ith the specter of the president's extreme right-wing judge appointments approaching, congressional Republicans, led by Bill "Not First" Frist, are seeking to eliminate the long-standing tradition of the filibuster. However, Senate Democrats are reluctant to give up their one means of making the president deal with their side, so Republicans are offering a juicier prize—exchanging the filibuster for a "last man standing" drinking contest.

The filibuster, sometimes described as a congressional loophole, has long been used as a negotiation tactic by the minority party in the Senate to stall controversial votes and force compromises to the table. The drinking contest, a long-time college and unemployment staple, has traditionally been used to test the mettle of men and women and their bladder, pitting the will of the individual, minority or majority, against an opponent and several shots of potent liquor.

"The filibuster is unfair to the majority in the Senate and the American people," said Frist, smirking just a little as he made the comment. "The Republican majority has played the system like a filthy piano to get into prominent positions, to hold majority in all the prominent positions, and it's totally unfair this danged silly filibuster now stands in the way of us guiding the country the way the American people want it. And to those who say the fundamentalist extreme Christian right are the ones guiding us—what, you're saying they aren't people?"

The filibuster is a ploy in which a member of the Senate stalls a congressional vote through technical procedure, refusing to yield the floor until opponents pledge to amend bills that reach the Senate floor or, in the case of judicial nominees, bargain on the terms of nominees or forcing the majority party to nominate more moderate judges. For more information on filibusters, visit your local library, where you can rent Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and fast-forward to the final scene.

Frist claims a drinking contest is a better way to solve congressional disagreements—representatives of both parties, the best drinkers chosen from among a fine stock of drinking men, can tequila-shot their way to a decision both sides will adhere to, in a much shorter period of time than the usual filibuster, which can take many hours, and in rare turns, even days.

"Standing around all night, talking? Reading from law books, the Constitution, or even Where the Wild Things Grow?" At this Frist shook a finger and sighed. "That's hardly a competition of wills for real men. When I really want to show who's more resolved and dedicated to his beliefs, I like to down several shots of Southern Comfort and wobble around the Senate floor. I guarantee I can hold my own against any Democrat in congress right now. The Democrats are going to have to elect Nick Nolte or Robert Downey Jr. to give me a serious run for my money."

While Nolte and Downey refused to comment on their futures in politics, the Senate minority leaders were more vocal.

"It is simply ridiculous, not to mention irresponsible, to legitimize drinking as a way to solve decisions," said Sen. Edward Kennedy (D., Massachussetts). "And if Frist really thinks he can outdrink me, he knows where my office is. I'll give him a five-shot headstart. Bring it on, lightweight."

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Well, first thing's first and I have to say I was very disappointed in the response to my shout-out last issue for little Asian kids to join my rock family. So far I haven't got a single kid signed up, not even any tone-deaf little Asian tykes who can lip-synch or white kids with squinty eyes. I can only think this says bad things about literacy among our nation's Asian kids. So much for the myth of Asian toddlers speaking three languages and piloting biplanes and shit. I guess I should have expected as much from a culture whose "language" is just a bunch of little drawings of houses. I like picture books just as much as the next guy, but we all know the truth: all pictures and no text means it's not a men's magazine, it's a porno.

I did get one response for somebody to be the Asian rock band family mom, I think. Whatever it was, this Asian chick showed up at my door the other night and has been living at the Bricks Manor ever since. She doesn't speak of lick of English, so she could be a Yokova's Witness or one of those gag mail-order brides Ramon Nootles keeps sending over or something, but she cooks some pretty badass duck so I haven't had reason to question the arrangement thus far. She doesn't look like she can play the tambourine, so it's possible she may have been responding to the column. Though unless one of us gets a whole hell of a lot better at charades we may never know for sure.

So anyway, Osaka and I (that's just a name I made up for her, since she wasn't wearing a name tag and all that "ra ra ra" sounds the same to me) were toilet papering Ramrod Hurley's house when the idea it me: I don't even like music. So maybe the lack of qualified Asian rock band child applicants was more of a blessing in disguise. Like they say, the Lord works in mysterious ways. Not that I buy into any of that crap, but they do have a lot of convenient ready-made quotes like that which come in handy sometimes.

The one good thing to come out of all of this, besides the awesome duck dishes, is that Osaka is way better than Foghat at Monopoly. That's not to say she's good, since she's not, which is good because I like winning. But she at least gives me the impression that I'm playing with someone who's aware the game is taking place. Foghat's one strategic decision in years of Monopoly playing was to eat the little pewter shoe, which was sly but I still won that game regardless. I brainstormed at ways to get that shoe back, but after considering my poop-sifting options I decided that if anybody wanted to be the shoe in the future, tough shit. Go buy a shoe-wearing Barbie doll or something, you big sack of weird.

It's not like the shoe could win any conceivable kind of Monopoly token battle, not when you consider how big that damned thimble would be in real life. If Foghat had eaten the racecar or the wheelbarrow or something it might be a different story, but he made the right call in eating the gayest token available.

Like I said, Osaka's better at Monopoly, but she's not going to take Donald Trump down to the mat any time soon. When we played she bought one property, built a house on it, and then just saved her money for the rest of the game. I kept trying to pantomime that she needed to buy up whole city blocks and cover them with soul-crushing cookie-cutter hotel megastructures like I was, but I guess when you're not from America the whole concept of crushing the poor with your privilege and gluttonous might is harder to grasp. It's hard to explain why it's good to take way more than you need just using shadow puppets and forming letters with your body.

Now I know how the pilgrims felt when they got off the boat and had to explain to the Indians why they were building mini-malls and hotels and all that shit. You just know there were some hilarious scenes when the pilgrims tried to start charging the Indians camping fees and all the Indians had was some beads and feather hats and bullshit to pay for it. You can bet the Indians were washing some serious pilgrim dishes that night.

Bricks out.

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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.

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