Sometimes, particularly over the holidays, everything comes to a head and gets too difficult and too stressful and just too MUCH. And then everything breaks down.

Henceforth, yesterday, as you may have (hopefully?) noticed, we had no new story at The Black Table. This was because: 35 percent technical difficulty, 65 editor error. (This is the excuse we use on days we can't get an erection either; same percentage and everything.) We apologize. We're back to daily again.

We start with 10 Black List submissions this week, as always. We've been getting some good ones lately; chime in to see if you can run with the big dogs.

-- 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.

CHRISTMAS CATALOGS FROM THE GUN STORE: I didn't get too mad when my gun-nut dad signed me up on some NRA mailing list. It's always interesting to see the in-house ravings of an armed cult, and truth be told, I'm pretty live-and-let-live on the subject of legal gun ownership. But then I started getting catalogs from a company called, no kidding, "Cheaper Than Dirt," who are apparently "America's Leading Shooting Sports Discounter." I just threw them out, occasionally after perusing their pages of BB-shooting machine gun replicas, real-life ammo and laser sights, and camo pants. The final straw came today, when I got the Christmas catalog. The cover features a poorly drawn Santa clutching an automatic weapon, thinking to himself, "have you been naughty or nice?" Getting off this mailing list before Saint Nick busts a cap in my ass: A- -- Bergman

BEING SEXUALLY HARASSED BY YOUR ASSISTANT: OK, the first time your assistant puts his arm around you, ever so lovingly, it is KIND of cute. When it escalates to him rubbing your back affectionately, or him giving you a light massage, it seems maybe a little wrong, but still feels kind of right. Then, suddenly, he begins thrusting against your chair or straddling you while you innocently sit on the couch. Next thing you know, he is walking around your shared office topless, taunting you when you threaten to take off your own top to teach him a lesson. "You wouldn't do it, you are too chicken!" "You don't know me, you son of a bitch!" Suddenly, what began like an innocent courtship results in you walking around in a bra in your place of employment while in a mad fit of rage. The harassment itself: C-. The liberating feeling of being topless in your office: Surprisingly, an A+ -- Danielle

BUDWEISER-LESS BARS: A few nights ago, I went to my neighborhood rock club to catch a

show. After working my way to the bar, I ordered a beer only to be told that they don't serve Budweiser. "But it's the King of Beers," I instinctually responded, to which the barkeep replied, "Not around here it ain't. It isn't even the pauper of beers." Needless to say I was shocked that an establishment that encourages acceptance and purports ties to the working class can have such beef with Anheuser-Busch. The worst part was that the blunt force trauma of this news left me literally speechless, fumbling for the name of a suitable Bud replacement. Sure, the Harp I had was delicious, but it just wasn't the same. Against Me! rocking the fucking house: A+. 123 Pleasant St. snubbing the king: D -- Josh Mullins

THE STAMP VAN LADY AT UNION SQUARE: I understand that your life is miserable because you work out of a Federal trailer, but that does not give you license to sigh with exasperation when I pay for three stamps with a $20. I did have the 11 cents ready. Your grade is mitigated because you gave me my change and stamps before telling me that this was some sort of exception, allowing me to ask you if you had difficulty counting to 19 (and then letting me cut off your reply speech with "This conversation is over.") I'm not sure if you hate me because I am capable of doing math that does not involve the number 37, but I do know who you should take your anger out on: your children. C+ -- Michael Malice

ADVERTISER ART: I was walking through the subway maze in Union Square, when I spied two large, lit portraits along the tiled walls. They were sharp photographs of two young people, starkly preserved on a bright white background, staring out at us harried commuters with thoughtful expressions. As I continued my walk, I saw more of these portraits, and started feeling all warm and proud of the Big City. Art still has a place in our bustling metropolis! Where else would you find a photography exhibition in a subway station! I'm so happy I live here and not the anonymous Midwest city where I was raised! And then I saw it. At the end of the row of portraits, a sign: "XBox 360!" All of these interesting looking people, gazing out assuredly, weren't contemplating the mysteries of existence. They were thinking about Call of Duty 2 and the totally awesome megapixel display whatever. Perhaps I shouldn't allow the blatant commercialism to diminish my initial reaction to the photos -- Michelangelo had a patron too, right? Ah, fuck it. D- -- Megan G

