I Have a Lazy E-Mailman
by Clarissa Coleman 

Anyone who knows anything about me (kids with book reports: attention) knows I have two mortal enemies: Lindsay Wagner and computers. Of course, one is a dumb electronic appliance and my fear and hatred is just an irrational phobia; and then there’s computers, and my job forces me to learn to work with them.

It’s still no excuse for the teamster-like attitude of my computer. This computer wouldn’t work if I threatened to replace it with cheap foreign labor. It starts slow, it runs slow, it even turns off slow. And let’s not get started about the mail—actually, let’s do; my column needs filling up this week.

All I can say is they’ve hired a real slacker to deliver my e-mail, ‘cause I’m the last to hear about anything in this office. I never get any memos, no electronic Christmas cards, I never even get any of Rok Finger’s daily barrage of ethnic jokes. Either I’m the biggest outsider in the commune offices (and with Bludney Pludd around that role’s already taken) or I’ve got the world’s worst e-mail delivery system.

Come to think of it, I’ve never even received my welcome e-mail from that Bago guy. Just how long has this electronic Ferris Bueller been pulling a fast one on me? For all I know he could’ve unplugged the connection to all the other computers on the first day and the dildo has been loafing ever since.

I’d like to teach that biatch a lesson. I should see if there’s some kind of program for doing that—send in some sort of hellfire-spitting preacher of the Internet world to punish him for disregarding my mail. A computer virus or something that acts like the drill sergeant from Full Metal Jacket on big puss internet couriers. I’d like to see that smooth jackass piss his electronic self when that program storms in all, “What is your major malfunction, Private Clarissa Coleman’s E-mailman? I’ve shit things with more gumption, numbnuts!”

Boy, I’m excited about it the more I consider it. There must be some kind of program out there like that. Some kind of Equalizer-type computer software that settles things up even with asshole electronics, and keeps it all on the down-low. I asked around the commune who I would speak to about that, our tech support people, but everyone acts like I’m joking and keeps saying they want to see where I’m going with it. Maybe I’ll have to place an add in a newspaper or magazine—that’s what you had to do for the A-Team.

I’m not an idiot, you know. Just to make that clear. I know there’s not really a little guy inside the computer with a college dorm-style apartment, just lying around, drinking beer and watching Software Gone Wild instead of delivering my e-mail. It’s all real complicated computer shit I can’t possibly fathom, so I translate in my own terms when talking to you. It’s like the ending of Stephen King’s It, when It was so completely cool and amazing you can’t possibly really see it, especially not in a made-for-TV movie, so they just cheap out and make it a big spider. Man, that was suck-city.

It’s real important that I start getting my e-mail. Not only do I have fans out there who want to contact me, and I’m not about to give my address out to such knobs, but I also have this big new show about to start and I’ll need every possible communiqué possible. Not only for my own satisfaction, but to make sure I can fire off complaints and suggestions for script changes, all of that stuff, to the producers. So that guy needs to get off his metaphysical ass or get replaced real fast.

The Big Clarissa Coleman Comeback
None of it should come as much of a surprise, seeing as how I mentioned I had the audition and felt pretty good about it last go-round. Of course I didn’t mention the show title—what, like I’m going to advertise to a bunch of wanna-bes the location of the next big audition?

The Audition
I don’t usually tell you about auditions, I know. I like to keep some secrecy, some little things private to myself. That and I forget about them until the last minute most of the time. But this is different. This is no piddlin’ “Hey, Remember the Songs of the ‘80s?” infomercial audition.

Home for the Horrordays
It’s hard to complain about my brother and sister, they’re not really to blame for anything—between having my parents for their parents and having my shadow to live in all their lives, it’s amazing they aren’t screwed up.

I Want to Be a Cartoon
I went to my agent, Dusty—I call him that because he’s so old his skin has flaked into a fine layer of powder over his entire body—and told him to get me some voice work. He sent me to a telemarketing firm, so I obviously went back and had to straighten things out with him.

The Net Lacks Fake Nude Clarissa Coleman Pics
Nothing says you’re off Hollywood radar when there’s nobody trying to fake your nudity on the web. That’s how you know Martha Raye and Phyllis Diller are hopelessly past their prime. I think I even saw a site with faked Dionne Warwick nude pics.