Did you know that being in possession of a big booty is a menace to propriety? Ten out of one crack whores and female Cuban relatives agree: PERFECT ASS, DON'T LEAVE HOME WITHOUT IT.
Yes, dear readers, as if war, disease, poverty, illiteracy were not enough to threaten our fragile species, you now have to confront the most disturbing issue that has ever confounded humanity: what happens if Manola steps outside wearing her jeans? Shall civilization as we know it be fractured and torn asunder? Shall all heterosexual males change their orientation at the sight of such a petrifying modern-day Medusa? What Pandora's Box of fashion malfeasance shall be unleashed?
Yes, dear readers, apparently Manola looks so awful in her jeans that Manipulative Cuban Mother proceeded to conceal them in an undisclosed location. Never mind that there are millions of women in the world sporting jeans in spite of their rubenesque rumps. Never mind that some people just wear clothes to please themselves, not the opposite sex or some unreasonable standard of beauty. Unbelievably and quite simply, with little regard to Manola's constitutional right to look fat and ugly in her jeans, Manipulative Cuban Mother seized an opportunity to banish the denim devil. Even Saddam couldn't have done such a good job of hiding the weapon of ass destruction.
So now, when Manola wants to walk around the block to buy fresh broccoli at Kosher World, or stand in line for two hours to buy toilet paper at the convenience store around the corner -- which is operated by morons, by the way -- she has to wear a long skirt and a baseball cap to conceal the rioutous voluptousness of her flesh.
Even to check the mail. Yes, Manola apparently has the potential to offend her non-chalant neighbors, who couldn't care less if she was a rhinonocerous dressed in lace clomping about in clear heels.
And if that wasn't sufficiently humiliating, Cuban-Sisters-Who-Have-Men-and-Nine-to-Five Jobs came over for a fashion intervention. "Why dont you look like a coke-snorting-concentration-camp-victim super model?" asked eldest, flat-chested sibling. "Uh ... perhaps because I can't help it and I'm better than that and proud of who I am, in spite of my big ass?"
Then second-eldest sister, the one with the fake tits, ransacked Manola's closet. "I love this blouse it's so sexy!" The offended party held her breath. "OK, mother gave that to me, and it's VERY Laura Bush!"
Fake Tits Sister continued, well-meaning and not thinking twice about her ego-lashing: "Well, you know, I've entered you into one of those fashion intervention shows on the Style Channel."
Standing in front of a blouse so ugly that only a mother could wear, Manola managed a reply. "And I entered you into a Lobotomy-Made-Easy Show, hosted by Rachel Ray, on the Home and Garden Network! You own forty pairs of high heels, have had four husbands, and can't afford a mortgage!"
For those dear readers who cannot fathom the logic behind the jeans-concealment maneuver, let me explain the rationale: "You will never find a man if you do not look like a fashion model." Never mind that you may be otherwise beautiful, intelligent, humorous and compassionate. NO. Apparently, the first thing that man is going to notice -- you know, that man whom you would never want to marry because he's so superficial -- is ASS. If you're like Manola, the odds are against you. Standing on the street corner in SoBe looking like Cuban White Trash and then Kate Moss swings by on her broom, you're not even qualified to compete in the man hunt!
Now, Manola loves her family and her family loves Manola. But this is a ridiculous injustice. For a woman nearing her fourth decade of life, a pair of jeans means more than the world, even if her body overflows the fabric. "I'm mortified," said dear friend Lorelei. "Fat or skinny, jeans are so personal. They have sentimental value. How could your mother do this to you?"
"They mean well," replied a guilt-ridden Manola. "But dude," retorted Lorelei, "you're a fucking grown woman, NO ONE hides your jeans."
Manola agrees with Lorelei. For those of you who wear jeans on a daily basis, try to imagine life without a pair. It's impossible. Imagine what goes through your mind: "Oh, well let me slip on my jeans and go to the post office to buy stamps."
Manola, on the other hand, is severely handicapped: "Oh, let me dress like a really tacky overly-made up woman from a Latin American soap opera just to get out of bed and pee in the toilet. And if I wear the same dress I wore to my nephew's wedding to buy chicken soup at Kastner's, maybe I will pick up the Rabbi's son on my way to the store."
Feel Manola's pain and better yet, join in the search for Manola's jeans. Where could they be? We don't just want a new pair. NO! We want this PARTICULAR pair! Old, skank jeans worn out at the tooshie. Jeans we wore through rock concerts, on bar stools and to walk the dog. Old, comfortable and absolutely irreplaceable jeans.
Visit www.findmanolasjeans.com for more information.
In the meantime, Manola has vowed to never leave her home until her ass can be threaded through a needle. Luckily, she lives in South Beach, the city where no one takes you seriously but where every one takes out.
(Apologies for the overdose of hyphens in this edition of Sex and the Beach.)