Come on, I Told Them,
Ba-Rump Ba Bump Bum
by Clarissa Coleman 

It’s the holiday time here at Child Star headquarters, and that always means one thing: I’m fucked.

Yep, our annual tradition of me being fucked is steady and true on this end. It turns out they lost the house, mom and dad. I kept telling them you have to pay for a house even when you’re not living in it, you can’t just come back there and live in it any time you want. On the plus side, it’s the first argument I’ve ever won.

Regardless of how it happened, Christmas is being held in my apartment this year, by default. Who needed that headache? As if seeing these people one time every year wasn’t enough psychological damage.

I tried to get into the spirit, I honestly did. I even started drinking bourbon the day after Thanksgiving, like dad always does, only I didn’t do it right up until Thanksgiving like he does. It was a nice relaxer, I almost didn’t even freak out when they dragged in the top of that Rockefeller Plaza Christmas tree in here. I don’t care if it’s so big they’ll never notice the top is gone, dad, it doesn’t make it right. The thing won’t even fit through the door.

I made him take it back and got that plastic tree. Dad went all “real tree” on us a few years back, so fortunately I had the plastic one from when we were growing up. I didn’t even notice it was made out of recycled army men he burned together until I was about 9 or 10, and by then I was so cynical I didn’t even believe in Santa. But besides the sharp points and the horrid misery of war we’re constantly reminded of when we look at it, it’s a charming little tree.

Then I saw this after school special where this kid made his own Christmas presents for everyone and they all said they liked them more than if he had bought them—suckers! Wow, that shit is rich. Some dildo totally stiffs you on presents and hands you some shit he made at a county fair table and you bawl all over it and even give him a little pity. I said I got to try that. My only problem was I don’t make anything too good, a few pounds of crystal meth and fine-cut heroin, maybe, but that’s hard to wrap. Plus, dad’s on probation, and he may be a pain in the ass, but he’s still my dad and I don’t want him getting fucked by some “3 strikes” rule.

So I decided to make everybody hatracks. But I kind of came out the loser in the end, since we only had one broom and that’s what I make hatracks out of. I had to steal the commune’s broom (the mop was some foreign guy who made a lousy hatrack) and still that left me having to buy extra brooms just to make a hatrack. I could have just given brooms as a gift, I didn’t come out ahead at all. Oh, shit! I just now thought I could have stolen the commune hatrack. That would have been sweet. What was that guy’s name anyway? Paulo?

The big news, what may make all this hooplah worth it, my sister and her butch friend Steve said they were coming over for Christmas dinner. My sister might bluff her way out of dinner with my parents, but she never lies, so I have a good feeling about it. They’ve never met Steve before either (she insists her name is “Stephan,” but you look at her sometime and call it) so I guess they’ll be getting a big serving of “your daughter’s a lesbian” for Christmas. Then again, Steve isn’t the most feminine of broads, so maybe the whole thing will go undetected.

Of course, there could be a major free-for-all between my sister and Steve and my parents. What do you know, I’m getting in the Christmas mood already.

Enter the Shopper
It started innocently enough. I saw McCattery’s Jewelers was having a half-off sale on bling-bling, but it started at 8 a.m. Yeah, “a.m.” as in “at morning.” I’m completely out of my element when it comes to shopping on a budget, which also explains where all my Who’s Your Daddy? money went to, so I didn’t know where to go.

Libel Maker
Oh, the lawsuit, right. It’s that snurfler Jayme. I know snurfler isn’t a real word, but c’mon, she’s suing me. I’m not going to go and call her an economy-sized bitch when she could attach that as another lawsuit. From now on, I’m only calling that sperm queen made-up names.

The Bad Luck Club
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.

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.