A Salute To Moisture or: How Katrina and Her Sweat Ruined My Shirt

For those of you who have central air conditioning in your home, an enclosed garage, and indoor parking where you work; The Empire says, "Piss On You!" We in the real world walked to work this cheerful Tuesday morning.
Sure hot weather is great. No, it's lovely, splendid, and magnificent. If the maker really loved us the entire planet would be 86 degree beachfront property. Clearly, he does not love us that much... In the northeast today we have water. Water in the air, water on our backs, and water whisking around in our pants because even if you walk ten feet from your house to work, you're sweating through your shirt and swimming down the street. And who doesn't love 100% humidity? You can't get a tan, it's too wet to play sports, animals are grouchy, and an entire region of the country feels like the floor of a New York City taxi. It's in this spirit that we have our salute to moisture.

> Knock Knock! It's the apocalypse. The Federal Emergency management Agency has officially stated that hurricane Katrina was catastrophic, giving confidence and I-told-you-so pride to hundreds of soulless newscasters who felt a bit sheepish last hurricane season after whipping the entire Gulf Coast into a state of panic for what amounted to be just another annoying hurricane season. Congratulations are in order for the news media; for once in a long while your daily practice of inciting public paranoia has paid off. We'll be sure to stop our lives and listen the next time a Fox News Alert comes swooping in to tell us that "something" might be developing... maybe. The Empire wishes you the best of sweat today.

> Knock Knock! It's the apocalypse (Mark Bellhorn.) That's right. Unsatisfied with the miniscule portion of Terry Francona's chewn table scraps they got in Alan Embree, the Yankees have decided to pick up double-chinned, greasy-haired sensation Mark Bellhorn, who was well on his way to earning Major League Baseball's highest single season strike-out record before he was sidelined with an injury last month. The Empire salutes the Yankee organization for once again proving that money really does grow on trees. And in the spirit of saluting sweat, who better than a man who sweats whenever he pees into a plastic cup. Well, he seems to be sweaty all the time. But The Empire will assume that most of it is leftovers that he forgot to shower off. Forgot being a negotiable term.
What the hell do the Yankees need Mark Bellhorn for? Was Jason Giambi's steroid scandal not enough drug related excitement? Do they really need the king of Mt. Stonedmore? The Empire can only assume that the Yankees are looking forward to trading talented rookie Robinson Cano for another just-finishing-his-prime pitcher who will make headlines by going to NY and subsequently hurting himself. Bellhorn will fill the hole in the infield (at second base) and then create an even bigger hole in the ninth slot of the line-up. Go Yankees! And Go Money!

> Knock Knock! It's Oil, and it's pissed off. More gifts from hurricane Katrina. With the majority of US oil production halted Americans can expect more anal raping of their wallets at the pump this month. Again, The Empire would have something funny to say about this, but each stroke of key keeps the computer on longer, which uses more power, which costs The Empire money it could be spending on good SCOTCH!

> Thud! Actor Martin Sheen joined anti-war protesters camped around George "I love peanut brittle" Bush's Texas ranch last week to voice his opposition to the ongoing battle in Iraq. The Empire files this news under, Breaking Duh! Martin Sheen should focus his attention on keeping his career in order as he will clearly be supporting his two sons Charlie and Emilio Estevez for the rest of his natural life. Let's keep our eyes on the ball Marty, Apocalypse Nows and West Wings don't just fall out of the sky every day.

> Finally, The Empire would like to remind everyone that two things are vital in our modern world: deodorant and respect of personal space in elevators.