|THE BLACK LIST: IN MEMORY OF MEMORIAL DAY.|
|By The Black Table|
We don't know about you, but we didn't spend our Memorial Day weekend out sailing on our big yacht, or brunching with Muffy at the club. No, we spent our Memorial Day like most people spend their Memorial Days: Drunk and relieved not to have to go to work. We slept, we passed gas, we balanced Natural Light bottles on our stomachs. And it was glorious, we tell you, glorious: God bless America, and God bless our troops.
We have 10 reviews in the Black List this week, but we're not sure how good they are, because we edited this with three hot dogs blocking our view of the screen. We apologize in advance.
PEOPLE WHO COMPLAIN ABOUT THE PRICE OF GAS: Oh, give me a break. These are the same people who will pay $4.00 for a cup of coffee every single morning or $80.00 for a pair of sneakers and not think twice. Why are people completely silent and unfazed when gas is, say, $1.70 a gallon, but completely freak out when it goes up to $2.04? Is it really THAT much of a life-altering difference? Yes, gas should be below $2.00 a gallon. Sure. And I should be getting laid a lot more too. It will happen. I just don't see it in the near future. So shut the fuck up and pay what it costs or walk/take the train/car pool. D -- Bob Sassone
WAWA CONVENIENCE STORES: After having lived in other cities, I am more convinced than ever of the true superiority of your stores, Wawa. People may make fun of your name, but they are just jealous. From your outstanding deli workers who slice the cold cuts oh-so-thin to your 24-hour service at most locations, you have been there for me throughout the years. When I was a pissed-off teenager, my friends and I would sit outside on your railings, trying to look badass as one can possibly be at 14 with braces and big hair. Nowadays, the Wawa clerk is the first smiling face I see in the morning, as I am too lazy to make my own coffee before going to work. Wawa, you have stood the test of time. I salute you. A -- Ann McGinnis
PUSH-UP BRAS: As a girl with fairly large (36C) boobs, I never thought I needed a push-up bra. In fact, when my friend gave me one as a birthday gift, I tried it on but didn't really know what to do with it. Didn't I have enough chest without padding? But then I started to see lots of ladies, whose boobs I know are smaller than mine, fairly bursting out of their shirts, a spectacle of overflowing tits, the kind you can't keep your eyes off. What about me? I wanted in on that action, but my bras seemed to do nothing more than keep my
breasts off my stomach, separating them out to the sides as opposed to pushing them together. After a slightly embarrassing trip to Victoria's Secret, where I was chastised for not knowing that all push-up bras are padded (does this intuitively make sense to you? Because it still baffles me), I slipped on the test bra from the "bra box" and voila, magic cleavage, the kind I'd been searching in vain for. I could have killer boobs too, though not too much so, like the time I wore a corset top that made me look like I had one big boob. Now that I've seen the light, I can freely admire all the hot racks peeping out from summery tank tops, knowing that I can hold my own, so to speak, with the best of New York City breasts. A -- Rachel Kramer Bussel
GUYS WHO MAKE NOISES AND CALL IT POETRY: Remember when you were a kid and you just gargled or said "ahhh" for an extended period of time while rapping your fingers against your throat? Remember having noisemaking contests with other kids at school? Well there's a contingent of these people that come to open-mic readings and WON'T LET IT GO. If you want to say it's avant or improv art, fine. If you want to say it's an interpretive piece or something even more derivative, fine. But don't show up at a fucking POETRY NIGHT and try to pass off farting noises as verse. This ranks right up there with people throwing power drills into boxes full of sawdust and letting them run or running a spike over a piece of sheet metal and calling it music (Lou Reed and Thurston Moore, I'm looking at you). I normally consider myself fairly open-minded about these kinds of things and would even accept the word "the" spoken 27 times in succession at different tones -- but if this shit keeps up, I'm just going to go up to a mic, drop ass and say "good night." D- -- Jason Notte
HAVING BILL SIMMONS BACK ON ESPN.COM'S PAGE 2: Bill Simmons, the eponymous "Sports Guy" of Page 2 fame, has a rare talent: He does something very difficult -- making your readers not only feel as if they know you, but actually getting them to root for you -- and makes it look very easy. So when took a leave from ESPN to work as a staff writer for Jimmy Kimmel's late-night talk show, he was sorely missed by any pop-culture-cum-sports-freak-slut in cyberspace. It was particularly strange considering the Jimmy Kimmel show, shot live in Los Angeles, didn't seem to, you know, have any WRITING in it. Well, last week, Simmons announced that he has left the Kimmel show and is back writing three columns a week for Page 2, just like the old days. My workplace productivity just dropped tenfold; as Simmons put it recently, "There's nobody bigger in bathroom stalls than me. If they ever made printer paper that doubled as toilet paper, all hell would break loose." It's great to have you back. A -- Will Leitch
