he public fellatio of former president Ronald Reagan's dead body reached a fever pitch this week when a consortium of white-as-the-the-Klan conservatives launched a plan to have the dead man's grim visage stamped on the U.S. $10 bill. Though the actual image on the bill would likely be of the former president while he was still alive, the group has not yet determined whether or not the likeness will be one of the nostalgic collectable-plate paintings depicting Reagan devouring the poor that are commonly found in the china hutches of Republican households across America.

"The time has come to honor this great, great American," wheezed congressional peckerwood Mitch McConnell of Kentucky, uncomfortably choking back either bland white-boy tears or some kind of grossly over-sated flatulent belch. "He was like a father to me, or at least I wish he had been. Ronniiiie! Ronniiiiie!"

"Reagan would have been a cool dad," drooled local fanboy Ralph Huxley. "I mean, his own kids didn't think so, but what the hell do they know? They're probably Democrats or something. Reagan should've tossed them in the commie box with all the other pinkos back when he had the chance."

Meanwhile, Alexander Hamilton fans have staged protests in opposition to the plan, which would displace their $10 man from the popular currency note. These qualms come in spite of conservative promises that a new coin, the 2.3-cent "Hammy," would be minted to house the first Secretary of the Treasury's downgraded image. Irate callers swamped phone lines for the D.C.-area Alexander Hamilton fan call-in show Ham Radio to vent about what they considered to be an insulting proposal, roughly akin to being honored with one's face on the seldom-used twelve-and-a-half-cent stamp. Family members of the late Sonny Bono, current resident of the twelve-and-a-halfer's facial slot, could not be reached for comment. Not that we really tried all that hard.

If Hamilton's fans are successful in defending the object of their affection's place on the $10 bill, Reagan supporters (known alternately as "Reaganites," "Reaganauts," and "loud, self-important assholes" depending on whom you ask) have made it clear they will take the fight to other, less-protected faced currencies, starting with the dime. Should FDR's zombielike followers prove too tough a scrum for the Reaganinnies, the group's next choice is rumored to be the highly popular Chuck E. Cheese five-point token. Early accounts are unclear about whether Reagan would appear alone on the brassy gaming token, or in some kind of die-cut rendition of the former president locking the chain's rodent mascot in a playful bear hug or a bracing death-struggle for big rat supremacy.

Conservatives less enamored by shitty pizza and skeeball hope the game of commemorative musical chairs won't get that far, setting their hopes on at least landing the dime. Analysts suggest that it would be far easier to subvert the will of the people in the area of coinage, since changing a paper bill requires majority votes in both houses of Congress, while changes to coins only have to receive a vague, dismissive wave from the generally apathetic Treasury Secretary. In addition, conservatives feel that few liberals are likely to notice a change to the nation's coinage, since only children look at coins closely, and most are likely to mistake Reagan for one of the McDonaldland gang.

Supporters with an eye for compromise have sought to quell the controversy by suggesting that Reagan's face should instead grace the $1,000 bill, since few non-conservatives ever see those anyway.

This latest campaign reminds many of an ongoing effort during the 1990's to have Reagan's face added to Mount Rushmore, a battle that was eventually scrapped after it was discovered that the former president was afraid of heights.

hiteywood producers took a bold step in reality programming last Friday when they revealed, as part of the ABC fall schedule, one of their so-called "reality" series would be entirely asshole-free, cast only with likable personalities so unpopular in usual reality programming.

No Simon Cowels, no Donald Trumps, not even a Richard Hatch in sight, according to co-producer Bobbacrane Wilson. It's part of a risky plan to boost sagging reality ratings for those shows which haven't caught on with the public yet; while series like The Apprentice have made major waves, and American Idol holds strong, other reality series like The Restaurant have proven that reality series don't always strike gold every time out. The new "assholeless" series in development will give people bored with regular reality shows a chance to see something different.

"It's not a brand new idea," admitted co-producer of the show Harry Spalding. "Frankly, Hollywood has been trying to create a reality series without assholes since their initial burst in popularity in the early '90s, such as COPS. But once The Real World hit big, people gave up. It became apparent, at least for the time, America would much rather tune in each week and marvel at real assholes."

His partner Wilson agreed: "The big problem in creating a prick-free reality show is nobody could ever seem to do it. It became Hollywood's Gregorian knot. People tried to do reality shows based on churches and found them full of judgmental fire-and-brimstone knobs who wouldn't stop preaching. A reality show about school teachers reminded viewers of why they were in such a hurry to graduate. Someone even did a pilot about people who worked for the Salvation Army—you'd never believe what self-righteous dicks are running that place. It's enough to turn someone Republican."

