Jesse Helms Died.

Or maybe he’s been dead for 20 years and someone just got around to telling his slave wife.

Either way, there’s not a whole lot more I can say about this development that doesn’t involve the words “fish-faced,” “wall-eyed,” “communist” or “KKK.” In fact, any epitaph for Jesse Helms should borrow heavily from Chevy Chase’s epic blast in “Christmas Vacation.”

I think the last time I heard Jesse Helms’s name uttered was probably two years ago, when I was down in New Orleans. We were sitting on a bench, admiring the Mississippi and thinking of ol’ Huck Finn, when “Doc Saxtrum,” a busker of some local renown, walked up to us and began playing his saxophone. During a break, he asked us where we were from. When we replied “North Carolina,” he paused, shook his head imperceptibly and put on a sardonic smile. “Aah …,” he replied, “Jesse Helms.”

We rushed to assure him that we didn’t claim Helms for North Carolina at all, but I couldn’t help but think the damage was done. Once again, an ignorant, narrow-minded racist without the creative capacity to light a light bulb had made me embarrassed to live in North Carolina.

I imagine Jesse Helms and Strom Thurmond spent their final days together on some plantation veranda, throwing rocks at little black kids who were making chalk murals on the sidewalk. Hopefully, there’s a special place in Hades for buttnuggets like them.

Good riddance.