|THE BLACK LIST: BRINGING THE LOVE SINCE, WELL, THIS WEEK.|
|By The Black Table|
We love doing The Black Table, and we love The Black List. We get the biggest kick out of what everybody has to say; it's certainly the most fun thing we do on Mondays. But this week, we received what might be our most favorite Black List submission ever.
Last week, the lede item of the Black List was a funny, kinda sexy review of "Rebound Sex," by a woman who had just been dumped by her "Cold-Hearted, No Good Bastard" boyfriend. The next day, we received this:
READING YOUR EX-GIRLFRIEND'S REVIEW OF REBOUND SEX ON THE BLACK TABLE: When I woke up last Tuesday morning, the only question on my mind was how long my post-Labor Day sense of optimism would last. The answer: Ninety minutes -- just long enough for me to get to work, boot up my computer and realize that Tuesday's homage to rebound sex in the Black List had been written by none other than my ex-girlfriend. Fans of Bill Simmons will recognize his Thirteen Levels of Losing; this was like a Broken Axle (Level IV) combined with a Stomach Punch (Level II). At that moment, I went from Adam Vinatieri to Scott Norwood, slumping my shoulders, tugging at my chin strap and trudging dejectedly off the field. As one of my co-workers admiringly put it, "Dude, it's like she reached out and gave you the finger." For displaying the shameless winner-take-all attitude that attracted me to her in the first place, and for delivering a well-placed kick in the crotch, you, madam, deserve nothing less than an A+. -- Bill "Cold-Hearted, No Good Bastard" Bock
That's amazing! Former lovers settling their post-relationship quarrels through The Black Table! How great is that? And they're both so funny, too! We don't know about the rest of our readers, but The Black Table thinks these kids should give it another shot. What do you say, Mayna? How about you, Bill? You two have a future, we just know it!
(And if not, The Black Table is indeed available for rebound sex.)
Counting that one, we've got 11 warm, good-hearted reviews this week. If you see someone writing about your old relationship, or just have something you want to spout off about, use the nifty form to the right. Get typing; we need you and are so alone without you.
HAMPTONS PORT-A-POTTY: The port-a-potty is an indignity to be suffered only under the most dire of circumstances. I'd choose squatting in a ditch over the contained stench of strangers' excrement every time. But on a trip to the beach in Sag Harbor, we stumbled upon port-a-potties provided for the privileged white bottoms of a family celebrating their father's 60th birthday. This Port-a-Potty was clean! It had a sink and a mirror! And complimentary bug spray! They'd provided upscale hand soap and beach-motifed paper hand towels. It even had a candle! Although I'd been making fun of the Polo-shirted, shellacked-haired, Astin Martin-driving Hamptons crowd during the drive to the beach, I have to admit that this port-a-potty by the sea was one of the most pleasant surprises I've had. Sure, it reeked of pretension. But, really, that's not the worst thing to get a whiff of when you open the door to an outdoor toilet. A- -- Laura Davis
TOM SIZEMORE AS PETE ROSE IN "HUSTLE": Anybody who's even casually followed baseball in the last 30 years is familiar with Pete Rose's surreal bowl cut, which is pretty much impossible to recreate either genetically or through any movie wardrobe. It looked silly on Pete, but man, how ridiculous does it look on Tom Sizemore? He could deliver the performance of his career in this movie, and it wouldn't even matter because it's absolutely impossible to take your eyes off of that preposterous wig. Instead of the brooding, boorish Charlie Hustle, Sizemore more closely resembles an aging Emo Phillips. Throw a pair of sunglasses on him, and Sizemore could easily be Elton John. Throw a Cincinnati Reds hat on him and ... well, he still looks like Emo Phillips. A -- A.J. Daulerio
HAVING A HOT BOSS: At the group interview, I hoped we would both get the job, till I found out she was conducting it. I was lost in her eyes while I filled out my W-4. Sitting through training for three days and listening to new age claptrap about the Virtues Project (what?) is a lot easier when you're sitting on a secret boner. Break time? No, let me get YOU a Coke. Hmm? Field trip to the other work location? Let me go in YOUR car. I don't know how long I'm going to last at this job because I'm already looking for something that pays more, but if I can sail out of here with her digits it will have all been worth it. A -- Myles
THE DARK SIDE OF THE ZOO: When I was young, the zoo seemed so fabulous! Then I grew up and got a job as a "groundskeeper" at the zoo. One day a camel died of what was basically camel ebola. I removed its carcass using a small bulldozer, then made a return trip for its intestines. This was stealthily done under the cover of darkness to avoid traumatizing any children. When I came back for the intestines, I had to beat the wild turkeys off the stinking guts with a rake. I accidentally killed one and took him away in my bulldozer/hearse also. I'm no vegan, but I cried myself to sleep for a week. F -- Celeste
