|DIE! DIE! DIE! MY DARLING... PEOPLE WHO THEY'D LOVE TO KILL.|
Remember waaay back in 1984 when a movie called Silent Night, Deadly Night was released featuring a murderous, axe-wielding Santa Claus chopping through a luminary-lit town in middle America? Remember the uproar it caused? Armies of uptight parents protested the movie theaters that dared to carry it, fearing the film would ruin the spirit of Christmas and make Santa Claus scary. Yeah, mommies are funny that way.
But we here at The Black Table fully support a good ol' fashioned slasher story -- especially around the holidays. So the fine ladies of The Black Table put aside their mirth and merriment for a little while and were asked to smell blood. We sent our little lassies on a mission with a sack full of carving knives and hand-held explosives and gave them the assignment to murder anyone they wanted to. You know, figuratively speaking of course. They did not disappoint. So be sure to steer clear of any of these gals if you happen to bump into them at the mall or something. They just might kill you.
Joan Didion wrote, "We are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be". I remain on nodding terms with my seventeen year-old self, the one who cried when Bob Dylan said that world peace was impossible.
Yet the list of those I would kill is long and unruly:
Parents who think their kids need weapons-grade strollers: Today's strollers are sturdier than tanks and take up as much room on the sidewalk. Congrats on readying your tyke for combat. Now get the hell out of the way.
Michael Douglas: Self-important douche bag who plays the same role in each film; feathers his hair; talks about the burden of being "Kirk's son". A total wang.
Individuals who see me using a cane and ask, "What did you do to yourself?": I didn't do anything to myself. I have CFIDS. How did you get those cane-shaped bruises on your thigh?
Guys who live vicariously through their favorite team: "We" did not win the World Series. The Red Sox did. "You," however, lead an empty life.
The spouse of a certain friend: Says, "I'm not political" like it's a good thing; only wears black shoes; gets way too into Trivial Pursuit. So fucking dull makes John Kerry seem like Quentin Tarantino on poppers.
The guy who caused the accident that disabled my mom: Sped off before anyone could get his plates. Should be dragged through the streets like Mussolini while my family and I watch and eat ice cream.
Healthy people with no kids who stay in jobs they hate then complain ceaselessly that they hate their jobs: Too stupid to understand life is finite; too scared to do anything about it. Total pussies who diminish all of humanity.
Johan, the barrista up the street who dresses like he's auditioning for a Scritti Politti reunion tour: Dude, that's just sad.
Litsa Dremousis wrote, directed, and produced the plays, "If I Wake Before I Die" and "9:00 in the Afternoon" and writes for a bunch of magazines and has interviewed shitloads of famous people. If you see a woman beating Catherine Zeta Jones mercilessly with a cane, well, you'll know it's her.
When I think of killing people, I think of those jerks who host events to get you to buy useless crap. Nothing says "My friends are just dollar signs to me" more than a candle party. Or the "I just released my own self-published book of poetry and I'm celebrating by having copies for sale on the dining room table" soiree. Even open studios creep me out. Especially when you know the artist well enough to feel obligated to purchase some crappy jewelry or a sketch of his skanky girlfriend holding a sunflower in front of her three tits.
These people seem to think that because they are feeding you and you know each other socially, you are obligated to be their customer. I guess the host thinks that the event will be fun, and you won't mind at all if you have to fork over your hard-earned cash out of social discomfort. The premise is flawed. If I have to pay for something I don't want, I'm not going to have any fun. I'd like to see these people choke to death on a giant wad of cash, have their asshole spackled closed, and be forced to eat the nasty crab dip that passes for food at these things.
The runners up for instant extermination are people who only hold an event because they want presents. The classic example of this is the workplace baby shower. I am not friends with my coworkers, and I do not care at all about their unborn children. I'll be picking up the slack while Cindy is doing her meaningful home birth, so why am I buying her kid a present? She ought to be getting me something from Pottery Barn. And as a rule of thumb, if I haven't spoken to you for a year, don't invite me to your wedding. I'm not going, and I don't want to Fed Ex you a Cuisinart just because you sent me an invitation. You can register the fact that I'd like to tap you all on the back of the head with a crow bar. Or perhaps smear you with the nasty cake you served and chain you to an anthill. Serves you right for running out of booze.
Kelly Mills is obviously taking inventory in her life right now and is just sick and tired of doing anything she doesn't want to do. God bless this woman.
I could kill people who don't walk up or down escalators (and related people-moving devices). Move your fat stumps and get some actual exercise. I'm fairly certain that the intent of escalators was to make it faster for people to get where they're going, not slower.
