|THE BLACK LIST: CONSIDER US EASILY AMUSED.|
|By The Black Table|
Things that amused us when we came into work Monday morning:
1. Kevin Spacey confessing that he filed a false police report after falling prey to a "con man." Spacey was in a public park at 4 a.m. and, supposedly, some guy stole his cell phone. But he didn't. Or he did. Well, it has absolutely nothing to with gay men picking up random guys in public parks. Why would it? We're talking about Kevin Spacey here. We can't imagine why we even brought it up.
2. John Kerry is putting ads on Gawker.com.
3. Alex Rodriguez has forgotten how to hit.
4. Condoleeza Rice was reportedly overheard saying, "As I was telling my husb " and then corrected herself with, "As I was telling President Bush " at some D.C. big-wig dinner party.
Eleven amsuing submissions this week. You can bring the heat yourself by typing letters into the form on the right.
IPOD MINI: The hip young urban conformist is becoming increasingly uniform. Take some time here to check yourself. Do you have a messenger bag? What about thick, plastic-rimmed glasses? Yes? Then you sure as fuck had better have an iPod. The Apple iPod used to be the "it" thing to have, and thanks to the white headphone wires, everyone knew you had one. The new "it" thing is the iPod Mini, this grossly overpriced statement of fashion, conformity and tech savvy, is impossible to get. If you're lucky enough to even get your name on a waiting list, it's going to take five weeks. But it's refreshing to see people willing to wait just to waste their money. Compared to the other larger iPods, which cost $499 -- or about $12.50 per gigabyte -- the new minis cost $75 per gigabyte. But hey, they're cute and pink. So let's not forget the most important factor here: They are very easily recognizable, people know they are hard to get and people know they are expensive. Doesn't that make it worth every cent spent and every week waited? C- -- davis black
HALF PRICE EASTER CANDY: We all know how it is -- stuff that didn't even taste good when you were eight suddenly becomes more desirable when it's marked 50% off the day after Easter. Duane Reade and other drugstores have a whole aisle full of the worst chocolate on earth--chocolate the other chocolates simply point and laugh at. It's the industrial slag that runs off during the actual-chocolate-making
process, perhaps. Russell Stover, whoever you are -- I salute you. Heroic creator of the Nestle's Crunch-esque, the artificial Peanut-Butter-flavored, the Solid "White Chocolate" bunnies (in various sizes too!). Hershey may try to steal your thunder; M&Ms too, with their speckled and steroid-injected monstrosities, but you truly are the king of Easter "chocolate" (especially at 50% off). C+ -- Evan Karlan
THOSE GODDAMNED MOTHERFUCKING OLSEN TWINS: It's not enough that they're billionaires, despite the fact they were obviously stolen from their real chimpanzee mother as babies. It's not enough that millions of people breathlessly wait to hear which one of them likes Cheez-Its better than Ritz Bitz, and which one of them prefers bubblegum pink nail polish on their eeny-weeny wittle toes. It's not enough that they were adept at striking a pose in their full-on cleve dresses at the tender age of 15. It's not enough that I throw up a little bit in my mouth every time I see one of their stupid movies in the TV Guide. No, now they're about to turn 18, and all you sickos have your boxers in a twist over the possibility of legal, non-statutory-rape, deliriously energetic bubblegum twin sex, AS IF they're going to be any good at it (although, who knows, with their little chimp opposable thumbs and all). And that wouldn't even be so bad if you just didn't keep TALKING and TALKING about it, because the thought of you in a fucking Olsen twin sandwich is really going to ruin my next orgasm. F -- theysuredo
GETTING MUGGED: Cash in wallet: I'm thinking $60 but not quite sure; it was a long night, money was flying around and I was drunk. Replacing all the cards and shit: $5 for new driver's license, $10 for building security badge, $15 for art school ID (Chinese landscape waterpainting, ladies), $50 on my train card and a general pain in the ass dealing with all this crap. Leather wallet that was a graduation gift: $100; sentimental value: none. Old-ass condom: half the price of future abortion. Living for a week on the $100 I'd fortunately stashed: great exercise in self-discipline followed by debilitating hunger of unsatisfied addictions. Having a transvestite crack whore grab my goodies while staggering home alone at 4 a.m.: kinda warm feeling followed by overwhelming shame followed by relief at absence of burning sensation. Employing overused Mastercard ad set-up: C- -- Sheldon Addai
CHATTY ATMS: When using an ATM, one is bound by a similar code as that established by the Law of the Urinal: Keep at least one stall's distance between you and other customers, face front and, if you encounter a broken one, sigh disgustedly and roll your eyes so as to alert others without actually having to interact with anyone. But most important, no talking. No talking. So when an ATM asks me to "please tell me your PIN and I'd be happy to complete your transaction," I'm a little taken aback by the familiarity. Since when did ATMs become self-aware enough to refer to themselves in the first person? This machine is not my friend, and frankly, I don't appreciate the smug tone of faux politeness with me. I don't want my ATM to offer me idle pleasantries. I want it to give me MONEY. A simple "enter PIN" will suffice, thank you. This trend towards more-lifelike machinery doesn't sit well with me. When these things learn to love, that's when I go back to relying on the barter system. B- -- Jason Reich
