Wednesday, December 27, 2006

Manola Diagnosed with Turnstile Dysfunction

In case you are going through Manola withdrawal, here is a video shot by BFF Shveckle during a visit to NYC circa June 2003.

If only the NYC subway was as easy to handle as a sex toy! But no! This Brooklyn station turned Manola into a mass-transit-challenged drama queen!


Not to be read with sexual innuendo ...

Shveckle: Just flip it through!
Manola: I'm lost!
Shveckle: One more. Go! 18 second before it comes!
Manola: I'm lost! I don't know anything!

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Friday, December 22, 2006

Professional vs. Amateur

Manola is still on hiatus, but the universe has once again served an irresistible morsel on its silver platter.

If an alien were to land on South Beach, he would surely be confused. The line between club fashions and a prostitute's uniform is blurred, without the benefit of a perineum. Where else in the world can you dress like a cunt and look like an ass?

For example, can you tell if these women are soliciting tricks or simply prowling the nightclubs?

manola sex and the beach stilleto

Look closely. Don't let the daisy dukes fool you! Hint: the woman on the right has broken the cardinal rule of streetwalking. Girlfriend, never go anywhere near a street drain while wearing stilletos! Tsk, tsk! Don't you know a broken ankle can ruin your career?

Photograph courtesy of The Maestro.

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Friday, December 15, 2006

Britney Spears Thong Found Ailing on Miami Beach

thong miami beach

Although Manola isn't dipping her quill in the ink, she couldn't resist sharing this photograph of a random thong she found lying on the sidewalk today. Don't worry, she contacted Horatio from Miami CSI immediately and didn't tamper with the evidence. Investigators suspect that this item of clothing may have desperately escaped from the loins of Britney Spears.

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Sunday, December 10, 2006

Meme Manola

Mr. Burnettiquete is showing me some tough love or perhaps he's just pinching me to see if I'm awake. Although I am usually reluctant to play tag, here you go ... six weird things about the author of Sex and the Beach.

1. I once missed half a day of work to rescue a fledgling mourning dove that had fallen from its nest during a thunderstorm.
2. I 've stepped into quicksand.
3. I slept under the stars on a balcony in Tuscany because the night was so beautiful.
4. I've paddled over a barely submerged alligator in a tight mangrove tunnel in the Everglades; the alligator was bigger than the canoe.
5. I used to be afraid of doing headstand.
6. I'm the only woman I know who doesn't care for chocolate or shopping.

Oh and did I mention I'm blogging using the wi-fi at Arnie and Richie's deli on 41st street? That's not weird, that's cool! This deli first opened in 1948 and still serves the best Reuben south of Manhattan!

PS ... thanks to James and everyone for your encouragement. Don't worry, Manola will be back!

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Saturday, December 09, 2006

Pimp My Pickle at Art Bagel

art basel sex beach manola

Yes, I'm on hiatus but god damn it flowing martinis in cheap plastic glasses, cuban atomic nipples, jewish pickled side dishes and enough snobbery to put the insta-clamper down on the many celebrity ludic vaginas lately ... how could I resist?

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Monday, November 27, 2006

Exclusive! Perez Hilton Childhood Drama!

perez hilton on sex and the beach

You heard it here first. In an exclusive interview, we learn that in spite of being an eccentric recluse who played with boy toys and dressed like a snob, Miami-native Perez Hilton overcame his violent nature and became the world's most successful gay gossip columnist!

Disclaimer: the above statement was written by a tabloid editor. When Manola submitted the story, the headline read: "Perez Hilton Done Good!"

As soon as we heard rumors that Perezzer's second cousin, Chacho Spillfrijolez, was willing to give us dirt, we took the first red-eye flight to Los Angeles and scheduled an interview at celebrity-infested Chateau Mounthump. With over-sized sunglasses, we arrived early to beat the throngs of paparazzi waiting for Hollywood's favorite trio of twat-flashers -- team Hilton, Lohan and Spears.

Chacho Spillfrijolez was more than happy to talk since he is a student of Manola's brother, Sensei Kawasaki Kickassez. We struck an exclusive deal -- gossip in exchange for a reprieve. "Manola," Chacho begged. "If I tell you all about Perez, will you keep your bro from breaking my nose during karate class?"

As Horatio Cane would say: "We [pause] agree. We cannot [pause and put on sunglasses] guarantee."

manola blablablanik loves perez hilton

MANOLA: How are you related to Perez Hilton?

CHACHO SPILLFRIJOLEZ: I'm his second cousin. Well, his grandma is my mother's aunt. That makes us cousins, right? We didn't hang out all the time, but we did visit occasionally. Our families spent holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas together.

MANOLA: So when you did hang out, what was that like?

CHACHO SPILLFRIJOLEZ: We would visit his house. His whole family was really cool. He was always so quiet and introverted. He just didn't say much. Sort of kept to himself.

MANOLA: GET OUT! The Queen of All Media, quiet and introverted? NO WAY! Oh come on, surely there must've been some hint of his fantabulous persona as the world's most "devilish gossip columnist."

CHACHO SPILLFRIJOLEZ: No, not really. We were kids, so we would play around and he would show me all his toys --

MANOLA: Did they vibrate?

CHACHO SPILLFRIJOLEZ: -- Uh, no ... vibrate? I'm not sure what you mean. Actually, he had all the cool toys, well, what was cool back in the 80s. Remember? Remote control, GI Joe, action figures, anything geeky kids would like.