When I get off the subway at 34th Street, there is a choice between three flights of stairs or an escalator. If it's not too crowded I choose the escalator because my thinking is that it would be faster than climbing stairs. But when I get on the escalator, I stand there! Not one time, not one single time, have there been people in front of me who lift their goddamn fat feet to walk up the goddamn stairs and allow everyone behind them to get to their goddamn destination faster. It's not that I crave getting to work quickly each morning, it's that I do not want someone else's goddamn freakin' stench rubbing off on me as I stand crammed in between two people on my 12 minute ride up the escalator.
You're probably the same people who stand on those moving walkways at the airport. Do you realize that you could walk your fat ass faster? Do you realize that the walkways are there to make it easier (and, ahem, faster!!!) for you to get to your destination -- that's if you actually WALK on them? Late for flight? Why don't you, please, stand on the goddamn moving walkway. And when you get off it, can you please congregate in a goddamn huge group so that I can't goddamn fucking get by? I fucking appreciate it.
And by the way, you're probably the same fucking people who stand side by side on the fucking escalator. Are you really that clueless and unaware of goddamn motherfucking others around you? Please, for the love of Jesus Fucking Goddamn Christ, stand to the right hand side so people can pass you. I'm fucking begging.
Please don't make us have to fucking say fucking "Excuse me" and fucking point out the fact that you are a motherfucking cocksucking dumbass with your head up your fat fucking ass because you can only think of the next fucking gift at fucking Macy's you're going to fucking buy!
Meredith Derby is a freelance writer who has just discovered how fun it is to use curse words.
I'd like to kill everyone who uses those idiotic rolling suitcases. I understand, it's an ingenious idea and whoever came up with the plan to put two small wheels on luggage is no doubt a multi-millionaire, but something about those rolling suitcases screams self-indulgent wimp soufflé to me. Pick up your frickin bag and carry it. Okay, I'll give pardons to stewardesses. I mean flight attendants. They have to live with those things. They have tiny apartments in there. They have to sleep in them. If they carried them everywhere one shoulder would be monstrous and they'd have a hunchback. And they wouldn't be quite so nice for drunken ten-gallon hat wearing Texans to ogle on their flight home.
But those people who roll their suitcase down the sidewalk, I'll kill 'em. There is a certain kind of girl, I call them "the kind of girl who uses one of those rolling suitcases." She is very thin. Her skin is perfect. She drinks wine with her lame friends in some pseudo French bar that she calls "the place we always go" but the bartender doesn't know who she is. She wears rings that belonged to her dead grandmother, which she explains to anyone who will listen with a grave expression on her doll face. She has soft, blowdried hair 24 hours a day. She's a daddy's girl. In fact, she works for his company. She calls him for financial tips. She feigns compassion but she is selfish. She is the type of girl that dense people call "sweet." She rolls her petite black suitcase down the sidewalk because she doesn't want to put any more pressure on her classic pumps. She thinks this gives her "class." She likes to think of herself in a movie -- the way her suitcase trails behind her as she steps off a curb and raises her elegant, exfoliated arm in the air to hail a cab. I want to drive that cab and cut too close to the curb.
And those fucking kids that roll their backpacks down the sidewalk. I swear, I'll kill them. Fat ass boys with pudge sticking out over the collar of their black down jacket. Black jeans. Black tee shirt over a black turtleneck. Black sneakers with black laces and black socks. You're going to fourth grade for Chrissake. It's not like you have Pynchon hardcovers in there. What do you have? A mathematics workbook and a Spiderman pencil case? One of those soft vinyl lunch bags in teal green with a Velcro flap? I mean that thing cannot weigh more than nine pounds. It's a backpack. Get it? Put it on your sweaty back. Then start running because I'm coming after you.
When Liz Bevilacqua is not hunting down fat fourth graders and yanking their backpacks off, she is freelance writing.
I should have done it years ago when I saw him at an LA Kings game. One swift whack with a hockey stick and the world would have been spared the ridiculous piece of pablum known as The Terminal, not to mention The Ladykillers. But Tom Hanks was still funny back then.
He was Bosom Buddy Hanks, Bachelor Party Hanks, Mr. Tall and Goofy.
Then he started doing movies with Ron Howard and Steven Spielberg and then the Oscars started coming. Now we have Douchebag Hanks, America's most-beloved actor. Tom Hanks is set to star in The DaVinci Code, that load of crap that America somehow has mistaken for literature. We must be saved from our own stupidity. Hanks must die.
