make an effort to improve their social lives.

The real cause for excitement is that this is the final column I will write for this newspaper.

The demise of the column was brought about early this week when federal agents raided the newsroom and hauled me off in leg irons.

It seems that federal law prohibits use of sarcasm and satire, which due to their caustic qualities are classified as hazardous materials, except by those licensed through the Environmental Protection Agency's Division of Irony. Also allowed to practice such activities are those under Department of Defense contracts to develop sarcasm-based technologies with which to hurt the feelings of America's enemies in the event of future armed conflict.

During a trial on charges of use and distribution of a controlled literary device, I was forcibly removed from the courtroom for continually screaming that the new federal courthouse slated for Cape Girardeau should be built on the site of old St. Francis Hospital, contrary to government plans.

I was subsequently sentenced to the federal prison in Marion, where I have reserved the Pete Rose suite. As part of my punishment, I will be forced to write out the phrase "I will not make fun of Jackson" 500 billion times.

However, while I'm still out on bail, let me wrap up a few loose ends:

-- Many readers apparently frequently napped during high school literature classes, particularly during the bits on satire, leading to misunderstandings concerning the actual intent of some of the words I've written.

Writers using this literary technique -- satire, not misunderstanding -- approach a subject using derision, irony or wit. Satirical comments are not meant to be taken literally.

So, to the gentleman who canceled his subscription because he thought I really meant that Jackson should change its name because U.S. president and Indian fighter Andrew Jackson, after whom the town is named, is not compatible with the local high school mascot, the Indian: Please renew your subscription; I was joking.

-- I don't actually have anything against the city of Jackson. In fact, it's quite a pleasant place with mostly good and friendly people.

However, Jacksonians have a bit of a complex arising from their morbid fear of their town being considered as a bedroom community -- or, horror of horrors, a suburb -- of her larger sister to the east, Cape Girardeau. Thus they bristle at any perceived criticism from the other side of Interstate 55.

But due to the growth explosion in Jackson, there is much more going on over there worth making fun of than in Cape Girardeau. Jackson is experiencing myriad changes and growing pains, and such things always make for easy targets. Nothing personal.

-- In the 1990s, it has become extremely hip for people to get tattoos. I had at times voiced in the newsroom that although I'm not opposed to the practice, I would not get one because it wouldn't be worth the money.

When it came time yesterday for the traditional going away present from my coworkers, instead of the standard pen and stationery set, I was presented with a gift certificate for the local tattoo parlor.

I suppose that's what I get for opening my mouth.

Accompanying the gift certificate was a bottle of exceptional tequila to ensure a frame of mind conducive to actually going through with the tattooing. (I plan to get Rush Limbaugh's mugshot on my bum.)

I could not help but feel touched. As most bikers know, there is no better way to say you care than with tattoos and tequila.

-- As I prepare to begin another job -- if you really thought I was going to prison, reread the section on satire -- I find myself experiencing some slight trepidation concerning the future.

Taking a new job is like buying an album for just one song. Yeah, it might turn out to be another "Abbey Road," but you might get stuck with a mere "Get the Knack," with nothing to show for your 15 bucks except "My Sharona."

In closing, to all of you Speak Out People who said I am sarcastic, annoying, cynical, crusty and an all-around unpleasant person, I have only one thing to say:

Thanks for noticing.

Marc Powers had been a member of the Southeast Missourian news staff since Feb. 14, 1994.