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  INCOMING! JANUARY 23, 2005.  


Ugh. Today is the day you realize that all those New Year's resolutions were for shit after spending the better part of the weekend drinking rye whiskey, snorting the medicine cabinet and buying Chinese food by the pound. Today is also the day you start wondering why work hasn't sent you any tax forms yet, because you're so incredibly broke, you're six apples away from putting on a cheerleader costume and turning tricks at a truck stop.

While you stink off the weekend in a gray cubicle, our neighbors our neighbors to the north hold their 39th general election. (Vote Gretzky and Trebek for change!) And how did those loveable Canucks get the word out about their Democratic exercise? With the slogan "A date you should mark with an X."

Other things you should mark with an X:

  • January 27, this Friday, when the Black Table stops publishing and throws a major rager at a bar in New York City. If you're not in the area and don't have a car, you should start walking now.
  • "B." Especially when you're stumped on the SAT. As everyone knows, B is always the correct answer.
  • The inside of your doorpost with goat blood. You know, just in case the Angel of Death comes looking for the chosen people.

Also today, on the Black Table you'll read a little column called Incoming and chuckle as someone tries to make an inappropriate joke linking the fact Monday is the first anniversary of Johnny Carson's death, Tiffani Theissen's 32nd birthday, and National Pie Day.






Hide the sharp objects! According to a British psychologist, January 24 is the most depressing day of the entire year. Part of this is because of that shit you pulled during the whiskey binge with the Shetland pony and the San Ferndando junior high school marching band, and part of it is because of this formula developed by Dr. Cliff Arnall, seasonal disorder specialist at the University of Cardiff, Wales:

[W + (D-d)] x TQ
M x NA

In Dr. Arnall's equation, W is how shitty the weather is, D is the amount of debt racked up on discount lap dances, d is the monthly salary you blew on that new TV, T is the time since your parents gave you money on Christmas, Q is the time since you made that grand statement about how "you're going to stop messing around with guns and superglue", M is your motivational level -- currently stuck somewhere between Bernie from Weekend at Bernie's and Terri Schiavo. NA, of course, is the need to take action, of which you have none.

More than 35 million Americans will tune in to see orange-skinned Ukranian immigrants, morbidly obese librarians, and wildly overconfident wannbes embarrass themselves to become the next American Idol. Tonight, the entire country will unite to ridicule the talentless and wonder loudly about Ryan Seacrest's sexual orientation. In a few weeks, however, when the exercise in schadenfreude is over, millions of Americans will go back to pointing and laughing at the morons on Real World/Road Rules Gauntlet II.

But more importantly, on The Black Table, you'll read the very last edition of Waxing Off, where a whole lot of girls are going to talk about their vaginas using the kind of language that gets this site blocked by a growing number of corporate firewalls.






On this day in 1971, Ugandan dictator Idi Amin led a coup and became one of the most brutal and sadistic men in the history of modern civilization. In honor of Mr. Amin's achievements 35 years ago, we present you with some facts from his life:

  • In addition to becoming the highest ranked officer in the British army, Amin was also Uganda's light heavyweight champion from 1950 until 1961, a title he lost to the Ugandan giant, Kamala, when manager Mr. Kim snuck into the ring and hit Amin with the bell.
  • During his seven year reign, Amin tortured or killed nearly 500,000 people -- including the decimation of the Acholi and Lango tribes. But because these gaudy stats were in the undercovered African region, like Eddie Murray, Amin's Hall of Fame career has never been fully celebrated.
  • By the end of his life, Amin had reached Michael Jackson levels of craziness. He appointed himself King of Scotland and walked around wearing the Victorian Cross, raced cars in the desert, and collected Disney cartoons. That is, when he wasn't engaged in cannibalism.

And on the Black Table, we have the final installment of The Black List, which will prompt dozens and dozens of readers to kick themselves that they didn't get their shit together to send one off sooner. Don't feel bad. Today is going to be better than yesterday. Just ask Dr. Arnall.





On this day last year, we told you: "Happy Australia Day, or as the Aborigines call it, There Goes the Neighborhood Day. Most Americans are probably unaware, but January 26 is sort of like Australia's version of the Fourth of July, except it's in January, and in Australia, and it celebrates the arrival of ships teeming with surly British convicts upon the shores of the world's largest island, or as pessimists call it, the world's smallest continent."

But this year, we say: "FUCK AUSTRALIA." Seriously, you guys are like a sequel to Canada. It's not that cool.

What is cool? Well, the Black Table Beer run, that's what. It's the last time we'll ever get a chance to buy a case of different beers, chug them all in a single afternoon, and call it journalism. Well, maybe not the last time. There's always that shift at the nursing home.






That's it. We're all done. Today, Amy Blair will write The Week in Craig for one last time, Will Leitch will write up a 52,000-word history of The Black Table, and then we'll stop updating the site every single day.

Which is kinda sad, when we think about it. But who wants to think about sad things?

We want to drink!

Friday night we will party our faces off at Dusk, on 147 W 24th Street between 6th and 7th Avenues, at 7 p.m. We'll probably show up a little too early and indulge a bit too much in the $4 Rolling Rocks, because we're a bit nervous. Sometime around 9 p.m., we'll realize we forgot to eat in all the excitement and decide to smoke a cigarette for dinner. Everyone will show up around 11 p.m. and we'll be outside weeping incoherently and handing out random hugs, thanking everyone like Dick Vermeil at his grandson's fifth birthday party.

Thanks for playing. It's been fun.




Eric Gillin was the editor-in-chief of The Black Table.