"Do-Not-Call" List Bigger Than Jesus

he launch of the national “do-not-call� registry was met with overwhelming demand last week as millions of Americans proved willing to crawl over their own dead mothers to sign up for the list, hoping to end years spent in unsolicited telemarketing hell. The unexpectedly high turnout seemed to answer the standing question of public support for the new law, which had been attacked by telemarketing groups as an infringement on their rights to free speech and practicing utter contempt for consumers.

President Bush signed the bill in March, commenting on the legislation at a White House ceremony last week.

“Unwanted telemarketing calls are intrusive, they are annoying, and they-hold on. Hello? No, goddammit! I don’t read the newspaper, fuck off!�

The new law gives the Federal Trade Commission the power to fine telemarketers up to $11,000 every time they call a number that appears the opt-out list, beginning Oct. 1. Consumers who weren’t confused into inaction by having to call a do-not-call hotline to make sure other groups do not call them voiced their approval of the law, and personal enthusiasm for finding additional ways to curb telemarketing in the future.

“You see, what I’d do now, first I’d stab ‘em right in the jimmy sack with a fillet knife,� caller Randy Hackle of Dilmont, Nebraska explained to a switchboard operator. “That’s just to get their attention, mind you. Then we’d open up a new forum for communication with a ball-peen hammer and some broken ceramic tiles.�

“Our research has indicated that most consumers appreciate being notified by telephone of the latest deals and special purchasing opportunities,� said smug Direct Marketing Association representative Tony Marsh, just begging to be kicked in the fucking nuts. “This unconstitutional law is a political witch hunt and we don’t for a second believe it reflects the will of the American public.�

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about killing telemarketers,� explained caller Christophe Williamson after registering his cell phone number with the directory. “Okay, well yes, actually I am. But what I’m really talking about is what we’ll do with their bodies after we kill them. That’s what really sends a message.�

In spite of such an overwhelming public response, many telemarketers remain steadfastly oblivious to popular sentiment, almost as if they weren’t really listening at all and were just waiting for a pause so they could tout the virtues of their practice.

“If we don’t have the right to approach consumers unsolicited, people will be deprived of potentially valuable offers that they would otherwise not hear about,� offered telemarketer Mark Finch in a dehumanized monotone, wincing audibly as a car backfired outside his window. After jotting down the unsolicited quote and questioning where he got the commune’s telephone number, this reporter hung up after Finch refused to take a hint that the conversation was over.

The new law has thrilled anti-telemarketing activists nationwide, who have been fighting the trend for years using both legal and quasi-legal guerilla tactics.

“My main hobby is getting these people’s home telephone numbers, and calling them at home,� bragged anti-telemarketing pioneer Sylvester Pinks of Tehachapi, CA. “Every hour on the hour, all through the night. Then I play back recordings of their mothers having loveless sex. That stuff’s not easy to get your hands on, true, but it’s all worth it when you hear their reactions. Especially on speakerphone with some buddies over and beer. Talk about Miller Time! Class-ic.�

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Things better change quick around the Coleman house or there's going to be a homicide or two. I'm throwing down the gauntlet by this weekend, someone and all their friends and family have to get out or I'm calling the cops. Not me, of course, I'm not getting out, I pay rent at the place. Every few months at least.

You might be able to guess from that my dad is back from Mexico. He didn't like the natives, he was worried about the crime, and couldn't drink the water. I told him, "Dad, you were in New Mexico. If you couldn't make it there how did you expect to last out in the real one?" But he just turned up his Rob Base & DJ E-Z Rock and pretended he couldn't hear me.

Like mom, who's been staying with me even longer, I can tolerate dad. He's family. But he had to bring that dildo Freddie Mercury with him, and both of them are friends now with some bounty hunter named Icepick. The guy was all set to bust both of them and turn them over for the reward when dad and Freddie Mercury made him a member of the gang. Most people you couldn't pay to make a gangmember with my dad and that clod, but Icepick was more than willing to give up $60 for it. Someone even lower on the totem pole than Freddie Mercury is now an accomplice, that's good news.

What really pisses me off is they can't even give me the courtesy of asking or anything. They just show up and say they need a place to hide and move right in. I don't have an ammo room, dad, I can't store all your shit. You dicks are going to have to sleep on the floor.

No mention of when they're going to leave or anything. And don't bring it up to him, he gets all indignant and everything. The way he sees it, he put me up for 12 years, it's time for me to pay back the favor. It better not come to 12 years 'cause I'm not going to last that long. The idea of me even being 37 is severely unsettling.

