Yep, we're here: The final Black List. This final Black List exists solely for you to read it and kick yourself for not submitting any entries. Because now that you've read this, it's too late. Seriously. It's too late.

You know what you were going to write about. But you know what? It doesn't matter now. Because the Black List is done. You better go start a blog or something if you want to be heard now. It's not hard; it's depressingly easy, actually.

Anyway, we hope you enjoy this. As this article makes clear, it's not easy bringing these to you each and every Wednesday. It takes literally tens of hours each year.

And that's all. Good night, Black List. You can't use the form on the right to submit, because office hours are over. Be safe, all.

-- 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.

BEING A BLACK TABLE EDITOR: It's 11 p.m. on Tuesday and tomorrow's final Black List is already posted. But you know what? It doesn't matter! I can submit whenever I want because I'm an editor. Ha! This is privilege, people. Nevermind that no one made a dime. I've got power. And now ... none. There is nothing left for me to write. In some ways, that's the best news I've heard in years. No need to screen the general submissions. (Yes, I'm the one who rejected your 3,000-word treatise on "Spring." Twice.) No need to hope some stranger comes through with a story. No need to happen upon a great idea or bury a bad one. No need to sit around with three of my best friends and laugh at the word Coolendar. ("It'll be great—we'll get little Fonzies!") Man, what a job. AJ, Will and Eric: A for asking me along. -- Aileen Gallagher

PSEUDO-STALKERHOOD PAYOFFS: After spending all of last semester being the stereotypical graduate-writing-program student who checks out guys under the pretense of writing comments on her classmates' poems at a coffee shop, the girl finally interacts with her primary object of desire, a kind-eyed fellow with a penchant for hiking-clothes. Lo and behold, he finds her attractive, too. Madcap perving between the two ensues, and the girl spends the next week with a stupid fucking grin on her face and pop songs in her iPod and doesn't do a lick of work. Who cares what happens next? It's enough when total stalker tactics result in sketchy, endearing fun with the opposite sex. Creepitude leading to desire returned: A -- Mara

BODE MILLER? NOT SO IMPRESSIVE: So everybody is

all whacked about Bode Miller admitting that he skis downhill wasted. BFD. I have been going downhill wasted for 30 years. Sure, there is the whole going 80 mph down the side of a mountain wearing a Catwoman costume thing, but for sheer variety; you can't beat the madness of going through your entire life wasted. Bode, did you get through college wasted, in only five years and with three different majors? Did you show up at student teacher orientation smelling the Jack Daniels in the capillaries in your nose and hoping that no one else did? Try drinking all night trying to pick up trade show babes and then setting up your booth at 7:30 the next morning, wondering if anyone else was seeing the little bubbles bursting in front of their eyes. And lest you think there is no athletic comparison, have you ever sought out the Hair of the Dog at halftime during a rugby match? No, Bode, until you sit at your desk with a large splash of coffee in your Jameson's, tryhign to collect tyour thouthgtas weilll-= enoifuth to weeite sometetrhtiun g foer the boLack List, yoou realfy hafvenet lkived. Wherrrsse that gfraddde??/ yeah, a A+ … fank yoou ansd goiodniggh. -- Roy Felipe

LOW INCOME PEN SNOBBERY: Perusing a magazine store, I was charmed to hear an indigent young man count out 50 pennies and request two ballpoint Bic pens with white casing. A persnickety pen purchaser myself (Pilot precise, rolling ball, extra fine, black), I was tempted to pay for the pens, perhaps also offering a .07 mechanical pencil or luxurious Moleskine to the poverty-stricken poet with whom I felt so much solidarity. The shopkeeper asked if he'd like blue or black, and I eavesdropped intently, eager for the selection of this fellow connoisseur. He emitted the derisive sound my grade school music teacher referred to as "sucking yo' teeth" and said he didn't give a shit, so long as it had the white plastic tube. A sudden recollection sent me running to Google, and sure enough, Bic pens make excellent crackpipes. Writing implement particularity: A. Feeling like a dupe as well as a nerdberger: C- -- Rachel Fershleiser

MY POS CAR: When I graduated from college, I wanted some fantastically sporty car--- maybe a classic, maybe a convertible, maybe BOTH! But because I work in education, what I got was a Hyundai Elantra. A BEIGE Hyundai Elantra: the most boring car on earth. Over the years, I've learned to love my car. Seven years out of college, and we're still going strong together. But since those seven years consisted of me working on college campuses, my little POS has gotten more than its share of dings and scratches. Some drunk pitched a two-liter of Pepsi out of a 7th story window and left a nasty dent on the top of the trunk. Some drunk backed into my car in the parking lot and left a 2-foot scratch/dent along the back bumper. Some drunk got pissed off at me and keyed the whole back of the car. I hated what had happened to my baby, but I didn't have the money to fix it. Then, recently, my dad called and said he'd be in town for an evening. We agreed to meet for dinner and hang out. It was a lovely evening, and then we went our separate ways. Five minutes later, I was sitting at a light, and felt a huge BUMP. The car behind me, it turns out, was pushed into mine by a third car. Guess who was driving that car? My dad. So now, I've had basically the back quarter of my car replaced, and my baby is shining like a brand new car. Getting all that stuff fixed on my dad's insurance bill gets a definite A+. But then there's the part where all my guy friends LOVE to joke about me "getting rear-ended by my dad" (EEEEEWWWWWW!) and that gets a big, fat F. -- Nikki Laird