OH, SERENA: In the spirit of Fashion Week, I have to get something off my chest. It's been gnawing at me for over a week now. Serena, sweetheart, what the fuck? You're a tennis player. You hit balls over a net. You don't have the right to assume you have any taste whatsoever. Seriously. Stonewashed denim skirts? Is that for real? The satin rhinestone studded jackets, the knee-high boots, all of it. It's too much. Andre could pull off the frosted feathered hair, neon colored shirt audacious thing for one reason and one reason only: IT WAS THE EIGHTIES. Unfortunately, my dear, your balls are not the only things being called out. B -- Robyn
YUPPIE MOTHERS AND THEIR KIDS IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD PARK: I live near a beautiful little park that would be the perfect place to sit and have a cold iced coffee if it weren't for all the yuppie mothers and their precious darlings who descend on the park daily. The same thing happens every time I go: I sit there minding my own business, and some little kid comes over and spills her ice cream on my shoe. Then her nicey-nice mommy comes over and coos, "Susie, don't drop your ice cream on the lady's shoe." The mom turns to me, grins and says, "Oh, kids," as if I should be glad that the midget just dropped her melted slobbery ice cream on my shoe. Next the kid howls "Mommy, I WANT MORE ICE CREAM" and proceeds to throw a tantrum. Okay moms, listen up: The answer to any tantrum is "No." That's right. I don't care if the child's feelings are hurt, I don't care if the kid is hungry; tantrums should not be tolerated. But invariably the mom says, "Oh honey, sure we can get some more as long as you behave yourself." The kid smiles a devilish smirk and says, "I promise," and the two go skipping off, not realizing they just sentenced this child to a life of disappointment: Tantrum-throwing will not work so well when she's 30. And now my iced coffee is warm. Fucking mothers. Fucking kids. F -- Standard Deviance
OUT-OF-STATE SPEEDING TICKETS: Have you noticed how this rash of state police enforcement efforts have coincided with most of the states in the Union being nearly bankrupt? First it was the speeding crackdown, and then it was the drinking and driving crackdown. Listen to Air America, and after just a few hours I swear you'll be sick of hearing about "Click It or Ticket!" What is the deal with this state police buzz of activity? Well, it's real simple: Citations = revenue. In the last month I've gotten three speeding tickets: West Virginia, Maryland and Kentucky. In all three cases I was a mere 7-9 mph over the limit, but the troopers added an extra few to make sure I got that hefty "+10-15 mph" fine. They know I'm not coming back to contest it in court, so why not milk me and my out-of-state plates for their desperate state coffers? F -- Rich Thomas
LOEWS' 100TH ANNIVERSARY: Folks, we get it. You managed to get your stupid company to survive for 100 years and as punishment, no fewer than three of the eight or nine commercials showing before movie previews at your theaters involve a comic personality (Will Ferrell, Bernie Mac) or a bad ad campaign (Fandango sock puppets) testifying to your greatness. Except, see, nobody from Loews is actually in the room looking at this -- just us annoyed moviegoers. There's also, among the static ads prior to the commercials, testimonies from would-be celebs talking about their "first Loews' experience," as if anyone ever, ever, remembers what theater chain they see a movie at. F -- David Gaffen
POP CULTURE KARMA: How's this for a freaky pop culture coincidence. A song from the "Office Space" soundtrack shuffles up on my iPod at the exact moment that I realize some butthole has swiped the stapler from my desk. Back up in your ass with the resurrection! A- -- Monty Cox
HAVING A THREESOME WITH A CAT: One of the reasons you care about the dude is the amount of love and attention he showers his cat, especially now that she's getting older. So you're in bed with him, and she plops down between your bodies, trying to get warmth in his cold apartment. She's right up in your biz-snatch, rasping cat food breath in your face, as you're being rubbed in that magic spot. But what's this? She's situated herself so she's being petted too. Through your pleasure fog, the realization hits you that you're inadvertently committing bestiality, so you shoo her off the bed, only to have her return to the same spot moments later. Repeat this a few times until you just close your eyes, concentrate on what's happening downtown and pretend that you can't hear the purring. C -- Margo August Woods
Each and every week, Black Table readers like you write the Black List and get absolutely nothing in return. Ain't that some shit.