The Black List: Funny for Nothing and We're Dicks for Free
We were sitting in our apartment the other day, listening to Nirvana and watching scrambled porn, when it finally occurred to us: Perhaps there’s no need to close down the Black Table after all. Perhaps what we need to do is embrace a less labor-intensive model, and run the Black List every day.
The Black List, as you know, is entirely written by our fans, whom we do not know at all, we swear, for no cash and only nominal appreciation. Over the past year and half, this has saved our editorial staff literally tens of hours of hard work.
We’ve got nine reviews today. Use the form on the right to gobble our knobs, you suckers.
— BT
FIRST DESK JOB OUT OF COLLEGE: I cannot believe it’s only 10:45. Dude, I am so hungover. You don’t even know. Do I have a bruise on my face? It’s like, tender here. Can you take a look? Man, you don’t even want to know how much money I spent last night. Like, 200 dollars. Do I smell like beer? No, smell me. You don’t have to smell my breath, just like, smell my skin or something. I’m afraid it’s coming out of my pores. Shit, here comes the Man, man. Will you just smell me? I have to do this PowerPoint thing at the 3:00 meeting. Maybe I should just go home and take a shower. Living in New York: A+! — Rob
MY HOMETOWN SPORTING TEAM RULES: Mah-wah, mah-wah-wah-wah, Dominican-sounding name, mah-wah-wah, Japanese-sounding name, wah-wah, statistic that sounds like something from tenth-grade physics, mah-wah, owners are stupid, wah-wah, fans are worse, wah, grow up already. My team: A. Your team: F-. — Sportsguy!
I ENJOY AMERICA’S NEXT TOP MODEL, BUT WITH IRONY: Many of my friends have expressed surprise at my latest television passion: America’s Next Top Model, cycle 4, hosted by Ms. Tyra Banks and featuring Twiggy. This is understandable: I have attended top universities, and have a packed schedule, between my job at the art gallery and my social calendar at various red-velvet-rope establishments throughout the West Village. What they fail to understand is that I love America’s Next Top Model … but with irony. I am not serious when I express my admiration for this plucky waitress from Detroit or that hostess from Oklahoma. I am merely expressing my disdain in a particularly creative fashion. Most people do not have the dedication to research that my particular brand of humor requires. These people fill me with pity. What was the point of this review again? C. Seriously, I’m so alone: D- — Firstname Lastname
FFFFFFFFT: Poop! Poop, poop, poop! Fart! A — Jimmy
LIVING WITH A SERIAL KILLER: It seemed like a good deal at the time: only 1300 dollars for a windowless basement room in Union Square. In retrospect, I should have known something was wrong as soon as I saw his decorating scheme: People who live in city apartments don’t generally go in for taxidermy. But my lease was up in a week and I was out of options, so you know how it goes. You tamp down those reservations and try to pretend that you believe that stain in the bathroom is really hair dye. (Funny that a bald guy would need hair dye, but after all, hindsight is 20/20.) Now it’s three months later and I’d kill to see that bathroom again. Or any room, but this one. I think he’s digging a hole in the laundry room, and once it’s done, I shudder to think of what will happen next. No seriously, send help: F — Catherine
YOU KNOW WHAT SUCKS? Genital warts. Just saying. C- — Sandy
I HAVE NOTHING BUT DISDAIN FOR YOUR T-SHIRT: Your T-shirt, which bears the logo of my favorite band from the early 80s, fills me with horror, because it was clearly manufactured last year. My own, you will note, is legitimate. It has holes in it. It is worn and faded. It even smells a little. I bet you got yours at Urban Outfitters. I bet you ordered it from the Delia’s catalogue. You sicken me: F — Anna
THE WEATHER It is hot or cold or wet or dry or smelly or boring or something. And if you are whining about this, you probably live in a fairly temperate city with hundreds of things to do every second. People who live in the Yukon Territory—or a yurt near the equator—rarely complain about the weather. You ever notice that, you Andy Rooney motherfuckers? That’s right. There is weather outside. Go find a seat at your favorite bar like everyone else and suck it up. D — Crabby McGee
FROOT LOOPS: Boy oh boy, do I love Froot Loops. I could eat them all day long. I could eat them with milk—any kind, you name it, skim, whole, even soy. I could eat them plain, in a bowl, while I’m watching reruns of Law & Order and doing bong-hits. They’re just one plain old delicious snack, I’ll tell you what. It doesn’t get any better than Froot Loops. I’m going to eat some right now. A — Hi-C