In fact, anyone who wins an Oscar for playing someone who is mentally disabled should be bludgeoned with that Oscar until their IQ reaches the level of the character they played. Will killing Hanks be enough to stop the trend of good comics going all weepy? Maybe killing Hanks will fill Spielberg with grief and anger and he can stop making overly ambitious tearjerkers and start making enjoyable movies like Jaws and Jurassic Park again. The killing of Tom Hanks should also serve as a warning to other actors who seek to throw off their comedy roots and pump out movies where they cry, save lives, and cause all of middle America to draw these formerly brilliant pottymouths to their overinflated bosoms. Yes, Robin Williams, I am speaking to you -- no more sad clown bullshit! And Adam Sandler, if your new movie Spanglish turns out to be even half as much of a sentimental piece of shit as it looks in the trailers, you're going on the list too.
Deidre Wollard considers Peter Scolari one her great loves and she refuses to have her man play second-fiddle to this Hanks guy his whole life.
To the person in the building across the courtyard from me, who plays Chicano music through his computer so that I can also hear every time he sends or receives an instant message: have you seen Ichi the Killer? You know that guy with the slices in his cheeks that are held together by lip piercings? And how he blows smoke through the gashes in a really bad-ass way while he's torturing Yakuza horribly? That's you, but way, way less cool. And also with your PC stuck so far up your ass that you FEEL each instant message arriving in the depths of your bowels. Ding! I will cut your face, motherfucker!
To the prissy bitches with whom I play chicken on the sidewalks or in doorways and/or who talk on their cell phones while on or even near gym equipment: Yes, I hit you with my bag or ran into you on purpose. I know I'm short, but I'm not invisible. Be glad I'm not armed. I am from Texas, you know.
To the guy who leered at my rack on Avenue A several summers ago and commented, "Damn, got milk?" I wish I did, in fact, lactate so I could have squirted you in the face and blinded you, then kicked you in the balls.
To any man on the subway who takes up several spaces simply because he feels entitled: Your cock isn't that big. Really. Move the fuck over.
Jenni Miller's mom says that she's too angry and that it's bad for her karma, which was proven true the last time she was on a subway as she was squeezed out of her seat by a man with an 11-inch penis.
Where do I start? Those stupid fucking basketball players who make nine bazillion dollars a year but still have to beat up fans in the stands to make themselves feel like real men; people who talk about blogging and/or real estate loudly and endlessly in public as if they were very important things that everyone should consider when in fact they are usually the exact opposite; every single audience member on TRL and all of the hosts while we're at it too because they have fucking ruined the concept of inside voices forever; my writing professor in college who (one week before graduation) patted my hand and told me not to feel bad if I stopped writing because it is more than 10 years later and I still remember it like it was yesterday; plastic surgeons who give boob jobs to 18 year old girls who don't know any better because they are 18 and watch too much television ; rightwing, conservative assholes who want to impose their bullshit on my life all in the name of someone they never even met and who hasn't been alive for a really long time; the men who hung out on 39th Street between 8th and 9th and talked about my tits and ass every day that I walked past them to go to my freelance job this fall; and people who are more successful than me but have less talent, because, I'll be honest here, I'm the most jealous bitch in the world, so I guess I kind of want to kill me too.
Jami Attenberg projects her anger through song and also slaughters anything that stands in her path daily at Whatever-whenever.net.
Babies have to die.
I just went to see the movie Closer. I know, I know: how much Jude Law can a person take, right? Well, a lot, apparently. But I have some sort of bad movie-going voodoo curse that affects me every single time I go to the theater. There's always some asshole explaining shit to his buddy in the seats behind me; some big and tall leaner in the seat in front of me, or some motherfucking idiot who brings a baby. Tonight I had all three. It was the "perfect storm" of moviewatching disasters.
It has to stop. This isn't Spongebob Squarepants, you know? What about a dialogue-driven relationship drama makes you want to bring two babies into a theater? TWO BABIES! And how thoughtful of you to wait until AFTER the movie started to make your way to my row. And was it Dr. Spock who said movie theater seats make terrific baby cribs? Because the way your baby tumbled to the floor with a solid thunk makes me think you've gottten some bad advice.
But it's obviously the babies themselves that are the problem. Didn't you ask them to be quiet? I don't get it. Why would they keep making noise? Maybe it's because THEY'RE FUCKING BABIES and that's what babies do. I know what you're thinking, "If no one had babies, you wouldn't be here!" Well, I'm here now, so you can stop. Without babies there'd be no soccer moms, there'd be no safety locks, there'd be no Barney, you wouldn't stink of sour milk vomit, and I could sit in a dark room for two hours watching beautiful people talk and fuck.
I don't come to your house and shit my pants on your couch during Sesame Street. Not for free, anyway. You remember a few months ago, when that baby choked to death during Alien vs. Predator? Consider that a warning. Sure, the coroner ruled it a "tragic accident," but you know there was a theater full of people secretly rooting for the popcorn.
Before Darci Ratliff burns in hell, be sure to check out her incredibly funny website at www.kittenpants.org.
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