THE PLAN B MORNING AFTER PILL: You had a bout of raucous sex. The condom broke. You call your gyno the next day to get the morning after pill. You follow the directions to a T. You go on with your life. But the weeks pass, and you never get your period. You take a pregnancy test. Whaddya know, you're knocked up! You have no choice but to terminate it. Your abortion counselor lets drop that Plan B's claims are a bit misleading. Sure, it's 89 percent effective -- unless you're in prime ovulation mode. In that case, you might as well be popping Flinstones chewables. And for that, Plan B gets a big fat: F -- Theresa O' Rourke
INDOOR TANNING: So, I know indoor tanning is supposed to be lame. But how anyone can resist its sweet warm caress is beyond me. The gentle buzz of the bulbs, the soft breeze of the fan across your naked body, the obliteration of unsightly tan lines, the quiet time to reflect. Cancer-shmancer! Life isn't really worth living if you're alone and pasty. And forget about the spray-on tan. Spray-on tans are for pussies! Not to mention the fact that you're orange and a spray-on tan doesn't have that magic, skin-clearing factor that UV rays provide. And tanning outdoors? Who has the time or the inclination to sweat their ass off for hours waiting for the sun's rays to work their melanin magic. Yes, when starting your indoor tanning regime, you're likely to be a little overzealous and burn yourself to the point where you are forced to rub a plastic brush all over your body in a feeble attempt to satiate a post-burn itchiness that can only be likened to that of scabies. Yes, you will be pressured by Amber, the sales girl with flat-ironed hair and talons for nails, to buy a $250 package that gives you access to the "high pressure Super Bed". But even with all of indoor tanning's formidable cons -- possible death, money depletion, premature wrinkles, being forced to confront your vanity, probable internet broadcast -- it's all worth it in the end when you go out and look a little less fat in your halter top. B+ -- Becky Steele
OFFICE F-WORD PROHIBITION: Can't say "fuck" anymore in the office. $25 dollar per letter fine due by the end of the day for any expletive containing a consecutive F-U-C-K, and the fine is doubled each day it's not paid. Motherfucker? $300 due by closing time. Can you believe this shit? Now what the fuck am I supposed to talk about? 'Cause god knows all I'm doing outside the office is fucking. Say I want to regale my co-workers with the ins and outs of last night's fuck-a-thon? That'll cost me over two hundred bucks, and that's a lot of dimp that could be better spent on, well, fucking, for one thing. Actually, I should double-check on the rules regarding hyphenation; maybe I can tell the story and include the part where the dame was game for a good old a round of anti-disestablishment-fuck-your-neighbor. that lissome little thing, and it won't cost me all that much. Besides, the penalty funds, though collected by our fundamentalist Bush-faith boss, go towards our regular cocktail relaxers when we all get fucked up and, safely outside official fences, can shout in unison, "Fuck the Penguin Man!" (who got us in this fucking mess in the first place). F -- Dick O'Thomas
GUY WHO USES THE STALL RIGHT NEXT TO ME: There is no one else in the restroom. It's just me, and I'm poopin'. Suddenly, the sound of the restroom door causes me to clench slightly. "Where are you gonna go?" I ask myself. The sounds of your footsteps indicate that you're passing the urinals and heading toward the stalls. Then you stop. It is so quiet in here I can hear my heart pounding in my chest. Any normal man would choose the stall furthest away from the one being used, but no. No, YOU have to plop your inconsiderate ass down right next to me. I can see your brown penny loafer peek under the wall and then the horrible sounds. Now I'm pissed off to the point that I can't finish. All I can say is, "Thanks." Thanks for making what NORMALLY is a relaxing 15 to 20 minute bathroom break, a stressful and decidedly uncomfortable experience. F -- Steven Schmid
SPOILING A GREAT NIGHT OUT BY A DRUNKEN ACT OF CLUMSINESS: You've been to see a great gig by a really cool band, with some friends who know and love the music because you the one who introduced it to them. Afterwards, in a really cool bar near the venue, full of musicians and arty types, you're very drunk. You slip spectacularly and put your hand through a glass, spilling beer and blood everywhere. The bar manager is asking you if you've "got anything" while he inadequately bandages your hand in the toilets. The next three hours are spent sobering up rapidly and painfully in the hospital while you have X-rays and your hand stitched up, saying sorry and thank you a hundred times to your friend who stayed with you. You walk home at 4 a.m. and realize the night will be remembered for all the wrong reasons -- you, not the music. In the next few days, you're shocked at how hard it is to exist without a functional opposing thumb and the drinks your friends buy you come in plastic glasses (a joke that won't run out of steam anytime soon). Only the hope that soon someone you know will do something as dumb and noteworthy gets you through, because for now, you're it. D -- Louis Cooke
Each and every week, Black Table readers like you write the Black List and get absolutely nothing in return. Ain't that some shit.