MANOLA: So you're saying Perez was a geek who liked macho boy toys that were battery operated?

CHACHO SPILLFRIJOLEZ: No, Manola! What are you, some kind of pervy tabloid editor looking for cheap advertorial on sex toys? They were boy toys, plain and simple.

MANOLA: I'm sure Perez wouldn't mind playing with some boy toys today, but let's stick to the facts. Boys will be boys. Did you guys ever fight?

CHACHO SPILLFRIJOLEZ: Only once. We were swimming in the pool at The Fountainbleu Hotel. He was yanking my hair and I punched him in the face.

MANOLA: Ha! Little did Perez know he'd be doing the same years later to check the quality of celebrity hair extensions. Speaking of hair, we're dyeing to know, what's Perezzelle's natural hair color?

CHACHO SPILLFRIJOLEZ: He always had light hair. I never knew him to be anything other than naturally blonde, a very light blonde.

MANOLA: I knew it! I love Perez au naturel -- almost Panderson Pooper style. Let's complete the look. What did Perezzer wear when he was a munchkin?

CHACHO SPILLFRIJOLEZ: I always saw him in preppy clothing. You know how Cuban parents dress their kids. Always well dressed. Kind of stuffy. But always presentable.

MANOLA: Perez Hilton found himself a niche and flew the coop. He praises when praise is due, but isn't afraid to throw a tomato or two when the joint genuinely stinks. Did you ever imagine that young Perez would be glimmering in the limelight? Did you ever imagine that quiet, introverted boy to be the Queen of All Media?

CHACHO SPILLFRIJOLEZ: My mom and I had lunch with him a couple of years ago. What a change! Today, he's so approachable. He's got a great personality. I would've not expected him to be so out there, but I can totally see him doing what he's doing now. Even my mom got all teary-eyed. She couldn't believe how far he'd come.

MANOLA: Chacho, there's Parrot Hilton. We'd better sneak out the back door. As you know, Manola likes to keep a low profile. Thanks for sharing your memories of Perez and I'll tell my brother to stop treating your nose like a piñata.

Photo courtesy of a great little article about Perez in Papermag.

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we won't be fooled again

We thought we couldn't get enough of Horatio Cane, but we did!

Friday, November 17, 2006

Planet Manola: Matzoh Boobs

Random news, commentary and photographs. Updated at least once every menstrual cycle, if not more frequently.

south beach lincoln road

The yarmulkah squad passes by two women, one of whom appears to have had two matzoh ball implants. Although the two men appear to be deep in discussion over theological quandaries, they are actually laughing about those skinny chicken legs that wouldn't be good enough for bubellah's soup, even!

In this week's edition, we compiled an excellent reading list of recent posts by some of Manola's favorite bloggers by analyzing their topical relationship to just a few of the keywords that led visitors to Sex and the Beach on November 16, 2006. We know that sentences with too many prepositional phrases can cause brain farts, so if you're feeling a little light-headed, don't worry. Just read and enjoy!

Mr. Burnettiquette isn't looking for women caught in public taking a shit nor wondering what do you do if you got to take a shit and your stuck out side.

Compassionate ConSpermatism may lead to side effects such as cum stained male underwear.

New fashion trend! If you're a beach skank who frequently wears a public micro skirt, don't neglect your pubic hair -- it's a great matching accessory!

Maxim steakhouse spells maximum confusion for Miami's tourism experts.

Miami-Dade's bad boy would rather not supersize burgers or babes. While fat buttcracks are less sexually attractive than palmetto high school thongs, they're definitely healthier for a man's self-esteem than a paris goiter.

Butt flesh isn't always unhealthy. The comments section of this post is a perfect example of why men should spend more time fantasizing about a big cuban ass rather than turning a political argument into rice with ass.

The Arab-speaking world's most popular web page needs to give those boys what they want: sluts fucking in alleyways.

The title of benevolent patriarch boyfriend is probably more appropriate for Moses during those crazy pre-commandment years when he sowed his wild matzo; nonetheless, Miami Gringo is a good guy who has fought the good fight and deserves a good cuddle.

Photograph of Lincoln Road © 2006 by Lenny Furman.

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Sunday, November 12, 2006


sex and the beach barbarella

Thank the good Lord for White Dade's readers. Even though both White Dade and Manola are blogging buddies who have reportedly agreed to disagree on who can be more tongue-in-ass, imagine my relief when one of White Dade's readers, a complete stranger, personally emailed me to set the record straight [verbatim]:

Girls who have guys they “fuck” and guys they “marry” aren’t worthy of being married to, because they are sluts. That was my point on White Dade’s post, these are the girls you “fuck”. Girls who save it for a relationship are the girls you “marry".


Dear Dude, Thank you for taking the time to personally express to me your opinion. My life would not be the same without it. Peace, M


Oh you’re welcome. It’s always good to be thanked properly for trying to help people out.

Indeed, I am so blessed to have some stranger, whom it seems might've been losing sleep over my limited knowledge of double standards in a male-dominated society, tell my 39 year-old single ass about the ways of the world.

What a revelation, praise be Jesus! Now I know why I'm an ancient hag who's not married!

Case in point. Once, I made love to a man who never returned my phone call. Duh. Hello? Phone calls didn't actually happen until the 19th century! Anyway, his name was Henry and he commanded some royal clout. He would've sent me to the Tower of London for a well-deserved beheading if he had suspected I wasn't a maid fair and true, forced to be sperminated by his fat, ugly and tubercular ass, screwing around for the sake of siring money-making legacies.

