Shuttle Analysts: Man Was Never Meant to Fly

Santa Claus on Trial: Week Three

Unknown American Philosopher Dead

Sanjaya Unites Indian Fans, People Who Hate American Idol

IRS: Excessively Needy Girlfriends Can’t Be Declared “Dependents”

Not to shit on everyone's Christmas spirit, but it just seems like no one is making an effort anymore. All year long I look forward to gathering up the toys and, quite frankly, busting my balls to get all the stuff to everyone and there doesn't seem to be much reciprocation on everyone else's part.

I'm not going to name names, but let's just talk about what some people are leaving under the tree. It used to be cookies and milk, and boy, does that ever get boring after the thousandth house, but at least they were homemade cookies and milk. These days I'm lucky if I can get some half-broken Oreos and a juicebox. I'm not saying the kids are to blame, they're probably the reason I get the Oreos, but somebody out there is just not giving a damn anymore.

You know what I want for Christmas? Well, since you ask, a big fat plate of babyback ribs sitting under the tree would be nice. Just one house, you know, not everywhere. I realize it's more of a hassle than you're used to, but at least in neighborhoods can't you get together and work something out? These cookies are going to give me a heart attack, it's really too much sugar. I have a family history of diabetes, you know. What I basically need is something high-carb 'cause I lose a lot of energy moving from house to house with a finger aside my nose. That burns calories.

And all you construction workers out there, you've got to start making the roofs a little flatter. I can't handle those 45-degree angles anymore. Or just build a deck or something. I'm not worried about the lack of chimneys and the locked doors and security systems—they haven't built a house that can keep me out. But you build a house with a pointed roof and then put satellite dishes and all sorts of shit up there, you're just begging me to skip your house.

While we're on the subject of making my life just a tad easier… kids: Get into something a little easier on St. Nick, will you? Those goddamn Playstation 2s and video games by the ton are not only impossible to make, but they're starting to seriously do some damage to the ol' back. It would be a real crying shame if some of you got into sports again, just asked for a football or a baseball glove or sneakers or something—hardly any of you are in great shape, you know. It wouldn't kill you to go outdoors once in a while.

Oh, and you know what really pisses me off? All those kitschy adults who think it's so funny to write a Christmas list to Santa with their friends. Some group of half-baked intellectuals or cutesy-ass yuppies hang out at Starbucks for a half-hour penning some dumb-ass request for Gap clothes and S.U.V.s and you think it's so funny. Well, you know what? I'm legally obligated to answer all of those letters in some fashion. Yeah, the price-capping laws make it so I don't have to bring you the S.U.V. or anything, but what really pisses me off is that you're wasting my time when you're going to go out and buy the S.U.V. anyway. I have serious business to tend to, real kids who need real Christmas shit, I don't need your jerk-off Christmas lists cluttering up the naughty/nice ratio.

Whew. Sorry. Just bugs me, a lot.

It's not so bad, I guess. Despite everything, all the complaints, I realize I got a pretty good job. I spend about four months driving the elf workforce in the toy production, but they can basically run that themselves, then I bust my ass (and I really do bust my ass) one night a year, which basically leaves me with about eight months to just chill, do nothin'. And for that work I'm celebrated by children everywhere, more than their parents, who do at least half the work I get credit for. Yep, in some ways, it's the sweetest of gigs. Merry Christmas, everyone.

º Last Column: If I Were a Carpenter I Would Build You a Home Out of My Heart
º more columns

I've had more than my share of ups and downs in my twenty-four years on this planet. After the life I've led, I'm sure you can imagine how happy I was to get a regular gig writing for a well-known respected news source. Then those dildos at Entertainment Weekly bounced my ass back into the street. My luck always turns its nose down, given enough time. But you know the old saying, every time God farts he opens a window, and things are steadying for me again as the folks at the commune have brought me aboard to publish my column Child Star.

For anyone who doesn't know me, I'll spend this column on the long version of the introduction.

The name, for those of you who can't read bold print, is Clarissa Coleman, and as I mentioned, this column is called Child Star. I plan it to be about the perils of being raised "in the business" as those of us in the business describe it—shit, how you like that? I used the phrase while describing what it means. But picking up where I left off, this column will cover everything from my rise as a child star (see column title) to my plummet to where I'm at now. And if there's any justice, it will also chronicle current happenings as I again rise to some middling degree of sanity or something. Warzy, eh?

I may not look immediately familiar, but be assured, at one time my little dimpled face was like a machine that printed its own money in Hollywood. I first gained national attention as the little girl in the Germanhäus baked potato commercials. Does "I gots butter on my tummy!" ring any bells? I thought so.

From there, of course, I went on to play baby Alfie on everybody's favorite soap opera of 1983, Search For An Exit. They only gave me one line a week to start, but soon I had more lines than that one disagreeable kid played by three triplets. The whole soap thing was never too serious, just a springboard to other things. Just as planned, it helped me get a sweet sitcom deal when I became the starring kid on Who's Your Daddy? with beloved actor Brad Van Danner. As you might guess, it was the gravy train from then on. Until it wasn't, which is where I'm at now and why I'm writing this column to make ends meet.

Well, eventually, even the biggest hit show can only run so long. We were canceled two years later, a year and a half if you subtract the long hiatus while the network was trying to decide to bring back the show or not. "Washed up at 9," the headlines all read about me. Or at least that's what my mom said, I wasn't literate at the time and couldn't read the headlines.

Naturally I descended into depression, booze, and drugs, though never all at the same time. All the tabloids you read about me? Some true. Some not. Most true. Some not. I'm sure I'll get the chance to explain everything through the span of this column, assuming of course the folks at the commune aren't as cancel-happy as some dildos at ABC.

I want to say, too, that I'll be dedicating this column to someone special in my life. Someone who's worked harder than anyone I know, struggled uphill through countless battles and always comes back for some reason I'll never guess. Of course I'm talking about me. My column, for me, I damn well deserve it at this point.

Thanks for reading and piss off if you didn't.

º Last Column: Home for the Horrordays
º more columns