dear reader, the sense of pride and accomplishment I felt when Time Magazine Editor-in-Chief John Forthwright approached me several months ago with the suggestion that I write a retrospective column in their fine publication. With these, the first fumbling steps of the new millennium, it is perhaps finally time to reflect on my accomplishments, the many friendships I have forged, and most importantly the stories that gripped the world, in which I was glad to have played a part, however small.

I was in new York, I remember, when Mr. Forthwright first offered me the chance at a retrospective in his magazine. CBS had asked me to show the "journalistic ropes" to a young reporter named Marcy. I don't know how many "journalistic ropes" I could show her! But I certainly tried. Marcy had been shadowing me throughout the week, and was eager to learn. She reminded me a lot of myself at that age, and we got along instantly. However, given that she was due back at the CBS head office by the end of the week, this meant I only had five days in which to attempt to bed her — so had to move quickly.

Luckily, however, my attempts at vigorous seduction had moved along much more smoothly than I had planned. I was confident that Marcy would succumb, as so many before her, to the irresistable proposal that she get the Rather Fantastic brand of copious love-making. And so it was somewhat bothersome that—just as I'd asked what fabric her blouse was made of and was leaning in for my watertight flirtation offensive ("It's felt now")—Mr . Forthwright spotted us and walked over.

"Hello Dan," Forthwright said, giving my hand a cursory shake before turning his attention to the stunning, inifinitely pluggable Marcy. "And who is this lovely young lady?" he asked, taking her hand gently. I could read him like a book.

"This is Marcy, I'm showing her the ropes," I said, moving between the two. "Hmm, you seem to have some lint on your jacket," I added, and under the ruse of leaning in to brush away the offending item, whispered in his ear: "Back off, Forthright, or I'll choke the damn life out of your body."

Forthright blanched immediately; he knew I could make a body disappear if I had to. To his credit, he bounced back quickly, offering flustered apologies to the effect that he had an appointment elsewhere. Marcy seemed disappointed; I positioned myself out of her field of vision and maintained eye contact with Forthright throughout his departure—as if to say, "That's right, asshole. Keep right on walking."

A week later, I received a concilliatory fruit basket from him, delivered to my penthouse office at CBS. (By the way, the Marcy girl? Let's just say, it's felt now, if you follow me.)

Included in the card was a proposal that I write the column you see before you: namely, a thorough retrospective look back at my splendorous career in the field of broadcast journalism. (I had sex with Marcy, by the way. Upon reviewing the preceding paragraph I realize I might not have made that clear.)

I had to agree with Forthwright's unwritten but still implied suggestion that readers would be absolutely floored by my life story. I have, after all, helped shape countless journalistic endeavors over my long tenure as a newsman. I have also used my considerable power to crush countless people and bed countless more, and this deserves recording. In short, I am fascinating. I envy you, the reader, for the journey on which you embark.

When I first sat down to put fingers to keyboard for this assignment, I realized to my embarrassment that I hadn't actually written anything in decades. I soldiered on regardless. It has never been Daniel Rather's practice to quit when the going gets tough. After forty minutes of uninterrupted typing in my den, I stopped to bask in the result of my efforts: twelve dense pages of lowercase q's and ampersands.

Luckily, my second attempt proved far more fruitful. This time, I simply put on a ludicrously expensive suit and talked at a mirror that I pretended was a camera, while a talented ghostwriter named Jenny something (her name is frankly irrelevant to my narrative) typed my voice out onto a computer machine. (I have slept with Jenny, by the way.)

The results of these dictations are the body of the article you now hold in your hands (or read at your computer machine, as the case may be). So please, read on. Again, I envy you.