Don't you understand? His penis had a political purpose! And my uterus was unwilling. God damn it!


pyagar barbarella sex and the beach

Let me tell you, ever since I received this chap's email, I've been losing sleep too, trying to conjure a spell for these poor men who are clearly suffering. Oy vay! So many sluts; so little marriage!

Oh my Lord, I've just put together two sentences that are grammatically promiscuous! OMG! You're supposed to slip on a condom, not a semi-colon on a loose predicate clause! Is that truly a copulative ceasura? The world is surely coming to an end, if not an ejaculative expression!

And you know you just want to come all over my stupid and blank face, while you get off on the delicate pastiche of English grammar, right?

Well, after stroking my spinster's clitoris for five minutes, eureka, I've got it: his and hers sexual microchips! With a practically invisible, lightning-fast Miami CSI lab procedure attached to your genitals, you won't be just having sex, you'll be processing data!

For him: powder blue, applied to the vas deferens. For her: razr pink, attached to the cervix. Then, during sexual intercourse, you'll know whom she has fucked, how often and -- with revolutionary technology -- if she ever faked an orgasm. She won't bother reading any of your data because since you are a man and dominate the world and can fuck your testicles dry without judgement, your sexual history is irrelevant. This technology only serves men, of course, because a man can fuck every woman on the planet and so what? It's a moot point.

Oh wait. Don't believe me? That's right. Juvenile dick may be too young to have wanked off to Barbarella or enjoyed a good romp inside the Orgasmatron!

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Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Lavish Me With Gifts

manola blablablanik

Tomorrow, November 9, is my birthday. Feel free to send me all or any of the following.

Manolo Blahniks, any style, size 8 wide.
Heidi Klum's metabolism.
Perfume by Guerlain, Aqua Allegoria line.
Nightly serenades from Cyan or another wizard of music.
A lifetime supply of the finest Alvarinho wine.
A year-long shopping spree at Epicure Market.
Colin Farrell's penis.
Airline tickets to Barcelona.
Weekly massage therapy.

Is that too much to ask? Heck, who am I kidding? Cheap champagne and fried chicken will do just fine!

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Sunday, November 05, 2006

Planet Manola: Dumb Under the Influence

Random news, commentary and photographs. Updated at least once every menstrual cycle, if not more frequently.

young manola in fiestas patronales de Madrid photo by Manola Blablablanik

Ah, the innocence of youth, when bubbles are the only thing you consider blowing!

In this week's edition we explore the vicissitudes of crime and punishment.


Could this be love? Nay, could this be a shining example of the teachings of Jesus Christ, Krishna and Buddha? You tell me!

Last week, a Pinecrest cop gave me a moving violation ticket because I cut through a gas station. Folks, my driving record is so clean, Mother Teresa could eat off of it!

So why did I cut through the gas station? Because I was on my way to the only avian veterinarian in town for an emergency appointment. My mini-macaw, Samba Jalapeño, was lying half-conscious in her pet carrier and three trucks were waiting to turn right on US1. What would you do?

Well, if you're a Pinecrest cop, you give someone with a legitimate excuse and a perfect driving record a $150 ticket, that's what! And you also jeopardize the health of her injured pet!

Sambita is back to her normal mischievous self. When I point a finger at her, she says "Look what you've done!" Which is exactly, my friends, what I'm going to tell Pinecrest cop when I see him in court.


kate moss cocaine

Speaking of compassion, it's the MO for the British fashion industry, which rewards -- instead of punishing -- models who are at the center of public cocaine scandals. Surely, Pinecrest cop would've meted out severe punishment to Kate Moss, in lieu of awarding her Model of the Year for her professional achievements.

Stephanie of Back in Skinny Jeans reports:

"They are rewarding this woman for getting more famous because of getting caught on film blowing coke up her nose, and let’s not forget that this wasn’t the first time Kate ever used the drug. What kind of role model is that? Let’s also not forget that she is now engaged to a raging drug addict who cannot stay in rehab long enough to stay clean. So we glorify coke heads if they are pretty and rich."

This sort of leniency may be appealing to Mel Gibson, an accomplished, Oscar-winning actor and filmmaker who should also be rewarded for his professional achievements. Perhaps Mad Max should move across the pond and start drinking in pubs, so that his drunken rants against Jews don't get all blown out of proportion.


Pretty and rich, indeed! When Paris Hilton gets a DUI in Hollywood, she suffers nothing more than a slap on her bony wrist. Why? Because she drives drunk but keeps her mouth shut. Take heed, Mel: if you don't want to get crucified, be an anti-Semitic jackass in private!

Paris Hilton, whose greatest accomplishment so far has been posing on the red carpet, isn't intelligent enough to emulate Mel Gibson's career, let alone string together a series of letters together to spell PRADA. In any case, how can vitriol slide past the gallons of lipgloss smeared on her pout?

Nothing says "get off the hook" like pretty. Maybe Mel should grease up his chops too.

As for me, the life of a beloved pet is far more important than mascara smeared from crying.

Photograph courtesy of locarbhiflavor ... that's yours truly!

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Tuesday, October 31, 2006

South Beach Halloween Costume Made Easy

Halloween is easy on sexy Slut Beach! Just add a garter or some handcuffs to your usual hobag outfit!

miami beach slutty outfit

Image courtesy of Incredibly Smooth Blondie, South Beach photographer extraordinaire!

