a diatribe on chick drinks

Cosmopolitans, appletinis, lemon drops, flirtinis, cream-puff-chocolate-friggin-cake-tinis! Back in my days as a bartender there was no end in sight. With the coming of each new season so came the newest "it" drink that every botox injected, Fendi wearing, J-Lo fragrance stinking, rocket-nosed, bobble-headed, investment banker's midlife crisis solving arm candy just had to have. With almost dead-on accuracy, one could clock the time from which the drink was mentioned on Sex and the City until the next Thursday night that the words would come dripping from their mouths like over-mileage oil out of a '84 Eldorado. "Um, I wanna try this new drink it's called 'kerklank'. Do you know how to make it?"

Here's a math problem for everyone: What level of self loathing does a big titted blonde bimbo have to possess in order to choose with deliberate certainty a beverage based solely on how fictitious characters look consuming it? For the love of all things sacred, 90% of the time they don't even want to know what they're drinking. They just want to be seen drinking it! Take my word for it, it hurts a bartender's feelings.

I know what you're thinking. What difference does it make to the bartender? Why should he care? Well let's get a few things straight, there are a few simple rules that you can adhere to in order to ensure a good time for all patrons and barstaff alike.

1. Nothing blended, nothing muddled. I don't care what kind of machine he's got back there, no bartender is happy to make a blended or muddled drink. It's always five moves more complicated than it's worth. He can make another drink that will net him the same tip by lifting a single bottle. If it's blended or muddled, it's a pain in the ass. Bar none.

2. If the base ingredient of your drink is not vodka, gin, whiskey, rum, or tequila the bartender has to move further than he wants to to get it. You see, for anyone who doesn't know, the well rack is always right in front of the bartender at about lap level. He can grab the ingredient, pour, shake and serve without having to spin around like a retarded kid in an interpretive dance class. A mixer or two is reasonable, but if the ingredient list starts looking an ancient Mayan potion for restoring a horse’s virility you’re going to be looking at one pissed off blue collar worker.

3. A drink that requires more than one piece of fruit is a piece of shit. Bloody mary, tom collins, amaretto sour, all pretty simple drinks to mix. But once I have to start sticking a damn supermarket salad bar on a thin plastic stick, you, as a customer, have become about as pleasant as a rectal exam.

4. Bars are for drinking, NOT eating. Sure, it's a problem that has been created almost entirely by the onset of franchised restaurant empires, but you can be part of the solution rather than the ever-swelling problem. If the bartender wanted to watch you slug down a charcoal dry salmon steak he wouldn't be a bartender, he'd be your damned waiter. The same waiter, I might add, who's not getting a table sat in his section because your dull ass is parked at the bar instead.

5. Tip well. Bartenders put up with far too much crap day in and day out to suffer through a bad tip on top of it and not murder someone. The term "go postal" would have been "go bartenderized" if it wasn't such a syllabic car wreck.

So, what does all this have to do with chick drinks? The answer is pretty simple. Professional drinkers like the taste of alcohol. They like vodka, gin, whiskey, rum, and tequila. Sometimes all together. And when people, not just those with actual vaginas but metaphorical ones as well, start ordering fruit flavored, pink looking, fu-fu perfume samplers in a cocktail glass they start making life hard on the bartender. And as we have already addressed, bartending is already the kind of job that can crush your soul like a dixie cup under Star Jones' solar eclipsing ass. So, another trendy chick drink really just isn't what society needs right now.

A free piece of advice for chick drink drinkers. If you want to get sauced with your "sisters" over a Faith Hill album, some cheap desserts, and a bad hair dye kit, please please please just pick up a case of Mike's Hard Lemonade (or as The Empire likes to call it: Mike's Fairly-Easy-To-Slip-By-The-Powers-That-Be Teenage Date Rape Drug) and hangout in your father's/husband's/rich brother's/ex-boyfriend-who-has-no-backbone's shiny new SUV with the 'they were almost cool for eight seconds on a black guy's car' spinning rims and stay out of the bar.

Bars are for drinkers.

Steelers Statement Regarding the Death of Steve Courson

We are saddened to learn of the sudden and untimely death of Steve Courson. Our deepest sympathies go out to his family and friends during this extremely difficult time.

Steve was an integral member of our last two Super Bowl Championship teams, and returned to the Pittsburgh area after he retired from football. Steve battled back from health problems in recent years and seemed to have made a full recovery.

We will remember Steve for his many on-field contributions to our football club as well as for the caring person he was away from the game. Steve Courson will remain in our prayers and will be missed by everyone who knew him.

Headlines by The Empire

As we close the door on November 8, 2005, The Empire would like to take some time to recognize a few truly ridonkculous issues; the things that are doing their best to chap the ass of every patient, hard-working American with better things to think about. These are not listed in any particular order.

