The election is one week away. One week! Now, accounting for the more-than-likely proposition that, like 2000, the counting of this election will take longer than just Tuesday night, and that we'll likely have no idea when we wake up Wednesday morning who won, and that the Supreme Court will probably decide who wins again (most likely while nude), it seems strange to have a countdown. But countdown we shall, because all life is a countdown, a countdown to death, destruction and chaos. Oh, and Election Day.

Make sure to stay tuned to The Black Table in the next week, which is going to cover the crap out of all this while keeping an eye glued to the World Series, of course. And we have an army of reporters out there on Election Night itself, keeping you in the know on all the stuff that we know, which, frankly, isn't all that much.

Anyway. You get the point. Election Day. Woo. We have 10 pretty reviews this week. The next Black List will be on Election Day itself, so if you want to be included on the big day, use the little handy form to the right. Black List 2004.

-- BT

The Black Table needs your help! Every week, we need reviews of the latest media-related crud, new products from Capitalists and odd idea, concept or trend. All you need to have is a sharp opinion that you can distill down to one paragraph of 150 words and give a letter grade. To submit, please fill out the form below. Entries may edited for length, style and clarity. Hit us with your best shot. Fire away.

ASHLEEGATE: Ashlee Simpson is having the worst week of her life, and it's only Monday! Will the "Saturday Night Live" lip-synch debacle end her career? Too soon to tell. But I for one couldn't be more amused. Catching the live gaffe made up for sitting through one of the worst episodes of the show in years. And boy, did she mishandle that non-apology at the end ... did Bush write it? Which reminds me: I've been so busy trolling the Internets for new video mash-ups of Miss Simpson's talent malfunction, I haven't thought about the depressing election forecast for hours! So Ashlee, if you're reading this, thank you for the most awkward 30 seconds of live television since guest VJ Courtney Love ran out of hillbilly heroin on MTV2. Watching Ashlee Simpson make a fool of herself: A. Realizing that even I'm a better dancer than Ashlee Simpson: A+ -- Scott Lapatine

ONE NIGHT STANDS WITH REPUBLICANS: So my girlfriends and I hit the Latin club a few weekends ago. They both happen to be excellent salsa dancers, and aside from the titty-fuck of a shirt I have on, I have nothing to offer. So, I slink over to a booth and quietly enjoy my mojitos and guard the purses. By then it's too late. You're handsome, beautiful smile, and oh-so charming. So while my girls are off dancing with their Teco boys, I'm conversing and slipping into the arms of an adorable Texan. But instead of just saying good night,

I ask you to walk the three drunk girls home. Instead of dropping me off at the stoop, you come inside. Three rounds of hot, mind-blowing sex later we pass out. You're gone in the morning. (***Insert passage of months montage here***) In my daily obsessive perusal of seeing what that jackass of a president we have is up to … I spot you. There you are, right on the fucking front page of The Washington Post assisting him on Air Force One. You've got to be fucking kidding me. Not only did you never call me again, and not only did I think about you for months, but it turns out you're about as Republican as you can get, with your W boy scout badge to boot. Karma's a bitch. F -- kate

INSTA-MARKETING: Forget the historic comeback by the Boston Red Sox from 0-3 to a series win. Does anyone realize what Boston's ALCS playoff run mean for Stephen King and Stewart O'Nan's book chronicling ... the 2004 Red Sox ("Faithful")? It just went from a five-week bestseller to a 20-week bestseller. Someone make sure they send Messrs. Damon, Schilling, Ortiz, and company some contributors' copies. B -- Andy Stilp

BREAD AND CIRCUSES: Finally, the Yankees had their historic meltdown. So why don't I feel anything? Yes, the evil empire was vanquished in the most humiliating of ways: a karmic "payback is a bitch" for years of raising baseball salaries and a decade of annoying, if not belligerent, fans. So why don't I feel anything? Is it because this story of Goliath, Jr. slaying Goliath really hasn't changed anything in our lives? The rent is still due. We still have a moron President ready to fight the entire non-white world. Unemployment is up, wages are down. The country is divided and ready to fall apart. The assholes are still in charge and running their confidence game revolving around the accumulation of wealth at all costs -- even those that come at a price to our physical and mental health, to say nothing of our eternal souls. So, yes, it feels like the good guys won for once and the bad guys lost, but really it's just a distraction to keep our minds off what's really goin' on. D- -- Brian DeSmet

