|THE BLACK LIST: ...AAAND WE'RE BACK!|
|By The Black Table|
Ahhh that felt good. The Black Table's yearly two-week summer break is over, and we feel refreshed: tanned, rested and ready. Our pallet is cleansed, our souls are purified and we're ready to get back to work. So thanks for returning to us. We didn't forget you.
And you obviously didn't forget about us either. We've got quite the smattering of Black List submissions this week -- 10, to be exact -- which makes us happy and full of dance. If you want to play next week, use the form on the right. Let's rock it like a rock and sock robot, only with more fluidity of movement.
VENUS RAZOR: Hey, thanks Venus razor inventors! Not only did you innovate the "triple blade razor" with really lame "girlie" ads and a super-high price point, but you conveniently designed the razor to have a smooth, curved shape with a little round knob on the end. I always thought it was just me who sometimes engaged in a little one-on-one time with Venus and the shower, but apparently not. Because only you, Venus razor inventors, would come out with a product brazenly called the "Vibrance," selling women a bright, clear-jelly pink, thick, round ended vibrating....razor. And you can totally buy it at Wal-Mart! A -- Emi
PUBLIC MELTDOWNS: One clerk at the post office, 3:30 on a Friday, a line to the door. A woman on crutches, verbally abusing four ragtag kids, leaning on the counter as if she's been gut-shot. "How much longer do I gotta wait for my check?" "He'll be right out," the clerk -- your clerk -- snarls, chucking your fragile mail across the room into a bin from the three-point line. The supervisor comes out, huge, florid, hating God. "I got thirty-seven pins in my knee this morning and you're makin' me stand here and I gotta -- " The dude opens up like Vesuvius. "DON'T START WITH ME, LADY! EVERYBODY'S GOT A GODDAMN SOB STORY ON THE FIRST OF THE MONTH!!! I'M DOIN' YOU A GODDAMN FAVOR HERE, AND YOU DIDN'T EVEN FILL OUT THE GODDAMN CHANGE OF ADDRESS FORM LIKE I GODDAMN AST YOU TO! THAT'S THREE DAYS IN A ROW NOW!!! JESUS!!!!" Silence, for the next five minutes, except for the woman's muffled sobs, and your own footfalls as you get the fuck outta Dodge. Realizing your life doesn't suck as bad as many people's: A-. One-act post office dramas in 95-degree heat with no AC and no heroes: F -- Bergman
KIDS AND THEIR 'NEW' INFLATED SAT SCORES: The other day, a colleague of mine
was telling me about a scholar-athlete who just got a 1620 on the SAT. "You can't get a 1620," I said. Well, it turns out that you can. The SATs now go up to 2000. Which means that for the rest of my life, whenever I brag about having scored in the 1400s 16 years ago, it will be meaningless. Before that, it didn't matter that I haven't accomplished anything significant since I was 17; I still had my SAT score to lord over the masses and prove I was no slouch. Even after they "recentered" the scores five or six years ago, adding points to kids' verbal scores in an effort to lessen hurt feelings, I cringed and dealt with it. But now, my once impressive score matters no more. What's next, giving out free Harvard diplomas? D- -- Caren Lissner
NEW YORK MEN: I'm a straight woman living in LA who is not an actress or model. This means my odds of getting asked out are slightly lower than the odds that one of our celebrity criminals will ever get convicted. Maybe that's why my trip to New York last month was so exciting. You New York men do this weird thing where you actually talk to women. It's crazy! In three days I got more attention than in a year in L.A. I dismissed it all as vacation flirtation until I met you. Yeah you, the bonds salesman with the shaved head. You told me you were coming to LA on June 9th, to pick out a restaurant. Heck, I could kick it at your fancy schmancy company-paid hotel all day if I wanted. I didn't believe you. But I e-mailed you when I got back. To my pleasant surprise, you called me back right away, said you were deadly serious. You'd call me the moment your plane landed. For two weeks I allowed myself foolish daydreams about going on an honest-to-God date. Then June 9th, the day you were to arrive, came. Nada. You never called. Still no word from you four days later. I suppose I could call you, let you stammer out an excuse, but why bother? You suck, you wanna-be Mr. Big. Lying Bond Trader: D- Flirtatious New York Men: A -- sb
BEING LECTURED ABOUT INAPPROPRIATE CONVERSATIONS IN THE WORKPLACE: I have to admit, when I used to imagine getting busted for many of the awful things my fellow cubicle monkeys and I discuss far too loudly on a daily basis, I thought it could really suck. My boss looking at me, lecturing me with a tone of serious disappointment in his voice, my career plans taking a major hit. So when I finally got dragged into a conference room this week and got that lecture, one has to wonder why I sat there with a ridiculous grin on my face like I was winning a lifetime achievement award. Let's face it: When you've worked so hard at something for over three years, even something offensive and pointless, recognition is a great thing. A -- Zander
