|THE BLACK LIST: BEST WEEK EVER? CRAP, THAT'S TAKEN ALREADY.|
|By The Black Table|
Oh, man, oh man, what a week we have coming up.
-- We have a vice presidential debate, where we get to watch a puckish Southern imp, a pre-motorcycle crash Mark Hamill, battle what Darth Vader looked like when they took his mask off.
-- We have another presidential debate, which is taking place on a Friday, which rules, because we'll totally be able to shoot up and watch it without having to worry about being late for work the next day.
-- Fahrenheit 9/11 comes out on DVD, allowing us to pat ourselves on our liberal backs while sitting in our underwear and eating cheese doodles. (Interestingly, this is precisely how Michael Moore edited the film.)
-- Baseball playoffs! They start today. Readers of The Black Table should root hard for anything but a Red Sox-Cardinals World Series, because a scenario will involve editors Eric Gillin and Will Leitch refusing to talk to each other for a whole week; the quality of the site would inevitably suffer. It will also include bylines like "Eric (Fuck Manny) Gillin" and "Will (I'll Ram That Gateway Arch Right Up Your Ass) Leitch." Could be trouble.
Anyway, as a breather before all this activity, we present this week's Black List, with 10 shining examples of what the best minds of our generation to offer. OK, fine, so we have fart jokes and menstrual gags. What do you want from us? If you can do better, use the little form on the right. It's fun.
WATCHING GEORGE W. BUSH GET HIS ASS KICKED: Democrats were nervous before last Thursday's debate between John Kerry and George W. Bush. Would Bush be able to fake and glad-hand his way through another presidential debate? Would Kerry have a booger hanging out of his nose, or have a hair out of place, that would cause him to "lose" to the "President" in the post-debate analysis? Luckily, John Kerry opened up a can of intellectual whoop-ass on the Pretender-in-Chief. Without a script, softball questions or a handpicked audience, Bush froze up and sputtered the same tired phrases that Kerry threw right back in his smug face. No amount of "spin" could have salvaged Bush's performance, and at the end of the debate he looked like he knew it. Shit, I could have done a better job defending the Bush administration, and I loathe the man. Faced with a competent opponent, Bush's phony Texas swagger melted away under the television lights and America saw an ignorant politician trying to defend an indefeasible record.
Let's see what happens Friday. A -- Matthew Sheahan
THE MICHAEL VICK EXPERIENCE: Put this in your playbook: If there really were an amusement park ride that replicated a Michael Vick touchdown run, how long would that line be? Six hours? Four days? And how long would you be willing to wait? I'd give myself about two days for a shot at experiencing the most amazing athletic achievements known to the NFL, but then again, I'm a fat, slow, white dude. Until we get that ride, we'll have to settle for the Nike commercial. A -- Matt Pitzer
PRESCREENING RESUMES FOR MY BOSS: The prose and language of resumes is a reflection of how banal and mechanic office work makes us. Everyone wants a "challenging position" that "utilizes teamwork" in order to "acquire new revenue streams" and "assist the firm in achieving its performance targets". Everyone has "exceeded sales objectives" at their current job, yet they've been there for three months and are conveniently "seeking a new and rewarding position" (with a "progressive" company, of course). Fuck that. Why can't resume writers just tell it like it is and quit spilling such humdrum shit? Just once I'd like to see a resume that says the guy or girl looking for a job intends to half-ass pretty much every task, surf the internet, steal postage, talk shit, make personal calls and act smug and unhappy for the better part of what is likely to be their short stay with the company. I would recommend that resume to my boss without hesitation. Then, instead of shooting myself in the head, I would go eat a donut. F -- Dan Weaver
THE REAL WORLD PHILLY HOUSE BEING CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC: So it's Sunday, and we have nothing better to do than walk down to the location of a popular TV series, which is exactly what we do. It looks like a library from the outside, and we all know what the inside looks like, but still, we want to see it for real. We take our time on the way there, walk up to the door, and one of us tries to open it. No good, it's locked. A couple more tries. Still locked. A passing motorist yells, "They left!" We walk away, and I realize I never really cared to begin with. C- -- Kevin