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Sunday, October 29, 2006

Meat Me in Miami Beach

manola's meatballs

Dear Manola 180,OMG! Is it true? Reuters reports that Maxim, the magazine known for featuring twats and tits meat and potatoes on its cover, may open a steakhouse in Miami. How much do you want to bet that this restaurant will be located on South Beach? We need another high-falutin' meat market on this island like we need yet another hole in our ass! OK, look it, why don't we just call a steak a steak and change our name to Meat Beach?

Yours truly,

Chica Churrasco

Dear Chica Churrasco,

Yes it's true, and as far as a bet, I wouldn't kick Matthew McConaughey out of your bed just yet! Our West Coast informant, Back in Skinny Jeans, first took a stab at the controversial issue.

"In an effort to boost their bottom line, Maxim magazine has decided to open.....drum roll.....a chain of steakhouses. That's right people. A magazine that portrays women like pieces of meat is now giving you the chance to literally take a bite of some of that meat, steak that is."

As you know, Manola 180 represents fair, balanced and unbiased journalism. We take no sides of beef, so we sliced through the gristle only to conclude that it's a bloody mess.

Stephen Coleslaw, CEO of Dennis the Menace Publishing, admits that Maxim's steakhouse isn't just another Hooters -- it's a bleedin' CASH COW. The concept is simple:

"It's not a matter of just sitting there, having your meal and then going home and flopping into bed because you've overeaten. It will not be about overeating, it will be about being the social experience of dining." [sic, emphasis Manola's]

OMG, that's fucking brilliant! Until now, no one had ever thought of dining out as a social experience! Stephen Coleslaw is clearly a genius -- the much awaited messiah of meatloaf! Who else brought finesse to our race of overeating troglodyte, Wal-Mart shopping, supersizing Cro-Magnons! This isn't just a new restaurant, it's a paradigm shift for the human race, which would still be dining at home, charring a leg of T-Rex over a bonfire, if it were not for this new revolutionary concept!

But cavemeat emptor: Maxim's steakhouse will appeal only to evolved members of humanity that will pay suck dick high prices for frou-frou.

"In terms of the atmosphere, in terms of the design and also in terms of the food, (the steakhouses) will cater to women as much as men," [sic] Coleslaw told Manola 180 as he sampled one of the signature dishes, grilled prairie oyster in a reduction sauce of dingleberry truffle.

So, in other words, if you are an epicurean, well-to-do grown-up whose sole purpose for going out is dining and/or a high school student with a 10 PM curfew and/or a convict with strict house arrest rules and/or a member of Overeater's Anonymous, and/or a disgusting couch potato wearing a stained wifebeater, Maxim's steakhouse is not for you.


It's not about the food, it's about the experience. Jeffrey Chowderhead, restaurateur and financier of Vagina Grill Management, is spearheading the project.

A very well-researched marketing campaign targets sugar daddies and finicky bulimics who want to see and be seen NOT eating. "We want you to puke that over-priced, thinly-sliced steak tartare before you head out to the club and burn more calories," explains Chowderhead. "We're very innovative. Currently, at China Grill on 5th Street, we already blare loud music causing hearing loss in many of our customers."

Chowderhead is ever the humanitarian."Our most popular menu item -- HOUSE SALAD -- is laced with beta blockers just to make sure our starved, anorexic clients prevent heart attacks but still look like cadavers before pretending to swallow our low-carb spermburgers!"

At the new Maxim's steakhouse, Vagina Grill Management intends to take customer service to the next level. Included among dining amenities are barf bags so that ladies will not have to deal with the emotional guilt trip tipping the poverty-stricken Haitian bathroom attendant who supports five children by providing shallow and ignorant patrons with hairspray.

As a beacon of enlightened civilization, Vagina Grill Management gets its inspiration from bacchanalian orgies. "If you can burp politely in Muslim culture, why not vomit publicly in South Beach?" asks Chowderhead. "What's more, waiters won't just clear the table of the breadcrumbs you pecked at discreetly like a vicious crow, they'll also wipe your seat with Clorox so your vagina can leak confidently!"

NOT-eating NEVER tasted so good!

More sexy informants:

Miami Beach 411

Scene in the Tropics

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Saturday, October 21, 2006


micro mini skirt sex and the beach


Hey, modern girl: do you squat at the toilet and practice safe sex with condoms? Well, guess what? That's not enough to stay healthy. Micro miniskirts, aka microminis, are the next chick flu vector according to Manola 180 health correspondent Dr. Suck Mygupta.

"Manola, the potential for epidemic is severe. Even if you wear a thong, don't be fooled! You might as well be going commando. A thong is useless against your vagina's natural cleansing mechanism. As you paint the town red, you're also turning the beach into one giant pantyliner!"

So in spite of having teflon nipples and non-stick personalities, women sporting the offending skirts are infecting our community with offensive bodily fluids. Hazmat clean-up crews are powerless in keeping up with municipalities in dire need of disinfection.

sanjay gupta

"It's easier to wipe gum off the sidewalk," explains Dr. Suck Mygupta. "And there just aren't enough stray dogs to do the job!"

The sexy Hindi is careful to emphasize that there's nothing morally wrong with the fashion -- it's public health consequences that raise a stiffer concern. The bottom slime: women who wear twat-exposing clothes in public distribute their vaginal, anal and urinary tract excretions all over our city.

"If you want to hose down a five-alarm Viagra-motivated priapic erection with your passion juices while you make consensual adult love behind closed doors, go crazy. But become a Front Door Bamby, and we're suddenly dealing with a Daisy Dukes of Health Hazard infestation!"

