Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Hurricane Season Boyfriend Nominations 09
OK gals and gays and all you fabulous people out there ... it's that time of year again. Look, it already started raining like crazy these past cupla days, so you know what's gonna happen for the next six months, don't cha? It's the humidity dance and the entire State of Florida becomes one giant absorbent Maxi Pad (unfortunately, this doesn't help Lake Okeechobee). Here and now, every afternoon for another six months ... wet, wet, wet ... and sometimes blow, blow, blow ... that bossa nova hurricane hoopla we all know and love!
Since 2006, here at Sex and the Beach we have maintained a time honored tradition of choosing nothing but the very best man to represent the utter horror, boredom, post-traumatic stress disorder and anxiety-ridden pain in the ass that is hurricane season in South Florida.
We look forward to this. Yes, so much so that if we were to design a retail shop window for Victoria's Secret, this is what it would feature: mint-scented moisture-collecting padded boy shorts, rain-water collecting bra pads, a gallon-sized spray can full of inflammable and extremely toxic mosquito repellent that doubles as hairspray, an anti-looting-and-price-gouging gun with GPS and bluetooth capabilities, a power generator -- featuring an ice-maker with crushed ice accessory (of course, because we've already used the ice pick to get all Basic Instinct on the snapper in the creek!) -- a cooler with a bottomless supply of Ketel One, Beluga caviar, toast points, cornichons, Maine lobster with hollandaise, a homemade sugar cane moonshine kit ... oh, and of course, we'd be impossibly thin from the nature-imposed sweat camp we've just endured, wearing platform heels high enough to let us traipse through those flooded sidewalks without having to wear galoshes.
Think I'm kidding? Let me take you to two weeks back in August 1992, when this little but ferocious category five trickster named Andrew ripped Miami-Dade county a new asshole.
So with this in mind, who would you choose to spend these completely miserable nights with? What man in the world could you do the two-week military curfew thing with? No ice and nothing but peanut butter sandwiches to fulfill your appetite, plus bacteria-infested cold showers to take the edge of your funk? And for pete's sake, you might actually have to talk to him because you won't have access to Twitter! And that Victorian novel you've been wanting to read? Forget it! There's not enough light on the gas Coleman.
Get it? Hurricanes suck. Aftermaths suck more. So pick your guy wisely.
We have already given love to Bryan Norcross (our eternal hero, of course), plus crooner and leather-bound pectorally well-endowed Katrina rescuer Harry Connick, Jr., gray-and-gay-but-unbelievably-sexy Anderson Cooper and of course the king of all commandeering -- biceps god Robert Irvine!
So where to next, girls?
Last year, I was feeling like an old dry curmudgeon in need of some serious lube (with regards to hurricane season) ... but this year, I say BRING IT ON! Let's have fun! Let's fight the winds like Don Quixote, brandishing rum cocktails against the ferocious winds!
Ok, I kid, I kid ... but seriously ... gals, help me pick a hottie celeb to be our official Hurricane Season Boyfriend. Remember: he must possess all the traits we love in a man: steadfastness, yet stubbornness (when required to get something done, like installing shutters); joie de vivre, courage and chutzpah (to get you through the scary moments); biceps of Adonis (even if they are imaginary); and of course, the sexual prowess to make you forget the roof is blowing off your house while he is indeed blowing you.
Please leave your suggestions in comments. And for further storm info, don't forget NWS. Be safe and be well everyone. And may we have enough power and innernets to blog and twitter our way through yet another season.
If we must have a hurricane, I think it should be named Barracuda, don't you? What's with those lame human names like Andrew, Katrina and Wilma? Puhleeze!