Who gives a crap about Terrell Owens aside from people in southern New Jersey? Sure we as a society take sports too seriously and probably allow it to affect our lives too deeply in general, but it's sports. We draw such incalculable entertainment and joy from investing ourselves in something that boils down to men running around and throwing a ball. And Terrell Owens is the throbbing pus-filled back pimple of the National Football League. We're talking about a man that is squandering world-class talent and opportunity by embracing his gutter class personality. The Empire is truly sick and tired of hearing and reading the endless conjecture and speculation from the news media on the Terrell Owens issue(s). Tomorrow's headline should simply read: Terrell Owens is still a huge dickhead. There's no need for a sub-line or story, the headline brings everyone up to speed and then that's it. We, as a people, can move on.

And could someone get the word out that school shootings are completely retarded? When The Empire pulls up the CNN and FoxNews websites and is presented with the choice between lampooning the news that a cargo plane crashed into a Wal-Mart or yet another school shooting occurred in the great white South... well, it's just kind of a snark-buster. Enough already! When did high school kids become such maladjusted wussies? "Oh no. My fragile adolescent ego has been damaged. I'd better go get a Sig Sauer and SHOOT SOME PEOPLE!" The Empire has one official comment: "WTF?"

Moving on. Anyone else tired of hearing that gay marriage laws were struck down in Texas? Seriously? This is news? How about this, just underneath the TO headline we can stick a blurb piece on how the South and Midwest don't like gays, that's why Boston, San Francisco, and the West Village exist. We don't need another movement of state legislature. The public would be better served if politics stuck to the important stuff, like unmitigated wasteful spending and warmongering.

And what complaint would be complete without our own Disco Charlie's favorite news topic, Intelligent Design vs. Evolution. See, Disco Charlie is from Minnesota where no one gives a crap where man came from or why, just that man finds some place warm to stick his toes when there are 57 inches of snow coming down and the Vikings are losing to the Chicago Bears. Again! But lucky for Disco Charlie, the great creationist debate slugs on. Dateline Kansas: Bible toting Christians prefer to stick their heads in the sand and ignore all those pesky scientists with their facts and figures. Oh yeah. There is now a LAW in Kansas that promotes a religious theory over objective science in the educational system. Goodness knows we love it when church and government get into bed together. It works so well in IRAN! Sheesh. The Empire doesn't want to offend its right wing base so we'll put the brakes on there.

Finally, thanks to Don for being brave enough to actually pose for that unbearably hysterical picture. I'm sure he'll be locking and loading for the school's cafegymatorium soon enough. Goodnight folks!

Behold

Zeus: The Roethlisweiler

And speaking of birthdays...

Let's all wish Basegirl a happy b-dizzle.

Go Yankees!

I must brrreak you

This episode is all about birthdays. Well about 4 specific birthdays. Mostly about 1. One huge unimportant birthday of awesomeness. Yes, today The Empire salutes 2 crappy actors, 1 crappy actor who has a master's degree in engineering, and 1 mediocre actor who was really badass before he grew too old to be tough.

Number 1 is, of course, our cover stud Dolph "even though I am actually Swedish I've never been cast as Swedish because Americans moviegoers can only identify foreigners as British or enemies" Lundgren. Good ol' Dolph came a-stoppin into fame and all of our hearts with his delicate and multifaceted portrayal of Ivan Drago in the cinematic masterpiece, Rocky IV. Yes, nothing makes for a better movie than some empty cliché characters and dozens of reinforced cultural stereotypes. And and and, our buddy Sly Stallone. Happy Birthday Dolph, good to know you've been putting that impressive post graduate degree to good use.

Number 2 is Kate Capshaw who reminds us that sleeping your way to the top isn't just for corporate America. Kate, that sweetheart for those of you who don't know, was moments away from losing her role (her only role that we'd know about) in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom to Sharon Stone - an arguably better actress - but managed to secure her life-long bread winning and syndicated part by sleeping with Steven Spielberg. Well done Kate. You may have gained a movie "career" and husband but you certainly lost our respect. Wait. Failed to earn our respect? Nah. Mostly we don't care about you at all. Happy Birthday.

Number 3. Rosanne. Oh yeah. Rosanne. Barre or Arnold or whatever your name is. Thanks for making sure that no one in the world can forget just how repulsive white trash can be. And how enduring too. And rich. And still classless. And fat. That's right, I said it, Rosanne is fat. And crude. And annoying. And rich. And fat. And white trash. And not really funny at all. And fat....

And Number 4. Charles Fuckin Bronson. There are no bad things to say about Charles Bronson, as long as you pretend he died immediately after making "Death Wish" in 1974 rather than in 2003 after decades of sad action movie obscurity. RIP Chuck. And happy not birthday. We'll always use the stupid rope.

The Empire Winces

Well well well, looks like the cylce is finally complete. George Lucas has finally crashed the ambulance and The Empire's namesake can finally be at rest.

As of November 1, (Not) Star Wars, Episode III : Revenge of the Splif is fully available to the general viewing public on DVD. And despite the fact that it was a total piece of crap it will certainly sell like crazy.

The Empire wholly disapproves and demands that Lucas Films stops, turns around, and remakes these three prequals in "Non suck" special editions, available for immediate release. Also, they should be given away at no charge to people who paid to see any of them in the theater.

People who paid to see all three in the theater should be paid a thousand dollars by Lucas himself. Hand delivered. In the freezing rain. With no shoes on.