DRINKING OUTSIDE YOUR AGE CATEGORY: Everyone remembers that sweet taste of sanctioned freedom associated with intoxication accompanied by authority figures (usually parents). But much to my surprise, no amount of MGD or plastic-cup long islands has yet comforted my unease with drinking with bosses, generationally removed relatives or just anyone who has at least 30 years on me. I either drink far too much far too quickly and validate all my own paranoias, or meekly sip and divide their sloshitude by two to keep myself in check. Perhaps this weekend, when a man I work tangentially for and have nothing but the utmost respect for, vomited three times and broke the hotel room's toilet while I tiptoed the line between drunk and crunk, will teach me a few things about moderation, or more likely abate my fears about my own intoxication. Life's drinking lessons: A. The smell of his vomit: D -- Rosco P. Coltrane
RAT RACE DROPOUT HEROES: Business and finance magazines love to feature people who "gave up a highly successful career" to start over again as a bed and breakfast owner/non-profit director/pine cone artist. They reverentially recount the difficult struggle of their transition and how heroic these people are to lower themselves to work for peanuts for some dinky non-profit and "give something back." The quotes are always along the lines of, "It was hard not having a driver anymore. It's so easy to spill your latte when you have to drive yourself." Please. What courage does it take to have your financial future already in the bank, your kids out of private school, and your McMansion paid off when you quit the job you deep down never really loved but the money was too good? Brave? Give me the small town college graduate moving to the city, alone and broke, to try to find anything remotely resembling the first step in a career. Or how about the non-profit director who is trying to better the community and help people while barely able to support his own family because he believes in what he does, not to "give something back." Hey that's great that you can semi-retire at 45, but you are not brave. Burned out and bored? Maybe, but not courageous. The community substance abuse counselor who works the streets and is a paycheck away from joining his clients out there? You're brave. You're courageous. And people like you get the A -- Roy Felipe
CONEY ISLAND: Corn Dogs; Ice Cream; Aquarium; Pretzel; Cyclone; Onion Rings; Some Ride That Spins You Around in Gut-Shaking Circles for Eight Minutes; Nausea; Cold Sweat; Coca-Cola; Wonder Wheel; Vomit. Throwing up all over myself, my girlfriend and potentially the people in the car beneath mine at the top of the Wonder Wheel: D-. Getting a free Wonder Wheel T-shirt (because mine was covered in puke) so I can remember the embarrassment forever: A -- Matt
ELDERLY BROKEN PEOPLE GETTING IT ON: A less politically correct friend used to say, "Retards have the strength of an ape and sex on the brain." Let's not debate the finer points of terminology. I don't know a lot about the former assertion, but I've seen the latter proven time and time again. Recently, I woke up early. I stumbled down to Dunkin' Donuts for the morning coffee and stood in line behind an elderly mentally challenged woman. Her elderly and similarly mentally challenged beau sat off at a table, chomping at the bit, but managing to control himself. Then, like a bolt of Viagra struck him from the sky, he was up and within seconds they we're making out. The girl behind me thought it was cute. Needless to say, she is fucked up and lonely. It nearly put me off my Blueberry Coffee. I will never wake up early for work again. D -- Scott Sand
ROBERT NOVAK AND MY IMAGINARY COCK IN HIS PIEHOLE: Judith Miller and Matthew Cooper are currently facing jail time for not disclosing their sources in the case of the outing of a CIA operative. Miller never published an article about the leak; Cooper speculated motives of the leak, that is, after Robert Novak took the liberty of publishing it in the first place. I'll rephrase that: ROBERT NOVAK OUTED VALERIE PLAME. He won't reveal his sources, yet he walks away. (Our favorite softball-throwing, nude-picture-posting, male-escort-service-running conservative White House air-quotes-correspondent Jeff Gannon/James Guckert may have been privvy to information about the leaks as well.) Well, Robert Novak can suck my cock. I don't even have a cock, but I wish I could grow one, just so he can suck on it. Hard. And I might as well, because I have a boy's name, I get called "Mr." a lot because of that, and I might as well give something back to all the closeted gay guys I've dated. A -- Jamie Frevele
Each and every week, Black Table readers like you write the Black List and get absolutely nothing in return. Ain't that some shit.