HAVING A PAPERCLIP POINT OUT YOUR MISSPELLINGS: I really like the little Mac with stumpy legs, and the tiny Einstein is undeniably cute. I also have a thing for the kitten and the puppy but what the fuck is up with the MS Word paperclip? I realize that I can't spell "knowledge" or "euphemism" or "occurrence" without getting the red squiggly line telling me that I'm a moron, but the last thing I need is to have a paperclip point out my grammatical misgivings. Einstein is one thing. (He did come up with a unified theory of the universe, after all. What have I done lately?) So if Einstein wants to help me out on a comma splice or two, that's cool beans. We'll figure out the green squiggly line and make it go away. We'll change "which" to "that." But I just can't take advice from a paperclip. Even if it is anthropomorphic. C -- Frank Smith
OBSESSIVELY READING A BOOK ABOUT GRAMMAR: Is that comma being used correctly? What *is* the point of a semicolon? Have these questions been nagging at you since Freshman English? Yeah, me neither. But all of a sudden, I've become totally obsessed with grammar because of this book, Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation by Lynne Truss, a sprightly literary tour through the minefield of English grammar. While it may seem strange, honestly, nothing can make you feel more warm, fuzzy and accepting of your own neuroses than reading a book by a woman who freely admits that she missed two buses while marveling at the lack of an apostrophe on the movie posters for "Two Weeks Notice." A -- Miriam Parker
OFFICE AIR THAT SHUTS OFF AT 6 P.M.: Hey, cheap ass owners of a certain office building on Hudson: This is fucking New York City. Ninety-nine percent of its inhabitants work after 6 p.m. So why is it that I enjoy the HMMMMMMMMM of the air pumping through the vents all day, and then, at 6:01, there is a loud click followed by dead air? Are you trying to get everyone out? Is it the equivalent of Ugly Lights in a bar at 4 in the morning? Are we expected to scramble for our bags and umbrellas before we start sweating and our bodies begin to emit none-too-pleasant aromas? Besides, when the HMMMMMMMM stops, everyone can hear the personal phone calls I'm making to my boyfriend and the dirty rap music blaring from my computer speakers. Give us back our white noise and cool air. Slackers and late-night workers alike need it. C- -- Bridget H
CITIZENS BANK PARK IN PHILADELPHIA: The new Philadelphia Phillies baseball stadium is an improvement on Veterans Stadium, but, frankly, the Vet actually looked and played better once they blew it up. The new Phillies park is everything we expect from new stadiums these days; spacious but comfy, clean and full of strategically "unique" quirks, pretty and schnazzy ... and just as souless as all the Camden Yards clones it's impersonating. It's a pleasant place to watch a game, but you can't help but wonder if it's going to be dated within two years. Remember, Veterans Stadium was considered beautiful when it opened too. Of course, that could be the best thing that could happen to the new park; Philadelphia sports fans never seem happy unless their complaining about something or booing their stars, so the more quickly everyone tires of the new place, the more back to normal everything in town will be. B -- Will Leitch
REMEMBERING TO CHECK OUT A WEBSITE BECASE YOU SAW A STICKER ADVERTISING IT IN A BAR BATHROOM: Often times, the only place to catch your breath in a crowded bar is the bathroom. You can check your hair, wash your hands, practice a conversation in the mirror or just hang loose. And there's nothing that makes you feel more tapped into what the kids are into these days than perusing the stickers on the towel dispenser. Sure, asking someone to remember the Web address of something they've drunkenly gleaned from a sticker in a bathroom is asking a lot, but it shows that someone has faith in humanity. There's no better feeling than waking up the next morning and remembering that really bitchin' sticker you saw stuck to the toilet tank of some dive bar's bathroom, then trundling over to your computer and punching it in. The Web site might not be that interesting and you might not remember why you thought it was so important at the time, but you remembered it and that's awesome. A+ -- Frank Smith
INTENDING THE PUN: It happens all of the time. Maybe it's your boss, maybe a smiling politician, maybe a friend sitting across the bar. No matter who it is, after a happenstance placement of clever words, they exclaim, "No pun intended!" Why, may I ask, would you do such a thing?. Why rob yourself the distinction of such fine wit? Has the art of thoughtful conversation vanished, only to be replaced by techno music and 24-hour copy centers? There's nothing better than thinking on your feet and delivering a timely, sharp remark that challenges the tenets of the spoken word! Whether met with glee or furrowed brow, you can't beat intending the pun. Enough with your lame excuses, stand up and claim such drollery! (pun fucking intended) A -- moffett
Each and every week, Black Table readers like you write the Black List and get absolutely nothing in return. Ain't that some shit.