|THE BLACK LIST: GOODBYE FOOTBALL, HELLO DICKIE BETTS!|
|By The Black Table|
Remember when you used to dread the Super Bowl? When the NFC team would just destroy the AFC team, and everybody ran home at halftime? When nobody watched the game at all?
Sunday night's game was kind of like that. Sure, we're happy for the Patriots (we guess) and sorry for the Eagles (we guess), and yeah, the game was kind of close (we guess), but the whole thing was ultimately kind of dull and uneventful. It made us look forward to baseball season. (Pitchers and catchers report in just over a week!)
But we are sensitive to the notion that we talk too much about sports here at The Black Table. Therefore, we present to you the following performers at Sunday's Grammy Awards ceremony:
So, yeah, that's so much better than baseball.
We have 11 reviews this week. We love more than that. Please submit. We're nothing without you.
OLD, DITZY BITCH IN THE ADJOINING CUBICLE CROWING ABOUT HER BIG VICTORY IN THE SUPER BOWL OFFICE POOL: Shut up. Yeah, you. Mommy-hair with the age-inappropriate short skirt retelling your miraculous victory in the office pool. I'm glad you had the center box. Oh, really? You were "praying the Eagles didn't score at the end there?" That's really a great victory for you, your mustache and your banana tits. Aw, you're gonna take the fat lady with the pumpkin-head and Manny the Puerto Rican homo out to Au Bon Pain with your winnings? That's tremendous. You're glad the Eagles didn't win because their fans are "so obnoxious?" I see. Any chance I can join you guys? I'd love to mash four Southwest tuna wraps down your turkey-looking throat, bludgeon you with a stale piece of French bread and shove a hot bowl of Mediterranean corn chowder up your cooter. Congratulations on the big win though! F -- A.J. (Taking the Eagles Loss Somewhat Poorly) Daulerio
FIRST BIRTHDAYS: I finally had one of the little rugrats, so all of the people in the world can stop asking why I don't have any children yet. Apparently, it's a crime to be married and 30-something and not have kids. I got through the pregnancy, the 30 hours of labor, the emergency
c-section, the crying newborn at home, returning to work to find myself 'demoted', the daycare illnesses, the exploding diapers, etc., only to realize at 10 months and 2 weeks old, christ almighty, the entire family is expecting a first birthday party! Now, granted, this is his VERY FIRST birthday, but I just don't think he's going to give a good goddamn one way or another. He doesn't know what cake is! Hell, he doesn't even know what state he is in! Long an enemy of tradition, I would love to let this day go by like all others, but I don't want to have to tell my son someday that I didn't do anything for his first birthday. So off I go to plan a theme for a one-year-old's first birthday party that will mean absolutely nothing to him. D -- Sandy
SLY STALLONE'S MIDDLE PERIOD: Roughly estimated around 1982 to 1993, covering the years between Rocky III and Demolition Man, when the artist went from a mildly interesting, entertaining dude into a muscle-strained automaton capable of little more than grimacing. The beginning of this period marks the end of his creative peak -- the 1976-1982 area, covering Rocky, Victory, Nighthawks, First Blood -- when he was stretching, if only a bit, to try something new and more often than not managed to stay away from outright suckitude. The end of this period marks when audiences became weary of the inveterate sameness of his bulging biceps and growling demeanor in all his movies. Cliffhanger was indeed the last movie he was able to "open;" it eventually grossed $84 million, which was not too shabby in 1993. His acting sucked for most of this period, and so the relative high points (Rocky III, Cliffhanger, Lock Up) are mostly livened up by the supporting players like Mr. T, John Lithgow and Donald Sutherland, and the low points (Cobra, Tango & Cash, Oscar) livened up by, well, not seeing them in the first place. D+ -- David Gaffen
LEAVING THE HARD WORK TO OUR ROBOT SERVANTS: Busy lives and an inclination to messiness reduce the likelihood our new apartment will score a Good Housekeeping seal of approval any time soon. But through a weird twist of fate, four Roombas, little round robotic vacuums about the size of birthday cakes, were exchanged between relatives at Christmas, and after the silly glee of staging a demolition derby in my in-laws' foyer wore off, it was time to take ours back to the big city. It's an oddly compelling thing to watch -- the little doo-dad scoots along, sweeping up dust and assorted little bits of crap on the floor and the rug, hits something (a chair, a sleeping pet, a slow moving foot), turns around and heads in another direction, its tiny robot brain furiously recalculating the algorithm that will eventually send it over every square inch of the room. After two or three sessions, it's easier to accept that some aspects of domestic life, a la "The Jetsons," are neither so far-fetched nor glamorous. Learning not to follow our actual labor-saving device around: B+, worrying about succeeding models, which will probably take your job: B- -- Will Swarts
