Our phone got yoinked the other day. We were at a bar and the phone was on the table we were standing next to. Blink and the phone was gone. We're not so much mad as perplexed. We have a shitty phone. Not even a camera on it. It can't download good ringtones. It just calls people. So it's not as if you're going to get a lot of money for it.

Secondly, do you really not have your own phone? We managed to get one when we were unemployed some years ago, so whatever your excuse is blows. We have insurance, so we had to go all the way down under the Williamsburg bridge to file a lost property report with a cop at the 7th precinct. The cop, a nice enough guy, managed to lose the paperwork, so now we have to go back. All to file an insurance claim for a not-so-special phone.

Lucky for us, we never throw anything away so we just reactivated our old clunky phone in the meantime. You want to steal that one, too? It's even shittier, so you might like it -- it doesn't even flip.

Ten legally acquired reviews this week. Please join in the rantathon by using the phone at right. You'll feel so much better.

-- 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.

WINGMAN TO A CHICK: I was excited when she called up and asked if we could hang out, allowing myself to think, perhaps crazily, that she actually wanted to hang out with me. I got my first sinking feeling when I found myself a little while later playing bodyguard in the kitchen of a strange drug dealer while she scored a bag of dope. He kept pushing drinks on me (to weaken my defenses if things got hairy?) and watching me out of the corners of his eyes while he tried to look up her skirt. But then maybe she was buying the bag so we could get lit and screw like a couple of rabbit junkies. No such luck. As we left the crack den, she said, 'oh, my old boyfriend lives in this neighborhood. Maybe he's at such and such bar.' So that's where we went to look for this guy and that's when I realized I was playing wingman to a chick. F -- Bobbi Gula

DUMB SISTER: Until a few days ago, my younger sister was doing much better than me. I can barely afford rent and food and my last sexual encounter was six months ago with an exboyfriend I broke up with at least twice in the course of our four-year relationship. On the other hand, my sister was practically engaged, had a big pay check, and lived near the beach in a big city. But she recently broke up with her guy for not giving her a ring. Even so, I still believed she

was doing better than me until she commented that the ass hat she dated in high school is possibly her soul mate and she might want to marry him someday. But to me, he's still the weirdo who threw rocks at her window, doesn't have a fulltime job or college degree six years after graduation, and still makes my skin to crawl when I see his name on caller ID. Doing better than your sister even though you're still poor and single (for real this time): B+ -- R

THE POST-COLLEGIATE TOGA PARTY: I paced the house nervously at 10 on a Saturday night, waiting for my guests, and my housemates' guests, to arrive. The straps on my hot silver sandals cut my feet, and any movement threatened the integrity of the five yards of fabric wound around my body. I was filled with dread that no one else was going to show up in a toga. And you know what? They didn't. But when I made my entrance, everyone in the room froze, and looked at me, and told me I looked beautiful. And they assumed, by my stylish attire (seriously, the only thing between me and nudity was three safety pins), that I was some kind of toga savant, so one by one they led me away from the party for toga help. Do you know what that means? I got to see, like, 5 people naked even before I had my first drink. The night was a little cold, but we huddled around the tiki torches on the balcony, drank a quarter keg, and had a ridiculously good time. Plus, I got laid. A+ -- J Ritterbusch

WORKING WITH THE EX: It had been four years, since I decided I couldn't walk up the wooden stairway to your apartment one more time. But since you took a job with a company my company does work for, it was only a matter of time until our lives would cross again. So what did you tell your co-workers about us? Did you tell them about the frightening amounts of vodka we drank? The long rails of amphetamines we snorted up our noses? The asphyxiation, bondage, biting and spanking we called our sex lives? Having the uncomfortable feeling of working with your ex: F. Knowing you have as much dirt on her as she has on you: A -- Tony G

YOUR NEEDLESSLY COMPLICATED FOUNTAIN SODA TECHNIQUES: I know, I know. If you add too much ice it'll get watered down, but if you don't add enough it won't be cold enough. Life is hard, little guy, but let's face it -- you're all grown up now. You're in your 30s and you've done this soda fountain thing many, many times before. You look like a pretty successful guy-nice suit, clean fingernails, wearing shoes-so why is it taking you so long to find the perfect amount of ice for your Diet Pepsi? Okay, good. You got it. Wait-what the hell are you doing now? Why are you just standing there, looking around? Oh. I get it-you're waiting for the fizz to go down so you can top it off. Do you really think you're gonna be thirsty if you don't get it filled all the way to the top? It's a 32 ounce cup. I bet you're one of those people who asks for "easy ice" at restaurants so you can get more. Don't you even care that it's gonna be warm?! I bet you think of yourself as a "good consumer." I think of you as an "asshole." Waiting behind some douche bag in the soda line: D- Taking forever when it's your turn: B+ -- Ross Wolinsky

