It was a busy weekend, we'd say. Ronald Reagan died, Smarty Jones choked, The Sopranos headed off for a five-year hiatus and, most important, David Hasselhoff was arrested for drunk driving. If you can't trust KITT, dammit, you can't trust anyone.

By the way, did anyone realize that Gerald Ford is 90? Here's the ages of our remaining living Presidents:

-- Gerald Ford: 90.
-- George H.W. Bush: 80, on Saturday.
-- Jimmy Carter: 79.
-- George W. Bush: 58, next month.
-- Bill Clinton: 57.

Expert Black Table researcher Dave Gaffen informs us that the average age for a President to die is 70.227. Of course, in the 1700s, most people didn't make it out of their teens. Keep that in mind.

We've got 10 slap-happy reviews this week. There's a little form on the right that will allow you, if you're funny, to join the hallowed Black List corridors.

-- 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.

SEEING THE EXACT MOMENT, IN PERSON, THAT SMARTY JONES LOST: I kept cheering, knowing it was futile. I sat just where the final turn becomes the final stretch at Belmont on Saturday and watched history repeat itself with 120,000 other people. Smarty Jones pulled into the lead early and tried too hard to hold it. Out of the turn, it was all over. Birdstone was on the outside and surged ahead just out of the stretch turn. Smarty's jockey, Stewart Elliott, saw what was coming and applied the whip. But there was nothing left for Smarty to give. The Belmont is the longest racetrack in the country at a mile and a half. It is won by distance horses, the ones who hang back and save a nitro boost for the long, daunting stretch. Smarty Jones, a horse that had never lost a race, that was always in front, didn't have it in him to hang back. And there was nothing the trainer or jockey could do about it. So in those seconds where they passed right in front of me, I could see the end of the story. The yells and screams continued, rippling down the grandstand to the finish. And then, a sudden nothing. That's what disappointment sounds like. D -- Aileen Gallagher

STILL WORKING AFTER YOU KNOW YOU'RE GOING TO QUIT: After months of whining that you can't take it anymore, you finally got off your lazy ass and decided to quit your job. But since it won't happen for another couple of months, you haven't given notice. You're in office purgatory -- biding your time while your

motivation goes from nothing to shit. You greet every request from your boss with the same eye roll you gave your mom when she asked you to take out the garbage. Productivity now means getting mileage out of the "I know something you don't know, and it's that I'm getting the fuck out of here!" face you've been smugly wearing at every department meeting. You want to just throw a huge temper tantrum and storm out, but you somehow remain patient. Because the light at the end of the tunnel may be a long way off, but at least it's there. B- -- Tom Panarese

DODGER CENTER FIELDER MILTON BRADLEY'S TIRADE: For those who do not know, Milton Bradley is a hotheaded baseball player for the Los Angeles Dodgers, who was traded by his previous team, the Cleveland Indians, because he's, well, insane. On June 1, Bradley achieved, through a massive tirade, the holy quintet of aspects needed to rank as one of the all-time great athlete freak-outs. Footage of the eruption can be found here. First off, the freak-out was premeditated: Bradley was arguing about a called strike a few innings previous, which means it's not as if he snapped on the spot.
Second, it was wholly unjustified, even based on an unreasonable expectation of the things athletes get pissed about; after all, the pitch was called for strike two, and Bradley ended up getting a hit on the next pitch. Third, the tirade included a controlled Dennis Rodman-esque display of clothing removal, which in this case meant his batting helmet and batting gloves, left near the batter's box. Fourth, the tirade occurred in two parts. Bradley returned to the dugout, but decided he wasn't finished, returning to the field to empty a bag of baseballs in the third baseline area. Finally, and most important, because he then took a ball and whipped it into the stands, a fan ended up with a souvenir as a result of the outburst. That's a lot of ground to cover in an emotion-filled explosion. Milton Bradley, you are nothing if not thorough. A -- Dave Gaffen

THE NIMROD WHO KILLED LADIES NIGHT IN NEW JERSEY: You, the guy in Cherry Hill who's such a big fan of the sausagefest and being a crybaby about beer prices that you had to go file a civil rights grievance ... you're a complete ass. I would love to meet the prom date who stood you up and brought you to this lowly stage all these years later. "Whaaa, I don't like ladies' night because it's DISCRIMINATION." Shit, when was the last time you went to a ladies night at a place other than Meow Mix when there were more gals there than guys? Unlike your cheap, trolling ass, the only real incentive most women in Hoboken and parts west have to go to the shit bars of the Garden State is cheap booze and no cover. It's sad enough that Jersey bars have to ply women with drinks, but take those away, and it's just a room full of idiots like yourself having a big, alcohol-fueled circle jerk. Just when I thought my home state's bars were gaining ground thanks to the smoking ban, some dude goes and fucks it up as usual. Ass. F -- Jason Notte