GETTING CRUISED AT THE THRIFT STORE: It was bad enough that the shoe selection at my favorite thrift store was sadly lacking this week. What was worse? Noticing the pair of killer heels clutched in the hoary hands of the weird dude slowly following me through the shoe/boot/ladies' dresses aisle, grinning crookedly and whistling a somewhat fractured version of Tom Jones' "She's A Lady." Hey, friend? I'm down with cross-dressing or whatever, but if you're not seriously considering that pair of green open-toed pumps, how about letting someone else have a crack at them? Getting checked out while pawing through other peoples' castoff clothing (slightly mitigated by finding a cashmere sweater for $4): C- -- MG
TAKING CABS TO WORK: Rarely does it make fiscal sense to take a cab to work -- between the ever-efficient MTA and the usurious recent cab fare hike, it should be a no-brainer. Except, in my case, it really does make perfect sense. Based on FDR proximity and the vagaries of the JMZ, it takes me less than 10 minutes to get to work by cab vs. 30-to-45 minutes by subway, factoring in walking, waiting and randomly stopping in the middle of the tunnel, just because. I'm paid by the hour -- with time-and-a-half for overtime -- so after crunching the numbers I realized that it actually cost more to take the subway, even after taxes, based on wasted minutes I could be adding to my timesheet. So for $8.90 per day (plus $1.10 tip), I get to plump up my bank account and sleep in for 20 more minutes. If I didn't hate the goddamn job so much, it would be perfect. Being totally justified in taking a cab to work: A. Realizing you're one of those assholes who take cabs to work: D. -- Rachel Sklar
"FEARLESS" ACTING: The most retarded thing in the world is when critics praise an actor's performance as being "[completely and/or utterly] fearless." This is a baffling phenomenon that must be shot in the face immediately. See, I'm all for emotional honesty, and I'm sure Javier Bardem dug deep to play that bedridden whoever in that new foreign movie with the ridiculous title, but "fearless?" That's insulting to fear. Do not insult fear. It does not seem wise, no? D -- C.M.
NAZIS PICKING UP TRASH ALONG THE OREGON HIGHWAY: When the American Nazi Party signed on to adopt a stretch of the Oregon highway, citizens got pissed and campaigned to have their Nazi name removed from the otherwise friendly green signs posted along the road. Are you kidding? If Nazis are going to do any kind of community service, let's be glad it involves trash bags and dirty highway wind. Although I would recommend their pointed sticks be confiscated at the end of each session. B+ -- Abby Gross
REALIZING YOUR "CREATIVE NONFICTION" ESSAYIST EX WILL PROBABLY WRITE ABOUT YOU: Self-absorbed, cranky, allusive; he had the character traits of a good writer without actually being... a good writer. Too long to admit later -- and after enough passive aggressive torture to fuel a season of "America's Next Top Norman Mailer" -- we broke up. But now that the dust has settled, I realize that my ex may someday immortalize my valiant efforts to be forgiving, tolerant and cheery in a wash of self congratulatory prose of the "how poor me tried so hard with that crazy lady" variety. Do I sound like a bitter bitch? You bet. Would you sound like a bitter bitch after years of your boyfriend staying up late to commune with internet porn whilst you slept? Ex writing crappy 'creative non-fiction' about you: F. Realizing that no one will ever publish it or read it: A -- GH
THE PHRASE "STATE OF THE UNION" (BY FORMER PRESIDENT MARTIN VAN BUREN): Let's face it, it's time to rename the State of the Union Address. Why? Because the state of the Union is pretty rock solid and has been for a long ass time. In my day, you'd get up in front of Congress and lay the state of the Union on the line. For example in 1838, I began thusly, "The State of the Union is kind of mehhh. You know, so-so. I'd say about half you bastards would like to split off from the rest of us, but guess what? We're in one bitch ass of a recession, the price of cotton has bottomed out and you fuckers are stuck with the rest of us Yankees until we can figure a way out of this economic mess. Moving on who here besides me hates Indians?" That, my friends, was the state of the Union ... mehhh. May I suggest we keep the new name simple and to the point, the Annual President Address or Rappin' Wit Congress 0'FIZ! (next year would be 0'SIZ, etc., etc.) The Phrase "State of Union": C- -- Martin Van Buren
SPLIFFS AND CHASTITY: It's a fucking given: If I roll you a spliff during a snowstorm and the only furniture in your apartment is a futon - you're leaving for Europe tomorrow - and you throw on a Tindersticks album for texture, we're going after it. No arguments. January is no time for dry humping unless you're performing a stage rendition of Caligula. Take off the cashmere poncho and the skirt -- neither of us will care tomorrow, standing at the airport. And if you're going to let airport security give you a better one-two than me while I stand and watch, at least look like you enjoy it. Shit, where's that roach and my cell phone -- I'm in the market for another quarter. Ciao, goodbye, I'll be nursing these blue balls and rug burn with a spliff and some Kiehls lotion that I stole from my roommate until you return. D+ -- JD Stone
(Ed. Note: We have no idea what this last one means, but we are officially scared.)
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