The issue, then, isn't about being pervy, it's about wearing clothes in public that make you an oozing bacteria-laden Typhoid Mary!

dana scully manola sex and the beach

Although the Center for Disease Control refuses to leak any information about the gravity of this health crisis, we managed to milk the following statement out of researcher Dr. Candida Albicans: "Our team researches and analyzes ways to prevent the spread of germs that occur through stupid harebrained fashion trends. We've ruled out extraterrestial influence and quite frankly I'm very worried about the impact that human morons the fashion industry will have on widespread mental health."


Could this be irresponsible fashion gone wild and will it affect the snowbirds who spend millions of dollars each year in supporting our tourism industry?

Mr. Scum Foley, an unsuspecting tourist from Bumfuck, North Dakota, has gone into therapy since his first visit to Miami Beach last year.

His heartfelt letter finally reached us via the Woolly Mammoth Express. Foley describes how his life changed when, after having lunch at Bollo Tropical on Alton Road, he hailed a cab and started fantasizing about women who look like plucked poultry.

"The fantasy eventually became a nightmare. I mean, her skirt was so short, I don't even know if it was a skirt, shorts or what. Skorts, maybe? But it was more like gaucho pants meets the application instruction on a box of Monistat! Unable to deal with the trauma, I focused on the childhood memory of going into a sauna with a Catholic priest scapegoat and eating fried yuca from Bollo Tropical with a Spork. You see? Sporks and skorts, congressional pages, sweaty priests and grilled chicken with mojo ... Oh my lord! I am so confused, but I can assure you I'm not gay. I may be grilled and totally gross, but I'm not gay!"

This young man's dream of a career in obstetrics and gynecology was cut short by this traumatic experience -- all because he became delusional after seeing a micromini so short, he could peer inside the woman's ovaries and diagnose her yeast infection from several yards away, which even Superman never managed, in spite of the x-ray properties of kryptonite!

We are sad to report that instead of swearing the Hippocratic oath, this fella is now interested in becoming a politician and spending the rest of his life sucking ass, the juices of which we know are hardly savory and will never be the secret ingredient at Iron Chef.


This fashion trend may be a nightmare for health professionals trying to protect the general public from the spread of general ick, but it does represent a boon for a CSI trace lab swabbing its way to justice!

Horatio Cane, director of Miami-Dade Photoshop Enforcement Department, believes the epidemic could be easily contained.

horatio cane

We attempted to contact the calm, cool and collected H for comment, but his secretary informed us that he was still pausing before his next line, placing his sunglasses in slow-motion over his nasal bridge.

Finally, after holding our breaths for a million-dollar tv advertising second, Horatio promised to keep us safe. "We'll swab every barstool in Miami, Manola. Whatever it takes. Next time you see my pasty face and stare deeply into my compassionate gaze, you'll be able to sit your big Cuban ass down without fear of mortal contagion."


We love to trust us some H, but in the meantime, I'll use one of those toilet seat covers on a barstool at The Delanus Hotel. Or better yet: Tanqueray at 80 proof would make an excellent disinfectant. Looks like that girl's can of mace should include a sidekick of gin spritzer.

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Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Cultural Debriefing

In this bellicose world of internecine strife, at least Jewish and Cuban grandmothers can agree about one thing ... clean panties and husband-finding!


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Sunday, October 08, 2006

First Year Anniversary


Boozing, smoking, whoring and -- God forbid -- gourmet cooking on a cast iron griddle as you reside on Miami Beach is your road to perdition, child! Not going to get you anywhere, unless you put it down on paper, impudent hellion!

Roused by this sage advice, one year ago today, Manola Blablablanik was born! She peeped out like a tiny flea about to be sqwashed by four-inch fetish clear platform heels to tell it like is and then some! She's covered every angle -- from a sheepish freakishly obsessive admiration of Colin Farrell's really not that impressive penis to a candid discussion of monster clitoris and everything in between -- love, heartbreak, heels, Irish cheddar, celebrity pubic lice and thongs -- topics without which no single woman on South Beach would survive!

Her publicist, Elliot Stinkz, was quoted in a recent interview: "She might've deleted her own blog in a moment of youthful sturm und drang but she's still making it work, damn it. No other woman on the planet has made single life more appealing! She put the YES in single and is living more chronically than ever!"


Memory marred by too many hangovers? No worries, maybe it was Manola's intoxicating mojo. Here's the nonsense that became Manola's MO.

Faithful visitors, I only have one thing to say to you: XOXO and keep speaking your ...

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Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Manola's Sexy Bloomers

manola's bloomer oncidium orchid

Stricken with a painful ear infection since last week, I haven't been paying much mind to sex, much less to writing about sex or even -- heaven forbid! -- having sex, but that's just as well, because my orchids have been getting more action than a Republican congressman!

So instead of reading any of Manola's thoughts on the state of sex and other matters on Miami Beach, please take a moment from your busy day to relax in my lush tropical garden and enjoy my latest bloomer.

There's a story behind this prodigious bloom. Sir Fish A Lot, my second boyfriend, gave me this orchid in lieu of an engagement ring on Valentine's Day 1998, just a few months before we would separate.

This gorgeous oncidium has not bloomed in eight years!

manola's bloomer oncidium orchid

One scientific theory attributes this sudden blossoming to all the pent-up sexual energy beaming from this blog, which if properly harnessed and distributed, could help light the city of Miami after a hurricane! Manola's theory, on the other hand, believes this blooming is just like love: something had to happen at the right place at the right time to create a thing of beauty. Or maybe, just maybe, it's simply another much-anticipated episode of plant porn ...