WELLBUTRIN: Oh, shut up -- like you've never taken an anti-depressant, tough guy? Or at least been told that you should? Yeah, exactly. After years of popping boring old Prozac, experiencing the crack-like side effects of Celexa, and losing my libido at the hands of Effexor, I think I may have finally found my psycho-soul mate in Wellbutrin. Since I started my prescription, my appetite has been reduced to incredibly small, negligible proportions. Weight Loss? Check. Compared to my days in the Bell Jar, my mood is relatively stable, and I don't feel like only my black clothes "accurately represent" me. Less Depressed? Check. And if I so much as think about something being within three feet of my vagina, I lose control of my pants. Orgasm Machine? Big Check. The only drawback thus far is the occasional lightheadedness, but that just gives me all the more excuse to lay down. And as long as I'm horizontal, maybe I can have sex with something until the dizzy spell passes. A- -- Jessica Coen

HIBERNATION: The concept has long since been abandoned in the conversational circles of my colleagues. We generally agree that those forcing themselves out into wind chill hovering around a number only Roman Polanski would love are less likely to trudge home with a piece of ass. We here in Boston do a lot of walking, especially in the worst of weather. I've taken my winter with a slice of bitter, unsweetened chocolate, in that I'm making no attempt to flaunt or fornicate until I can open my door and feel less guilty tossing my one night stand out into the 72 degree morning. Hibernation is a rather unnatural concept according to the local womenfolk, who seem to take a sip of their drink and turn away when I tell them that they're a complete waste of time. It's the middle of January, I keep a thin assortment of essentials to make my way through winter: cigarettes, Advil and coffee. Call it celibacy, my substance crutches during these dark, bitter days trump any tramp stamped alchy trying to find my bathroom in the dark. Don't
worry darling, I've hidden all the mirrors under my bed for a reason.
B+ -- JD Stone

EVERYTHING: What's up with that shit? Jesus Christ it pisses me off. Everywhere you look, there it is. Even the very act of looking at it is part of it. Well, I for one have had enough. Fuck you, Everything! Wahh, wahh, wahhhhhh, etc. Although I guess it beats the alternative. F -- Jim Treacher

BEING CHASTISED FOR SOMETHING YOU WROTE ON THE BLACK LIST: So your older sister, with whom you've always had an antagonistic relationship, thinks she's so smart because she Googled you and found your "secrets" -- snarky, revealing bits about yourself that you left laying around the Internet. And she waits until the family reunion to bring it up as a snide sotto voce aside, as in, "Yeah, I found what you wrote." She doesn't know how much worse you've had it as a writer: professors reading your drafts of love poems about them, exes who don't get that your fictional pieces aren't really true, newspaper pieces eviscerated in the editing. You keep your cool: "Yeah, what of it?" And she has no follow-through at all. An older sibling holding something you've written over you: Big F. Furthering your reputation as the family renegade: A-Fucking-Plus. -- J Ritterbusch

LOSING THE BLACK LIST AS A COVERT WAY TO GET IN TOUCH WITH MY EX: OK, Black List, I'll bite. I will really miss you. You're funny and all, but mainly it is for my own selfish reason: Now I lose the one sure-fire covert way to get in touch with the ex that still lingers in my mind. I know I could be a "grown-up" and contact him directly, but what would I say? That I hate him, but I don't totally hate him, but I do hate him for turning me into a female version of him, all skittish and emotionally unavailable and shit ... that because of him I got involved in a really bad (yeah, even more fucked up than our own) rebound relationship that seven months later I have yet to recover from ... that we never got closure and that really sucks and why the FUCK are you popping up in my dreams randomly? Yeah, I could say any of those things. But this way I know he'll know, but I get to preserve some dignity. But only for the last time. Black List, I always loved you, and I will miss you, and I think the fact that you're going away deserves a big ol' F -- S.W.A.K.

EDITING THE BLACK LIST: I've put sorting through all the Black List submissions since we revamped this thing two years ago -- yes, if yours didn't make the cut, it is indeed my fault -- and I have to tell you, it's the type of thing that will make you feel bad about humanity. You people are very angry; you're nothing but gripes. But, to be fair, no one ripped on my bland, bored, let's-just-get-this-overwith-and-get-started intros, and, you know, that was kind of sweet of you. Anyway, this is going to free up my Tuesday afternoons a bit. That, of course, means more scrambled porn. Thanks, Black Table readers. C -- Will Leitch

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