At least there's always food around. Mom gets lazy when dad's in jail or out of the country or what, but as soon as he steps back into the place the oven goes on and the dishes come rolling out like it's the kitchen at KFC. I haven't eaten this well since rehab, but nothing can make it worth sharing a place with these morons. If I come home and find the rodeo on TV again when I was geared up to watch Gilmore Girls I'm going to show those guys a 101st way to kill a man.

Don't get me wrong: I love my dad, to the full extent the law requires. I don't want him to go to jail or anything, that even works against my intention of getting mom the hell out of my place. But this group package bullshit has got to stop. Freddie Mercury is always talking about knocking down a wall and annexing a neighbor's apartment, and if he does it I'll probably get kicked out. And Icepick has rigged my fridge with a detonation device so I can't even get any booze to make me forget they're here. All this will have to change soon or I'm going to do something I'll moderately regret.

I'm desperate enough at this point to ask my sister to take them in, but once I mentioned the problem once on the phone she changed her number. I might go down to her office at the law firm tomorrow and plead with her to take them off my hands, but I wouldn't be surprised if the whole law firm uprooted and changed addresses. She takes family emergencies pretty seriously, or avoiding them.

What does all this mean? It means I'm stuck with an apartment full of family and A-Team rejects until I find the tactful, forceful, "let's-not-do-anything-crazy-here-like-set-that-napalm-off" way out.

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I have a legal question, and can't get my sister on the phone lately, so I ask you: If you shoot your dad in your own home, is it legal? I know it applies if you shoot a burglar, or if you tie him up and torture him and saw his legs off. If it's your dad, does that take away the whole legal angle? What if you've been letting him stay in the house? Is that like a binding contract or anything?

Not that I would kill my dad. I just like to be aware of my options. Even the last resort kind. He's not bad, by himself, but lately you can never catch him by himself. Him and his buddies have been camping out on the living room floor in my apartment. Which is where my mom used to sleep before he came to live with me, so now she's sharing my bed. And she farts like a French horn all night. So it's all one little straw piled on top of each other, not any single one of them pissing me off by itself, but the whole bunch is about to kill me.

Things got even worse a month ago when Uncle Luke came to visit. If someone comes to your place to visit and puts their name on the mailbox, let that be a warning they probably plan on staying longer. The place is just way too crowded. I'm starting to think some of these cats wandering around here aren't even mom's, they just came in when someone left the door open. The police have been out to my place three times in the last two nights, which is a lot even for me, and the more they hang around the more they're going to realize some of those spices in the spice rack aren't totally legal.

Uncle Luke is probably the biggest problem. My dad is like gunpowder, you know, but gunpowder when it's just by itself isn't so bad. Then you throw in Uncle Luke, he's like firewater or something. I'm not sure of the exact chemical equation, I'll have to check my high school chemistry notes, but it all leads to big kabooms. Not just one, but one after another. Dad's gang was fine until Uncle Luke showed up. Now Uncle Luke has challenged dad for leadership with the accusation he never gave the group a real name—grounds for a challenge, I guess, according to the rules of the gang they wrote on the back of that Denny's menu. The group is split down the middle into two factions, with Freddy Mercury being loyal to dad but Icepick really liking Uncle Luke's vision of the future. Plus, he promised to buy jackets for everybody.

Dudes, this may be obvious, but I don't have time for this shit. That supertramp Jayme is still trying to steal my work at the comic book and now der commune führer Bagel is demanding I come into the office at least once a week so he can verify I've not been replaced with a robot by his conniving brother. And I know, seriously, like you could even tell in person if it was a really, really good robot. But I'm not complaining. Wait, let me reread—yeah, I guess I am complaining. With good reason. But my point is my dad and his homies are the last thing I need to worry about right now.

Dad probably should just give up the gang. They all should. A bunch of 40+ flabby white guys really don't have a prayer in hell of controlling any major turf. I wish there was some kind of "scared straight" program for old dudes. A little tour of a real prison yard, a first-rate max security penitentiary, would clear dad up real quick. He thinks he's been to prison after spending the night in county for shoplifting at Safeway. I'm tired of his bragging about doing "9 hours in Cell Block 1." It was Cell Block 1 because they didn't have another, dad. Didn't you notice all the winos? Did they look like criminal masterminds?

My best bet at this point would probably be to challenge both dad and Uncle Luke for leadership of the gang. I think on a good day mom could take both of them in the circle of death, so they got shit chance against me. Then I just disband their gay-ass fight club and decree they find real jobs and their own clubhouse. Or, murder. The murder thing is an option. So get back to me on that whole legal/illegal thing.

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