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Sunday, September 24, 2006

Exclusive! America's Hottest Mom Auditions!

miami beach hottest mom audition

Hot mom or ho on the street corner? You decide. Manola 180's stealthy paparazzi team captured this potential candidate leaving the Byron Carlyle Theater this afternoon.


We must applaud the sensitive creators of this reality TV series for bringing the forgotten plight of this special needs population to light. Recent studies by progressive, impartial think tank Girls Next Door, funded by a cabal of America's intelligentsia, have shown that for women to be considered physically beautiful and sexually desirable by mainstream media after doing what they are equipped to do -- mainly pushing a watermelon-sized human out of their vaginas -- is practically impossible.

Think tank leader Bridget Bleachbrain expresses concern about the widespread incidence of ugly mothers. "zOMG! For every like, 1 billion moms, like only one stays hot!"

A chilling statistic makes clear that in fact -- these women who make up most of the population, inside whom all of us have spent the first part of our lives and without whom we would not be alive -- are considered handicapped by fugliness.

"This is why we are praising America's hottest moms" explains reality tv show producer, James Jackass. "Those women who overcome this insurmountable limitation deserve very special treatment as MILFs."


byron carlyle miami beach hot mom audition

Manola asked James Jackass why the audition took place at the Byron Carlyle in North Beach instead of America's hottest playground, HoBe. But the erudite brainchild of such fine productions as Bulimia Boulevard and Alexia's Last Laxative appeared surpised.

"Manola, are you serious? There aren't any MILFs in South Beach. Shoving a gerbil up your ass or a baseball bat-sized vibrator up your cunt is NOT the same as pushing out ... you know ... what are they called ... babies? HELLO? HoBe doesn't even have a fucking maternity ward! The only hospital down here was torn down by a condo developer! Get your facts straight, bitch."

"By the way," concluded James Jackass, pointing and twirling his finger at my rack, "you're a little too fat for us, but would you like to ... ?"

Sensing his discomfort in being questioned by a woman with brains and a rack, Manola concluded the interview with one simple question: "America's Hottest Mom is a shoe-in reality TV hit. Being a broadcast visionary with a commitment to enriching humanity with culture, what's next?"

"Easy," replied James Jackass. "What could be better than America's Hottest Geezer? Just think about it. Carrying the cane, but still wearing a wife beater. We're interested in representing all of America's disadvantaged communities, including aging metrosexuals."

old geezer miami beach


A Blog, A Mom and a Life In-Between
Stuck on the Palmetto
Florida Masochist

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Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Planet Manola: Back Fat Mountain

Random news, commentary and photographs. Updated at least once every menstrual cycle, if not more frequently.

In the inaugural issue of Planet Manola, we paid homage to various acts of public indecency, such as tucking your junk and taking a poop.

This week's edition offers a variation on the theme, as we come to the conclusion that half-naked men, provided they are working for the benefit of society, can do no harm.


Imagine a fine September Miami morn. The parrots are squawkin', fish are jumpin' and the thunderstorm still several hours away when suddenly BOOM!

My heart leaps out of my body as I run from my bed to see if I had died and gone to war, but instead I pull the curtains aside and I see THIS and realize that THIS is looking at me and my boobs and that THIS knows that my boobs and me know that THIS is looking at me and my boobs!

construction worker outside Manola's apartment


Matters were a little clearer after coffee. Sure, the reinforcement of a crumbling sea wall was underway a mere hog's spit from my terrace, but I wondered: why waste that amazing multi-purpose erector-set on concrete?

Such a tool, let me tell you! It puts wee Mr. Crabby to shame. Not only does it possess longitude, latitude, fortitude and attitude, it also swivels on an axis and slides up and down at variable speeds! It stays stiff even when folded! For the love of God, it takes an entire 200 pound buttcrack model to operate! Oy Dios mio, I could use it to pound 20 mammoth tostones by the minute, not to mention buckets of hummus, even!


Now THIS, I thought, was a sign from God. Could this be, finally, the Hurricane Season Boyfriend my tender loins longed for? My heart raced as I imagined myself Lady Chatterly and he my sweaty, laboring lover. Me, with all my pent-up passion, chest heaving in anticipation, my languid eyes just beaming in adoration over that buttcrack, handing him a cold cerveza while he bangs the sh ... but wait, Manola!

Hurricane season is over in a couple of months, which means he'd be about as practical and useful as buying plywood in January. And being a true local, you would NEVER buy plywood in January, would you? Besides, who needs plywood, when you have to -- out of moral obligation -- put all those spare batteries to good use? Sorry, Mr. Crabby. No time off for you, my little friend!


And so once again, another Miami Beach meaningless sexual encounter between one horny woman and a sweaty, shirtless stranger is averted, even though it took place in the capitol of porn and sweatcrotch himself, Brandon Davis, was spotted far away in the other La La Land.

But I still appreciate -- from the safe distance of my window -- the men who break their backs to make our beautiful island city a safer place. Praise be to the real men of Miami Beach, who show their buttcracks for all the right reasons, every season, rain or shine!

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Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Is Sperm Vegan?

Please give a warm welcome to my guest blogger Inga who shares some very healthy advice about sex and food! After leaving Inga a delicious comment, stop by Fanless, where you'll read my exclusive interview of South Beach's sexiest Mexican!