PEOPLE WHO THINK I'M GOING TO GET "BUSTED" FOR MY ILLEGALLY DOWNLOADED MUSIC: Whenever it comes up, I have to brag. "Oh, I don't know, about 100 gigs or so." This took a lot of time, downloading these albums, I feel I have the right. Then it invariably comes up: "Aren't you worried about getting in trouble?" It's not like I'm selling the albums wholesale or anything. I just have the music because I like to listen to the music. And yet I'm a modern day Blackbeard to these people, robbing the music world at will in order to ... I don't know, what could I be doing with the music except listen to it? Of course I'm not worried about some fed hacking into my computer; if I was I'd probably be worried about things like identity theft and other stuff that has no bearing on a broke college kid's life now. Those who don't understand the ease, convenience and relative anonymity of downloading music: C- -- Luke Somerville

THE NEW BREAK UP HAIRCUT: Want to try something new? Show off a new I-don't-need-no-stinkin-boyfriend attitude? Choppy bangs are not the way to do it. Leopard print vibrators are. Haircuts cannot give you the glow of multiple orgasms. Like a hairdresser, you can pour your heart out to the tattooed, pierced and bored Babeland clerk but no hairdresser will give you your money back within 30 days if you don't get off. Breaking up with someone you adore: F. Remembering you hadn't even had sex for the last three weeks: D. Buying a vibrator instead of a break-up haircut: A -- martha burzynski

BREAKING YOUR FINGER: Slipping on a wet leaf at the intersection of 78th and Broadway was bad enough. Going flying into the curb head first and preventing facial disfigurement with your hand was even less fun. But shattering your pinky finger was worst of all. Walking around in denial all day with a bruised hand and a throbbing finger doesn't change the fact that it is BROKEN. especially not after you go to the Beth Israel ER at 10PM and the chirpy Asian physician's assistant takes an x-ray to confirm. Now you have to wear an increasingly sweaty, smelly splint for 3-4 weeks while the finger heals. Of course, it could be worse. You could have broken your nose or your arm. But you'd be surprised how much you use a pinky. It's a valuable appendage. D+ -- Bernadette

THE $12 MILLION VICTORIA SECRET'S BRA: Until yesterday I thought Victoria's Secret was where you bought five panties for $25. Despite Gretchen Wilson's admonition that she can "buy the same damn thing on the Wal-Mart shelf half-price," those cotton thongs will last you a while -- I still wear a pair someone gave me 10 years ago in high school. But what you can't buy at Wal-Mart is a $12 million bra, which graces a page in the VS Christmas catalogue this year. I was flipping through the pages, ogling the $5 panties, when boom -- there it was -- a bra made entirely of rubies and diamonds. I thought it would be like, $100 -- but nope -- $12 million. For all of you in the multi-million dollar lingerie market this year, you can now do all of your shopping at Victoria's Secret. As for me, I don't wear bras, and if I did, they would be made from the finest skin of the Egyptian mummy scrotum (pharaohs only). What's even worse than a $12 million bra? The VS "Give me Sexy" advertising campaign. What kind of fucked up syntax is that, anyway? All I can think of is blue furry muppets yelling, "Give me cookie! Me want sexy!" D- -- Jessica H

AT LAST, A BADASS DIET SODA: Coca-Cola is definitely on to something with Coke Zero, the baddest diet soda known to mankind. Check it out: The cans are black and white, muthahfuckah. No colors for me. Bottle got the no-nonsense black cap too. The name? ZERO. Mysterious, strong, a don't need nuthin' from nobody name. Ain't no bitch diet soda. Even the slogan is a command: "Everybody chill." At first, I thought it might be just me. I have been a diabetic since junior high and had to drink sissy diet sodas for years. What high school guy is on a diet? College wasn't much better, but at least I could drink a Tanqueray and club soda. It was a serious chink in my manliness armor. After football practice, have a nice cold, manly Diet Pepsi. Yeah, that works. But, the other day a large, rough looking 20 something guy in front of me stopped and picked up a case of Coke Zero. That confirmed it. I could not imagine this guy mincing through the store with a case of Tab. Bless you Coca-Cola. You have bestowed manliness on male diet soda drinkers. How cool is it for other guys who *have* to drink diet soda to not have to borrow a Fresca from their little sister anymore? This may be a small thing to the rest of you, but after years of putting up with, "Diet Coke? Are you on the Richard Simmons diet?" This Zero deserves an A. Now if they could just take some of the caffeine out I would not be writing these rants at 3 in the morning. A -- Roy Felipe

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