MONEY CAN BUY many good things such as dogs and certain hearty soups. Those who purchase these items sparingly and can ignore annoying beggars, eventually will amass enough money to become happy.

After a few years of bliss, however, the well-to-do often begin to wonder if there is not something more to this wacky and all too brief flash of existence known to all but the most uninformed as "life". These thoughts make rich people sad, so they often search for ways to spend their money that will make them feel better.

The quest for fulfillment usually begins with donations to a few selected charities pledging aid to assorted human and animal unfortunates. These donations provide a quick patch for bothersome guilt and ailing self-esteem, especially when the hordes of monogrammed recognition plaques start rolling in. Unfortunately, richies can line the mansion walls with only so many plaques before they are considered gauche. Then depression usually resumes.

Luckily, many of the terminally affluent have stumbled upon a little known service that Harvard provides to appease rich and tortured souls. Playing off the psychology of monied insecurity, Harvard offers a program of fulfillment that surpasses even the most beauteous of plaques. The ads in the society pages read:

"Immortal fame can be yours! If you are rich, the president and fellows of Harvard university want to help. For a mere fraction of your total worth, your family name can stand forever among distinguished families of Harvard University's illustrious past. Will you deny yourself the pride of eternal fame and distinction at the nation's oldest university? But wait, don't answer yet, you also get this set of super-primo stainless steel spoons! Call this toll-free number for details..."

THIS WAS SHEER marketing genius--why should the rich waste their money on charity for a mere plaque when for the same money Harvard will build and name a permanent structure on their historic campus in their honor? In Harvard's policy of naming property after whomever will pay, the rich have found the perfect arena to maintain their inflated egos, and we at Harvard have found a great way to fleece them dry.

Of course each building's benefactors will maintain that their actions are purely altruistic--this is despite the fact that those of us not brain-dead know that the donations would be anonymous if this were true. These contributions are offered by a rich person in a feeble effort to combat mortality--to find security in the knowledge that for hundreds of years people will remember him, Ichabod T. Shmuck, every time they write a return address from "Ichabod T. Shmuck Hall."

Having strange and meaningless names on our buildings is a small price to pay for free buildings--although it does open us up to practical jokers such as a certain Mr. Jones who allegedly donated a building under the name "Wigglesworth" because of an aggravating sense of humor.

A SERIOUS examination of the current program reveals that, although relatively successful, the program could net even more money for Harvard if expanded.

The first step Harvard should take is to sell name rights to dining hall delicacies. Food would then be referred to with its appropriate benefactor, such as the "Widener Beef Stew," "Weld Cod Scallops," or "Loeb Pu Pu platter." The dish owners might then take a special interest in the dish that bares their name, and offer funds for necessary improvements like even finer fine herbs on the chicken, or less congealed grease over the broccoli-cheese pasta.

But there's no reason to stop here when there is still so much money to be made. Next, we could see "Malkin Bunk Beds" by the "Pennypacker Dressers," and "Wang toilet paper" in the "Greenough memorial bathrooms." why spend money when we can get the misdirected wealthy to pay for everything in return for family glory?

As a final offer, Harvard could offer richies the opportunity to buy student's actual identities. Students would assume the name of the highest bidder for the duration of their undergraduate years. For a hefty monetary stipend, I will gladly call myself "The Holworthy student of economics."

My junior-high English teacher always told me not to end a sentence in a proposition, but in this case I feel compelled--rich folk, how about spending your money on something slightly less self-aggrandizing like a blimp that flies above the yard with your family's last name spelled out in bright red neon letters.