PRINTER-FRIENDLY VERSION: If the cubicle is the most depressing thing to have ever happened in your post-college life, the cubicle with the half-height "walls" is the reason you consider suicide every night. You never know who could be coming up behind you, innocently walking back from the bathroom, and notice that the bright colors and pictures on your computer couldn't possibly be work. Flashing pictures, moving images, and large fonts don't help either. This is where the Printer-Friendly Version comes in handy. It makes whatever non-work thing you are reading look the way printers like them: boring. Boring is what makes the boss keep walking without unexpectedly coming into the cube ostensibly just to pop in and see what you are working on, but really to plant seeds of sheer terror and paranoia in your head, seeds which will grow into every facet of your life. Never again will a computer feel safe. This is why all websites should have Printer-Friendly Versions. It would make us all a little more at ease in our cubes, staring at something that very well could be work. I'm talking to you, Black Table. B+ -- Molly

MINUTE MAIDS ALL IN A ROW: We aren't any busier or harried than our parents or even Little House on the Prairie, for that matter. Our problem is the time it takes to wade through all of the choices we have. Send someone to the store for orange juice. Just orange juice. If you want to help them, specify Minute Maid. It will cut the search in half. But wait. Do you want pulp, some pulp, tons of pulp? Do you want extra calcium, light (from skinny oranges?), low acid, vitamin enriched, immunity enhancing (really!)? Do you want it from the grovestand or home style? Do you want orange juice for high mileage, extra shine and body or when the right moment comes? Remember when orange juice was just what you could squeeze out of an orange? To really mess with your shopper, tell them you want potato chips, too. They have an ENTIRE aisle all to themselves. Having too many choices? Beats having none, I suppose. A -- Roy Felipe

SAYING GOODBYE: She's the co-worker from hell -- grouchy EVERY SINGLE DAY, the sort of person that if you handed her a million bucks would complain about the taxes she was going to need to pay. She makes more money than anyone else in the department and complains about her salary to us. If we need to drive to an offsite meeting, she's the first to ask for a ride, and the only one who never, ever pitches in for gas or parking. Frown at her and she'll complain to the boss. Smile at her and she'll load your desk with her work. Her idea of "good morning" is to stomp into the office complaining about the traffic, the weather, the air conditioning, her kids or her lack of time to eat breakfast. She announced yesterday that she's giving her notice and heading to a new company to make other people's lives hell. We feel sorry for the unwary strangers at the 40-employee, family-owned company to which she's moving, but we're all so happy she's leaving that we'll be taking her out to lunch, where she'll doubtless complain the whole time about her entree, the table and the service. Losing the cubicle demon? B -- SR

CELEBRETARDATION: It's not every day that you urinate with an indie rock star, so I was rightfully surprised/excited (in a totally non-sexual way, Ira) when I found myself standing next to Ira Kaplan (of Yo La Tengo) in a movie theater bathroom. I wanted to say something, but decided that might be invasive. I followed him up the hall toward the lobby, trying with each step to think of what to say that wouldn't seem stalkerish. Georgia (Hubley, Yo La Tengo's drummer and Ira's wife) was waiting for him in the lobby. "Excuse me," I said with a child's fumbling eagerness. "I just want to say that I'm a big fan, and I love you guys." 'I love you'?? Did I think we'd all go back to Hoboken for tea in their living room? And the people standing around us were noticeably intrigued. It wasn't at all unlike the day I gave John Turturro the familiar, acknowledging smile and head nod as he and his son made their way to the back of the line at a screening in Brooklyn. As if I expected him to stop and chat. I won't even go into the Matthew Broderick incident, except to say that I'm sure he heard me stammering into my phone that I was watching him exit a cab. I've adjusted somewhat to the proximity of fame after four years in New York. But I still can't adhere to the unspoken rule that celebrities get to lose themselves in the anonymity of the throng. Peeing with Yo La Tengo: A. Seeing Paul McCartney and his wife taking the toddler for a stroll: A+. Acting like a babbling idiot every time a famous person walks by ("We just saw a Beatle!" my coworker screamed.), a.k.a. Celebretardation: D. -- Seth Wharton

LEARNING YOUR CHILDHOOD CRUSH STARS IN PORN: Perhaps I am overly sentimental, but I always enjoy hearing from or about people from my childhood. Learning of the current careers, relationships, victories and defeats of those who have crossed my path at some point always puts me in a contemplative mood about where I have trod and where it is I am heading. However, learning that the girl I had a mild, pre-pubescent crush on in second grade is now a rising star within the pornography industry did not quite illicit this reaction. At first I did not believe the allegations, dismissing them as vicious rumors from jealous ex-boyfriends or rivals. However, the rumors proved true when I was presented with a copy of Cum Drippers 8 featuring the beautiful angel of my past's face smeared with semen on the cover. It certainly has made me contemplative - the fact that the chest I saw one April afternoon while playing "doctor" is now being ejaculated on at this very moment has a way of gripping my mind at inopportune moments. Watching your symbol of childhood innocence being double penetrated and "creampied": D. Adding some sentimentality to your porn collection: C-. -- Jake Eyers

CLICK HERE FOR THE BLACK LIST ARCHIVE.

Each and every week, Black Table readers like you write the Black List and get absolutely nothing in return. Ain't that some shit.