PENN STATION SHUTDOWN: Again, New York has proved that it's just one minor mishap away from a major meltdown. Last Monday's transformer fire and subsequent shutdown of Penn Station forced thousands of commuters to find alternate ways home. A lack of clear information as to what was happening, an absence of suggestions for said alternate travel and panic among the herd led to untold delays and frustration. The scene at Jamaica Station was one of barely controlled chaos, as cops and LIRR workers shouted directions through bullhorns while commuters followed each other through fences set up like cattle chutes. The irony was palpable. Once on the platforms, the panicked masses ran for the trains despite workers' assurances that they'd wait for them. I don't know which was worse: The lack of coordination from the emergency workers on scene or the near-hysteria from those wanting to Flee! Flee! FLEE! back to the suburbs. F -- Rory J. Thompson
CRAZY REPUBLICAN HIGH SCHOOL FRIENDS: I thought it was a good thing to invite one of my friends from high school to meet my college friends, but I should have listened to my gut instinct. Who knew that once you liquored up my friend, he turned into a loud, blithering, Bush-loving drunk? Apart from drinking without paying, he spilled daiquiri, vomited on my bathroom door and all over the bathroom and then stripped in front of my housemates. The worst part about it is that I had to wake him up (from my bed) and drive his drunk ass back to his house while he insulted my friends for being Democrats. Thank you for being incredibly embarrassing and disgusting, not to mention hairy. Don't make promises for next time; there is no next time. F -- Lindsay
FOOD EXPIRATION DATES AS A REMINDER OF JUST HOW SAD YOUR LITTLE LIFE REALLY IS: You should go to bed. I mean, it's late and you have to get up early to put in a good eight hours under the soul-crushing fluorescent lights at the office tomorrow. But first, you're a tad hungry, so why not find a little something to eat? That's when you notice the expiration date stamped on the packet of cheese you just pulled out of the refrigerator: December 29. "My birthday!" is what you're thinking and that's cool until it hits you: yeah, your last birthday. And hey, that's still cool, only you are standing totally alone in the kitchen of your 400 square foot studio apartment at one in the morning about to whip up a batch of nachos using stale chips from Trader Joes and store-brand shredded "cheese-foodstuff" you bought on sale as a two-fer weeks back, and come to think of it, you probably used a coupon on top of that, too. Skip the snack. Go to bed and weep gently my friend. Weep gently. D- -- kd
LUNATIC RUINING MY BREAKFAST: I work in a small two-room independent bookstore which means I work alone and without a break. On the days I can't subdue my hunger until after my five hour shift, I inhale some breakfast at my register. There's never that many customers in the store, so usually there's not much of an interruption, until today. In walked this man in his late 50s, resembling an off-season Santa, who immediately started spewing his political opinions all over my scrambled eggs. He informed that in a year from now, men and women 18-34 will be drafted to fight in the ongoing battle in the Middle East. His brilliant counter plan was to form an army of newly-naturalized citizens (who cares, they're not real Americans anyway, right?) watch over an army of maximum security convicts. This went on for about 10 more minutes. My eggs went cold and my tolerance was gone. Finally, after enough laconic "uh-huhs" and "yeah, sures", ole' Kris Kringle got the point and took off. I worry about politics and every cause. Bring the troops home. Don't eat meat. Stop AIDS. Cure cancer. I just wanted my 15 minute break to not think and just enjoy a little aborted chicken baby. C- -- jackie
THE FAT DARRELL: This is what democracy looks like: a big, fat fuck stuffing his face with a roll full of mozzarella sticks, chicken fingers and French fries just off Exit 9 on the Jersey Turnpike. The nation's foremost culinary authority, Maxim magazine, recently named it the greatest sandwich in the nation, and it singlehandedly may be responsible for Rutgers' sluglike performance on the gridiron for the past decade and a half. You could eat two Gray's Papaya dogs, put them on a roll with two Corner Bistro burgers and drench them both with fries and sauce from Pomme Frites and STILL not have a more potent sandwich. Take THAT New York!!! Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off for my preemptive angioplasty. A muthafuckin' + -- Jason Notte
MEN WHO DIG SEX ON THE RAG: Let's forget for a moment that you feel about as sexy as Ron Jeremy on the Super Size Me diet. Let's ignore the fact that you've been popping the Ultra-Nuclear-Maximum Midol to beat back the pain. Let's not even think about how "absorbent products" (including old towels over the good bed sheets) might be anti-romantic. Instead, let's acknowledge that (in one of the Lord's more ironic moves) you're horny as all get out at the one time when most guys treat your snatch like refrigerator mold. That's why it's always a pleasure to find a guy who'll let you ride the red line to O-town. To those guys who don't mind being shagged with messy, often feral abandon, we salute you. A -- Babs
Each and every week, Black Table readers like you write the Black List and get absolutely nothing in return. Ain't that some shit.