Many attempts at doing reality shows in small towns, according to Wilson, failed to leave any positive impressions when every good-natured resident was outnumbered by trash-talking rednecks and closet KKK members. But this time, Spalding suggests, by returning to reality programming roots, their show has succeeded in its intent.

The show, Okay House, features six roommates, four of them from Sweden, who live together in a room paid for by the network and forced to resolve their conflicts in a polite, friendly fashion. A bonus incentive of $25,000 to whoever can keep from saying something unkind about other housemates has raised the likelihood of getting a show without jackasses.

An early version of the pilot was available for press review. In the series, the six roommates—Sven, Yorgi, Karl, Jake, Albert, and Bjorn—get into an amicable disagreement over whose turn it is to wash the dishes, as well as a polite war of words over what they can watch on TV. Of the cast, Karl, Sven, and Bjorn are non-English-speaking employees of an electrical cooperative in Sweden who were brought over by the network, Yorgi an Americanized Swedish citizen who was friends with the three in his home country, Jake is a Bible camp youth counselor from Ferngate, North Carolina, and Albert an 85-year-old man who seldom speaks.

While the producers and network claim to have high expectations for "the world's nicest reality show," critics have been less kind. Matt Roush of TV Guide called it "Paint Drying: The Series" and The New York Times predicted it would be the quickest cancellation in TV history.

According to CNN's Jeff Hinkley: "If I hear one more Swedish accent saying, 'I guess we'll agree to disagree,' I'm going to blow a hole through my TV."

We wrapped up production on "Ho's!" two weeks ago, so you can imagine it's great to have free time again, after four months of solid work, and years of unemployment before that. You get used to a certain amount of laidback time.

You might wonder what I've been doing. Not wasting it, I'll tell you that. Right after I beat the Metallichick video game I went out looking on a way to capitalize on my sitcom success. During the heyday of "Who's Your Daddy?" I used to get all kinds of perks, and when I say "perks," I'm not even referring to the free breast implants they gave me. It was a ripoff anyway, they give you the implants but then make you pay for the surgery. I was going to get some friends to put them in for me, but I didn't quite trust them. I trusted them like "pick up my mail when I'm gone," but not "invasive surgery" trust them. Actually, I wouldn't let them pick up my mail either.

Let me just say it was a washout. Nobody would give me anything. I couldn't get an obscene gesture from Dick Cheney, things are that bad. People don't even recognize me from the show. They took a picture of me key-scraping a car for the "On the Town" page in People, and they didn't identify me as "'Ho's!' Clarissa Coleman" To them I'll always been "'Who's Your Daddy?'s Clarissa Coleman." They wouldn't give me a free cup of coffee, and I even had a coupon, courtesy the WB. If you can't get a free T-shirt from a vinyl record store, you know your comeback didn't work. I would be worried the show won't be renewed for a second season, but I'm still too pissed at not being able to wrangle free shit.

Don't tell anyone who works at the show, but I've been looking at other offers from other TV shows. Maybe not offers—it's not like anyone's actually offered me another job. More like pitching ideas, and calling up people and begging to get on shows. It's nothing against the WB—okay, it is. It really is. You can't get a hell of a lot of respect on a WB show, as all that time trying to scam freebies proved to me. I want to be on a show all the critics respect and the audiences like. I called "The Sopranos," and offered to play anybody—even one of those dancers Tommy Soprano sleeps with and whacks, that kind of small role. It will be an interesting bit of trivia, like Wesley Snipes' performance in Wildcats. Or Woody Harrelson in Wesley Snipes' movies. But they wouldn't go for it.

Then I called "Six Feet Under," one of those other HBO shows with all the hype, and said I could play anything. They didn't like the idea I would play a body who'd come back to life at the funeral. I offered to play a regular body and they just kept asking who I was again, not a good sign. Just a bad experience all around. I suppose I could call all the other HBO shows, then start on Showtime shows or whatever. I get the feeling that would end in the same results, and before I'd know it I'd be asking to guest-star on UPN shows or something. That's all basically how I came to be on a WB show anyway.

That's when it dawned on me—I have no job at all right now. Why not be a writer? That's what all the other unemployed people do, and some of them become famous. I've at least got a famous name—people are always giving me free stuff. Famous people have a much easier time at getting their book published. Look at all those books Jimmy Carter's put out, and he hasn't done anything in years. But I'm not a book person. I just don't get why anyone would want to read when you can see something in a movie. But movies have writers, too. Some of them, if they're not Bruckheimer pictures. So that's what I'm going to do with my time. A screenplay! The biggest Clarissa Coleman comeback film you've never seen. It's going pretty good so far. The title page is sweet. As soon as I come up with an idea, and get a typewriter or a computer, I think the rest of it will flow naturally.

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