Charles Lindbergh—he was a good anti-Semite as far as anti-Semites go. It was on this day in 1941 that this douchebag testified before Congress and recommended the United States negotiate a neutrality pact with the kingpin of the shithead brigade, Adolf Hitler. Hooray! This also marks the one-year anniversary of Will Leitch losing his virginity to a two-cent hooker down in Chinatown (otherwise known as the drunken homeless guy who asked Will to hold him and make the pain go away). This also marks the day that I found scrumptiousness in an ill-formed, doughy circle. I mean it was a really good donut. Really good. The pink frosting kind with rainbow sprinkles? Delightful.
On this day in 1679, King Charles II of England disbanded Parliament. Why is this significant? Well, it’s not really—the only things England does well is fish ’n’ chips, the occasional curry, and rock bands with excessively large egos. They also have fucked up teeth. However, a parallel can be made to the Black Table. No, they don’t have British teeth—in fact, they all have effervescent, beaming smiles, when they aren’t half-cocked and inhaling barbiturates. In that case, the four legs of the Black Table have puke-chunked teeth and it makes you want to gag. Anyway, as I was saying, there’s a parallel between King Charles II and the Tablers. Let’s pretend the Black Table is the English Parliament in 1679. Black Table’s fearless gaucho A.J. Daulerio is King Charles II. Now, the way the story goes, as I see it, is that Eric urinated in A.J.’s shampoo at a party and Will told A.J. what happened but only after A.J. had shampooed his locks with pissy shampoo. Then all hell broke loose and A.J. pulled a King Charles and moved to disband the Black Table. When Amy Blair asked A.J. to reconsider disbanding the Black Table and avoid pulling a dick move like King Charles II, A.J. slurred, “Parliament fucking sucks the cock anyway.” Thoroughly confused, she agreed. Parliament does suck. So this is all A.J.’s fault.
Is it any coincidence that on this day in 1971 Charles Manson and three female “family members” were found guilty of murder and sentenced to life imprisonment and it’s also the same day that Aileen Gallagher was answering a call on Craig’s List for an afternoon liaison that involved a stroll through Bryant Park, a few cocktails, followed by a horrific spree of violence that could later be classified as acts of the purest evil. (She’s like that, in case you didn’t know). The New York Giants also defeated the Denver Broncos in the Super Bowl on this day in 1987. I hate the New York Giants. Additionally, on the last January 25th which fell on a Wednesday, Aileen was nearly pummeled to death by an angry postal worker for greeting the worker with “Happy Humpday.”
On this day in 1785, a royally pissed-off Benjamin Franklin wrote a letter to his daughter commenting how irate he was over the selection of the bald eagle as the national bird rather than his choice, the turkey. An excerpt from the leader reveals …
“What a slap to the nuts! You know that those bastards just chose the bald eagle to get back at me. I mean how the fuck can someone in their right mind choose a bald eagle over a turkey? Turkeys are goddamn delicious! Although I do feel sleepy afterwards. This country is going to hell in a handbasket.”
It’s been downhill ever since. Just like it’s been downhill for Eric Gillin ever since he pulled out the ruler and measured his pecker after reading about the average man’s flaccid length in Maxim.
Scott Norwood, the sad little sack of shit that was employed as the place-kicker for the Buffalo Bills will forever remember this day. It was January 27, 1991, that his missed field-goal attempt cost the Bills their first Super Bowl championship, which continues to elude them to this day. Needless to say, the Giants went on to win 20-19 in what is often referred to by Jet fans as the shittiest day in New York football history. They were led by the most boring quarterback and announcer of all time, Phil Simms. It is rumored that at the conclusion of the game, Norwood was clubbed over the head with a three-foot salami and his teammates stripped him naked and tied him up with duct tape in the locker room in the same fashion that got Emilio Estevez detention in The Breakfast Club. This is also the day that will see one of the great parties to ever grace this city as Black Table fans from across the globe—um… boroughs— will meet at Dusk, located on 27th Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues to say their last goodbyes. The party will involve lots of beer and spirits and a great big group hug at midnight. “Viva la BLACK TABLE!” we will all shout. Alas, it will be for naught, the Black Table shall be no more. Goddamn it though if I won’t send it down with an alcohol filled rage and kick it in the face when it falls on the floor. It’s been fun guys. I’ll see you when I see you. Which, chances are, will be never. I live in the Bronx; it’s a long commute just to see a fucking table.