Commercial Break – TRANSCRIPT OF THE Vegan Sex Psychologist Radio Show

Inga: “Hi there Sex on the Beach Miamians .. allow me to introduce myself. My name is I. Ambrosia (aka Inga) from Miami Vegan. A blog where I try to educate and convert the omnivores of the world while entertaining them with fun facts and photography.

Occasionally, I rant about animal rights and the weather. Today, I will be guest blogging for the special ‘Miami Cross Blogination’ event city-wide in S. Florida.

“Now to the “meat” of the matter. I would like to now answer a few questions via phone regarding veganism and your favorite topic -- sex. It looks like we have our first caller.

“Hello caller, you’re on the air with I. Ambrosia.”

Caller (a.k.a. Loose-inda): “Hi, I. Ambrosia. I’m an avid Sex Miamian and big fan of Manola but glad to have you here. So you are vegan right? My boyfriend wants me to ask you if sperm is vegan? I’m vegetarian and am thinking of switching over to veganism and need to know before tonight.

Inga: “Hello Loose-inda, welcome to the program. Well, that is a very interesting question you’ve got there. Can’t say I’ve ever been asked that before. First of all, is your boyfriend a vegan?”

Caller: “No, he is a bodybuilder and eats lots of red meat and animal proteins.”

Inga: “Then no his sperm is not vegan and should be removed from your diet. However, if he eats a vegan diet for 48 hours you can then partake of the special sauce. Do you think he can do it?”

Caller: “Um .. he is throwing out the frozen meats in the ice box as we speak.”

Inga: “Excellent. Another happy customer.”

Caller: “Thank you so much I. Ambrosia. You’ve saved my relationship.”

Inga: “Oh .. didn’t realize it was that serious. Good luck then, Loose. So, next on the line we have Victor.”

Caller (a.k.a. Victor): “Hi, I. Ambrosia. I heard you just talking about sperm and I have a question along the same lines.”

Inga: “Sure, shoot Victor.”

Caller: “(Laughs) This is embarrassing but my girlfriend wants to know if my sperm can make her boobs bigger? (Coughs)”

Inga: “(Coughs) Well, Victor .. are you wanting her ‘boobs’ bigger or is she?”

Caller: “I like her breasts but she thinks I look at other girls with bigger breasts.”

Inga: “I see. Much of what makes breasts bigger is fat tissue so if you yourself are eating a high fat diet, you will be able to ‘transfer’ some of that fat to her.”

Caller: “Wait. I don’t want her to get too big .. other guys might like them.”

Inga: “Guess you’d better think about that before you turn on the tap. Alright, Victor that’s all the time we have for today. I’d like to thank Manola for letting me slip around in her sheets for the day. Thanks to all of our callers for the very interesting questions. I would like to leave you with a deliciously yummy chocolate recipe to slip and slide around in for all you lovers out there. Happy healthy sexing.”


200 ml./1 cup of unscented bubble bath (as sold by Meadowsweet, Dolma and Honesty)
75 ml./third of a cup of unsweetened soya milk
70g./3 oz. of dark chocolate
optional - add some cinnamon or ginger for a stimulating bath

Heat the soya milk and add in the chopped chocolate, stir well until melted. Do not boil. Allow cooling down. Mix with the bubble bath and pour into your bath and enjoy...

To lighten up the mood with a little humor also check out this interesting chocolate candy bar commercial from Chile ..

Laters .. ;-)

Miami Cross Blogination Hub

Miami Cross Blogination Press Release

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Thursday, September 14, 2006

Land of the Ectomorphs

ectomorph sex and the beach cartoon south beach condominiums

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Sexy Threesome Plus More!

miami cross blogination on sex and the beach

Coming soon to a computer screen near you: a sexy girl-on-girl with man!

On September 19, luscious Inga from Miami Vegan will be tickling my tootsies and I'm sure that whatever she serves will be fresh and wholesome. I'm hoping for a very informative article on the alternative uses of cylindrical-shaped vegetables and tubers, or something terribly awful about 'eating meat' in the sexual sense, but I'm leaving the bed sheets bare for her to play with Sex and the Beach in whatever way she likes.

What's more, I'll be having sex blog with South Beach's favorite hot pepper, Fanless. Oh, come on, don't you just want to pinch those pink and green cheeks?

Self-described as a "fat, lazy Mexican," Fanless often takes a Seinfeld much-ado-about-nothing approach to his posts, but don't be dissuaded.

zOMG! This boy is really hawt and worth a good stalk, which is why, on September 19, Manola will slober all over Fanless with the same relish as she would over a good, hard and spicy burrito.

Don't for a moment think I'm being sarcastic. I love me a good, hard and spicy burrito, so we'll see how we can manage this cluster blogster fuck between a Vegan, a Mexican and a Manola all rolled into one fresh-baked tortilla!

My, it's getting hot in here, isn't it?

You bet it is. Miami will be buzzing like a thousand dildos charged with fresh batteries on September 19 -- look it, I've got a surplus!

We're not the only three blogerati getting it on that day! The whole Miami blogosphere promises to ooh and ahh in the pleasures of the pen, giving a whole new meaning to Miami vice!

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boner gossip

Sources tell us that part of the threesome may be featured on the alley sex cam, which is quite the rage among some Arabic-speaking Google hounds!