TRYING CRYSTAL METH ONE TIME: I was curious for a long time about this supposedly amazing, oh-so-dangerous, illegal drug. My strict Baptist upbringing didn't even allow for card playing, so even now that I'm 37 years old and have had more than my share of sin, I get a dizzying rush of being oh-so-naughty when I'm offered a hit of meth at a party. I take the hit. A big one. Then, I wait for the euphoria, the non-stop libido, the amazing sex. Instead, I start chattering nonsense, get twelve hours of jittery, tense muscles and a dick that may as well be packed in ice cubes for all the good it's going to do me. Horny as hell? Definitely. Can't even jerk off, though, and when I finally do get to sleep, I wake up the next morning depressed as hell, my dopamine supplies exhausted. I figure I may as well get some mileage from the experience, so I trot it out as an amusing anecdote at a party. No meth at this party, but lots of gay men and margaritas, so I figured everyone would enjoy the story. I got lots of appreciative laughs, but then a friend called the next day, furious at me for dabbling in dangerous drugs. Apparently I was the subject of lots of shocked gossip after I left the party. Now everyone thinks I'm addicted, and I didn't even get the promised euphoria and hours-long sexual excitement. Stupid drug. F -- SJR

ITUNES AT THE OFFICE: Say what you will about the what a ripoff the iTunes music store is compared to eMusic or the ethical gymnastics performed by file-sharing proponents -- the ability to glimpse what my coworkers currently have in their iTunes has given my life new meaning. That snotty hipette in the cube across the way? She's been tapping her Fluevogs to the Spice Girls while writing proposals. Someone calling himself "BadAssMoFo" has a taste for Blues Traveler and Derek and the Dominoes. (He must be in Sales.) And the sweetest dollop of creaminess in my morning capuccino? The next time my boss gets high-handed with me, I'll know that his Ultimate Makeout Mix features Yes. For giving us another reason to feel superior to our colleagues, I grant thee a solid, GPA-grounding B+. -- Amy Lewis

HANDICAPPED BATHROOMS: You know it's wrong. You know that while you're pissing on the equivalent of large parking spot, somewhere out there a handicapped kitten dies. But how can you resist? The roomy interior, the thoughtfully placed handrail (so helpful during those extra solid No. 2s) and the private mirror (plus sink!). The handicapped bathroom is the modern day equivalent of having a dressing room with a handmaid attendant. You can peruse blackheads at your leisure, discern their need for immediate attention and take care of bidness without the embarrassment of someone walking in the door mid-squeeze. I wish that every public bathroom would be a handicapped bathroom, only then can we truly let freedom ring. A -- Ceda Xiong

JARED FOGLE SUBWAY ADS: I know a Big Mac is bad for me and that McDonald's should be avoided, despite the apparently psychosis-inducing deliciousness of its Chicken Selects. (BACK AWAY FROM MY FUCKING CHICKEN!) I know this because I am fairly healthy and sane. Yet, Subway insists on having a dork with man boobs in an ugly Target jumper tell me I can eat three foot-long Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki subs over the course of three meals and still consume less fat than if I ate just one Big Mac. First off, I don't take orders from a man with breasts unless I'm drunk in a dark alley. Secondly, why not switch it up, Jared? Can't you quantify with variety? Throw in a Chicken Bacon Ranch Atkins-Friendly Wrap or a Mediterranean Chicken Salad? Jesus, my life is pathetically boring, but not to the point of eating the same sandwich day in and day out. Also, for the record, mowing your lawn does not qualify as active exercise. C- -- Scott Sand

AIR SUPPLY: It took me a second or two to identify "Making Love Out of Nothing At All" on a commercial for MTV's "Sunday Stew," but once I realized that Ashton Kutcher hitting Bam Margera in the face with a dodgeball was set to this Jim Steinman-penned "classic," I could not stop laughing. And you know what? Not only do I know all the words, but I have the song on CD. I'm not ashamed anymore, either. I want cheesy pop-rock to make a comeback. I know the pop landscape has changed a lot since 1981, and that wishing for the triumphant return of REO Speedwagon doesn't give me much "cred" in this world of hipsters and rock snobs, but dammit, I don't care. I want the post-1970s hangover that gave us poodle-haired, mustachioed front men; stratosphere-reaching, Steve Perry-fueled power ballads; and "Take it on the Run." After all, as cool as Franz Ferdinand may be, singing along in the car to "Take Me Out" doesn't provide the satisfaction one gets from belting "Lovin' Touchin' Squeezin'" so out of tune that people roll down their windows to tell you to shut up. B+ -- Tom Panarese

IS IT CHOCOLATE OR POOP?: You're sitting on the train, and a nice-looking (insert appropriate gender subject here) chooses to hold the bar directly above your head. (Thank you, rush hour!) You continue to nurse your coffee and study your Adbusters, and you then notice the tiniest dollop of brown on your sleeve. It has a sticky consistency and is not of completely homogenous nature. You surreptitiously scrape it with your nail, and stealthly sniff it, as your heart begins to race. Did I sneeze while pooping? Did my sleeve interfere while wiping? But no. You remember, as you smear the substance between your fingertips, that run-in with chocolate chip banana bread earlier that morning. And so you sit back, and rest comfortably in the knowledge that it is indeed chocolate, not poop. This time. A -- th

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