Hot off the Ice Cold Presses: Things We Have Learned

Alright, there it is, a solid month. Are ya happy, you grouchy masses? Geeze, it’s really true, everyone IS a critic. And a voiceless critic at that! At least the New York Times has an Op-Ed page. The Empire has no such luxury. We’re stuck, day in and day out, listening to a bunch of self-righteous chattering monkeys who complain but never contribute. It can seriously wear you down! And what’s worse, is that it eventually takes away from the principle desire to create anything at all. People are so demanding. Sure, we’ve always got something to say, but who wants to say it if we’re going to get shot down like a plane full of “Little Debbie’s” cruising over fat camp. [Sigh, a fat joke. Now you see what I’ve been reduced to? Give it some time. Two paragraphs down I’m liable to be waxing comical in the style of Carrot Top. Got to shake off the rust.]

Through this reoccurring scenario of brutal criticism we have learned one thing here: you will always remember the jackass who tells you that you suck at life, and you will always forget the man who pats you on the back and says, “Good job.”

It’s just not easy to take the compliments. Self-pity addicts like us just aren’t used to it. You see, unless they’re egomaniacal jerks, most people consider every insult a veiled and painful dose of constructive criticism; a sickening sliver of truth in an otherwise over-flattered existence. And sure, a lot of times people will criticize your weakest qualities, but what happens when they rip on your best? Are they hurling stones at a Sherman tank or are they lasing flaming arrows through a papier-mâché façade? Tough to say. Most of us are willing to drudge through our lives second-guessing everything we do. Every decision is suspect; every choice is fallible. And in the end we’ll just suck it up and hope that our rent checks don’t bounce because, frankly, there are more important things in life… like a new feature!

The Empire is proud to present “Things We’ve Learned: This Month"

- We have learned that having friends with money is tough stuff. [Please ignore the obvious reference to the recent film of same name.] Seriously, it’s a piece of cake in college because everybody’s broke as a joke except for the trust-fund babies with their own airplanes and, let’s be serious, they buy all the beer and that’s helpful. But yeah, having close friends who make bank is rough. They buy nice cars, they have swanky apartments, and the worst? They buy h-o-t hot hot new plasma TV’s that make you not-the-friend-with-the-huge-TV anymore. Hrumph.

- We have learned that food poisoning sucks major billygoat ass. No, there is nothing quite like watching your delicious lunch flow out of your mouth like an cut-loose fire hose of liquid orange creamsicle death. And nothing against the hard-working indigenous people of Central America but let’s be serious, the fact that a burrito was involved does add, let’s say, a bronze [or sun-baked brown] lining.

- Point! Counter Point! We have learned that George Steinbrenner is unpopular. This will be filed under the category of “Duh!” We have also learned that fans of the Boston Red Sox are just insufferable bastards in general. We’re talking about people who pick fights with little old ladies, children, and lost tourists! Sure, support your team, but don’t take out the fact that you were jilted by your high school sweet heart when she stood you up for the prom to be part of Def Leppard’s “after party” on a six year old boy who happens to like Derek Jeter. And furthermore, we have realized that NO ONE turns on their own players faster than Sox fans. Sure, yesterday this player was hot at the plate but today they’re screaming for him to die of violent ass cancer because he struck out with the bases load. Lighten up people. No one can be clutch every day.

- Continuing with sports. We’ve learned that it’s not just college football players who fall under the category of amazing-jock-douche-bags. Yeah, for anyone who doesn’t know, college lacrosse players also have the stunning capacity for treating other human beings with as much reckless distain as Naomi Campbell treats the help. [See? Carrot Top ain’t that far]

- We have, unfortunately, learned that Tom Cruise will stop at nothing in his attempts to make me want to kill him. Come on, this cock-jockey is working WAY too hard to make us think him rod rises for women. Tom. Tom! Just go back to making good movies. We don’t care how you spend your nights. Stay off the newsstands, television, and radio. Just go quietly into the dim of pop-media obscurity and surface each spring in a reasonably entertaining blockbuster. We all saw Magnolia; we know you can really “act."



**Breaking News** Holy fricken crap, this was so unbelievably nasty and relevant we had to bust into your entertainment for a last minute announcement. Our friends at the New York Opinion decided to bring this amazing story to the forefront of today's news.



And now back to our normally scheduled programming:

- And speaking of gay [awkward segue from Tom Cruise], can someone please explain why Brokeback mania won’t abide? We saw it. Good movie. Not earth-shatteringly good, but good. [Stop, you’re going to make a joke about it being ass-shatteringly good. Just don’t. Leave ol’ Carrot boy some material.]

- We have learned that, after a long deliberation, Saw and, by proxy, Saw II stank like David Wells at 2AM on a Sunday. We have decided, based on this knowledge, that there hasn’t been a decent scary movie in over a decade. Honestly, House of Wax? Final Destination 3? How can you have more than one FINAL destination? What happened to Wes Craven? Is he dead? Abe Vigoda is still alive! Make something scary! Please. Enough with the suck.

- And finally, we have definitely learned that summer is coming. And that makes us so, SO, much nicer. Really, we’re drinking way way less. Well, we’re drinking less whiskey, more gin, but definitely less whiskey.

Anyhow, we’ve rambled on long enough. It’s late. The buzz is wearing off. The weekend is nearing. And I’m pretty sure there’s not a drug in the world that will make the Phil Collins/Genesis jukebox in our skulls turn off. It is very much time for bed. Go see Kinky Boots. Don’t rent Shoot The Piano Player. Be good to your mother. And go go Giambino!