The Bad Luck Club
by Clarissa Coleman 

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.

A Usurper to the Throne
The tart’s name is Jayme Kristofson, and I know that’s totally made up. Her real name’s probably Shirley Hemphill or something, but she’s all showbiz-smart and is trying to steal all my thunder. Her first target is the Metallichick comic book I do.

Oops, I Did a Hardcore Porno Again
I did so many movies over the summer after I got rolling in the low-budget sci-fi movie biz it was probably just a matter of time before I wound up in a porno. You’re going from house to house, one shady basement after another, step in front of cameras, guys give you scripts (or “gist” the scene to you) and you ad-lib for a couple minutes.

Video Games Killed the Child Star
I got to go out to this studio in New Jersey and record the video game character’s voice, and it takes a whole shitload of time. I’ve done DVD commentaries before and even did some voice work, once in a while. None of it compares to all the video game voice work. Apparently these characters talk a whole fucking lot.

Killer Coleman
I hit the first cat on the way to work Monday. I was late for a few photographs for that comic book I’m on the cover of, Metallichick. And this ain’t even a talking gig, it’s not like they couldn’t find some hot skank hanging out on the stoop and get her to fill in.