HAVING A GOOD INTERVIEW AND STILL NOT GETTING THE JOB: You missed spring carnival and that other huge party weekend at school. You dry-cleaned your suit, scored an eight-hour ride home and shelled out for a peak-hours train to Manhattan. You shook all the right hands, had great qualifications, smiled a lot and didn't say anything about her horrible teeth. Then you did it again three weeks later because they messed up. You thought the interview was great. You knew it was only a matter of time. Then, a week later, they call you and said they are hiring the other candidate -- which was probably some hippie bitch from the Village. So much for the publishing industry. F -- neal shyam

BUSH GIVES POPE MEDAL: "Howdy Pontiff Pardner, Despite the fact that ya'll oppose my HOLY WAR? Ya know? The one where GOD HIMSELF - you've heard of him, right J.P.? -- yeah, that's right Mr. Servant of God, G-O-D TOLD ME to invade Iraq! OK, where was I? ... Oh yeah, despite your pontificatin' against my RIGHTEOUS battle, I bestow ... is that the right word? ... be-give ... you this here Presidential Medal of FREEDOM. It's the highest honor I can give a peacenik foreigner like yourself ... So let me just hang her round your neck ... what? I can't touch you?!? Well, here, put it on yourself then, I gotta catch a plane to Frogland." F -- hillmarky

RESERVOIR DOGS ON BRAVO: "There's no way that's gonna work out well for anybody," you said as you saw the promo wherein Steve Buscemi's character is christened Mr. Pink. "You can't air that movie on basic cable without editing it down to half an hour." So you tuned in anyway to see, expecting a campy version with crappy overdubbing and creative rewording. And then Bravo starts with the "dick, dick, dick, dick, dick ... it's about a big dick" straight from Quentin Tarantino himself. You start to think that maybe this will work and become convinced when a couple of "shits" hit the speakers. Eventually, enough of the swearing makes it through that you can't remember whether Mr. Pink just said that he is a "freaking professional" or a "fucking professional." Now, let's see them try it with Pulp Fiction. B+ -- daniel goslee

LAWS MAKING SPAM ILLEGAL: It's one thing to bitch about receiving 50 spam emails per day. I do. But it's quite another to go to the great lengths of making spam illegal. Consider the fact that spam is nothing more than junk mail. Why is it legal to send junk mail via the post office, but if you send it by email it's suddenly illegal? Doesn't it take longer to throw away a piece of real world junk mail than it does to simply hit delete? "Do you really want to delete the spam laws?" Hell, yes! [click]. F -- G. Michael Short

HEARING STORIES OF OTHER PEOPLE'S DREAMS: It can strike at any time; no topic of conversation is safe, for any subject. Any trigger word can spark a connection in someone's memory, and then it's too late: You are trapped in the Hearing Somebody Else's Dream zone. Of course your dreams are interesting to you; why wouldn't they be? Movies starring you and your friends that play inside your head, where the special effects always look real; Hell, while you're having them, you believe they ARE real. How cool is that? But they are special to YOU, and only to you. To everyone else they sound like this: "Blah blah blah so I'm locked in a tower blah blah blah my hands were made of chewing gum blah blah blah but it wasn't REALLY my mother it just looked like my mother and blah blah blah..." How are you supposed to respond when someone else is telling you a dream? What is the conversational etiquette? There is no opportunity for give and take; it's just a monologue while one obnoxious boor shares with you the sensory vomit disgorged by his subconscious while he baptized his pillow with drool. Unless it's somebody hot, of the gender you desire, telling you about an erotic dream, one that stars you, hearing people's dreams is a big fat waste of time. (And even then I'd rather not hear it reviewed, and instead start work on the reenactment). C- -- Myles

LATE-BREAKING LACTOSE INTOLERANCE: Fifteen years of my life, I drank milk, ate ice cream and downed whip cream comfortably. Who knew you could develop lactose intolerance later in life? What the hell happened? So then comes that awkward question, from the curious: "So, what exactly happens when you have milk?" Ha. Funny. Let's make this worse. What do you think happens? Yes, ew, and no, I won't go into details, but just please stop asking what happens. We know you get the general idea. So drink your goddamn milk and get that smarmy look of your face. I'm going to get some soy. D -- Chloe Taylor

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