Of all the emcees in hip-hop I’ve ever followed closely, I’d always had the delusion that sometime in my tenure as a Herald employee that Hieroglyphics frontman Del the Funky Homosapien would make a glorious rise from the so-called “underground” to be acknowledged in the mainstream, a la Common or Mos Def.

I’d get to interview him, he’d invite me and some scantily-clad groupies out on his tour in Japan, and together we’d dabble in designer drugs and video games from the vanguard.

Alas, this was not to be, and thoughts of a lost opportunity plagued me as I searched for appropriate subject matter for my send-off column. Looking for inspiration, I decided to take a stroll with Del accompanying me in my headphones.

Now more than ever, I see that the end of the school year brings out a lot of weird emotions in people, and I’ll admit I’m no exception. There’s something about the amalgamation of the anxious anticipation of graduation and the libidinal liberation brought on by warm weather that makes everyone on campus flounce about with a sort of half-drunken joie de vivre.

Seeing this for the last time, I consider myself lucky, also now more than ever, to be able to tell you about these things in writing, even if most end-of-the-year columns from Herald staffers tend to be self-congratulatory diatribes rife with inside jokes and shout-outs to those whom we have toiled alongside at 326 W. Gorham. (I promise I won’t resort to that, because those columns are as absurd and/or ridiculous as meeting up with friends for a drink at Riley’s after 9 p.m.)

Midway through my jaunt, though, Del and the collective elation of UW-Madison hit me with an epiphany I feel compelled to share. As I listened to the track from which this piece got its title, a nice young lady opened the door for me on my way into Memorial Union. I thanked her, and she returned it with a barely perceptible smile.

She made my day better, and I hers, however miniscule the improvement may have been. For the rest of the day, I was hooked, thanking people so much it bordered on Smithers-esque sycophancy.

I became increasingly aware that the words “Thank you” are not only the two easiest monosyllables to spew forth, but also, when placed alongside one another, the two most affecting.

This little utterance takes no effort to say and could very well be disingenuous 90 percent of the time, but its potential returns are unfathomable. It’s gotten me stacks of free music, admission to Lord knows how many movies and concerts and even a free trip to LA. Hell, I fell bass-ackwards into a job this summer for no other reason than that my employer remembered me as being an affable kid.

But there I go on a self-congratulatory diatribe again, and with that I turn to you, the reading public. All my friends and family will get their just dues in person soon enough, because, hey, that’s the kind of guy I am this week, but with my last scribbles as a writer for this paper, I’d like to truly, honestly thank you for giving myself and my fellow slaves to the written word an audience every week.

I can’t describe how happy it made me every now and then to walk into a lecture hall of 500 people and see the vast majority reading this rag, even if it was to see just how much my mug shot makes me look like the lovechild of a muppet and an alien.

I always considered my writing a collaborative process. Not once did I pen something without first taking into careful consideration the scathing online feedback of one of my reviews, the heated argument I had with a classmate about the merits of this or that film or the whimsical musings I overhear everyday from experts, pundits, critics and jackasses alike.

This is your paper, UW, as much as that of the people whose names are in the bylines, so keep on playing, working, fighting, debating, crying, laughing, drinking, smoking, kicking, screaming and living, and we’ll be there to write it all down.

Thank youse to all.