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Planet Manola: Don't Do This in Public

Random news, commentary and photographs. Updated at least once every menstrual cycle, if not more frequently.

cheap shoes south beach manolo blahniks
Shoe store on Washington Avenue, South Beach. $19.99 Made in China plastic high heels have the life expectancy of a fruit fly. Pick up a pair on your way to the club and toss them out later with the condoms!

In this edition, we pay tribute to unbecoming public behavior and homage to a rising star in the limelight of English grammar!


The young man who decided to tuck his junk into his pants while standing under the bright lights of the ATM machine on a busy intersection just off the Julia Tuttle Causeway. He unbuckled his pants, pulled them halfway down his thighs and then proceeded to shove it all in. Too bad I wasn't standing in line behind him! Maybe I could've swiped my debit card down his crack for cash, but this doesn't shock me, because ...


... when you gotta go, you gotta go! Earlier last week, in my perfectly respectable upper-middle class neighborhood, an older gentleman parked his car in a lot adjacent to a canal, opened the passenger side doors of his car, stepped in between both doors, pulled his pants and underwear down, squatted and then proceeded to defecate, thinking that no one could see him and not realizing that those of us who live on the other side of the canal had a full view of the ceremonious bowel movement! This is the sort of behavior you expect from a vagabond, but ...


... even the female bum who has been living on the same block as The Forge for donkey's ages would never stoop so low. Walking back and forth mumbling to yourself around the corner of the parking lot in the dark is no way to live life, honey. I know you never beg, but with all the money being pilfered away at that swanky gin joint, couldn't someone buy you a cheeseburger?


Speaking of cheeseburgers, last week heiress Parrot Hilton proved to the world once and for all that money can't buy you brains. The active party girl avoided the clink by a narrow margin, detained after driving under the influence on empty stomach. Supposably, her publicist could remind the 115-pound blonde to chow down on an In-and-Out Burger before drinking tequila?


Yes, supposably is a word!

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Sunday, September 10, 2006

Oregano Man

Oregano Man Miami Beach Pizza


My ex-boyfriend, Mr. Thinks He’s Huge, either smelled like ass, vodka or any combination thereof. I must admit, however, that as a member of this relationship I was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome and that on those days in which he redeemed himself and convinced my then puerile mind that he was worthy of my love, his scent was intoxicating.

I never bothered to look at the label on the bottle, but the scent evoked a cross between Drakkar and Kölnisch Wasser – an enticing, masculine mixture of armpit, men’s locker room, concentrated sweat from pro-football linebacker crotch, day-old semen on Monica Lewinksy’s dress, corked Merlot and stagnant swamp -- all blended beautifully with a hint of citrus.

As I recoil from the scent of a man I now consider to be a living, breathing ambulatory rectum, I am also drawn – by random association of the olfactory sense -- to a distant memory lodged somewhere between the archives of “prom” and “frat party” in my limbic brain: OREGANO MAN!


Oregano Man was the owner of a now-defunct pizza joint that thrived circa 1985 on some non-descript corner of Washington Avenue. Long before the days of Pizza Rustica – yes, back in the day when you could saunter about with teased hair in hot pink Candies and not be treated like a ho – I spent many an evening under the fluorescent lights of the pizza joint with friends, waiting for our friend, Temporary Cocaine Addict -- who was also the delivery girl -- to get off work.

Since we weren’t old enough to drink, we shied away from Club Deuce and scored free Diet Coke from the cashier. She was a lovely, plump Venezuelan gal who had once been a model and now suffered the ignominy of selling pizzas. Miss Venezuela proudly showed us the one portfolio photograph in which she proved that she was far too healthy-looking to model.

Had she looked like a Guantanamo Bay prisoner, Miss Venezuela might’ve had better luck at Irene Marie around the corner on Geezer Drive. Oh yes, Ocean Drive as we know it today did not come to be until all the old farts died and the greedy vultures swooped in, turning empty rooms into swanky hotel suites, NFA -- no farting allowed – of, course.

I believe Oregano Man kept Miss Venezuela as the cashier because she had a bosom that inspired envy from bovines, not to mention nipples that would pierce through metal even in hot, humid weather. And since she was so concerned about her encroaching weight, she adopted the Jiggle Wiggle Diet, which required her -- according to her keen understanding of thermodynamic law – to constantly get jiggy wid it while she was standing. Had she not been so lovely, customers might’ve mistaken her for an Alzheimer’s victim turned rap stripper.

But I digress. What about Oregano Man?

Oregano Man looked like the love child of Brandon Davis and Tony Montana in a threesome with Frida Kahlo. Burly and sweaty, he possessed an active mono-brow that was always in the state of mid-plucking – your average Sicilian Chia Pet. Although he wasn’t old, he had a peculiar set of wrinkles that came from saying “fuck” and “bafanculo” over and over again while he tossed and twirled a pie over his head.

Eventually, the expression carved itself permanently into his mug, so that just by looking at him, you could see in his eyes that the first words to come out of his mouth, no matter what the circumstances -- even when baptisizing his the latest member of his brood -- would be prefaced with “Fuck! Bafanculo! Forgive me father for I have ..."

As many who work in the restaurant business know, it’s easier to clean up your act and your foul-mouthed speech rather than your own body. You come to smell like the food you cook, no matter how much you scrub your flesh. Oregano Man scrubbed, to be sure. Scrubbed, mixed, tossed, lived, breathed, and fucked pizza, so you could smell him a mile – if not a clavicle’s length – away.

And so we whiled the nights away at the pizza joint until Temporary Cocaine Addict hit rock bottom. No one talked about it; no one did anything about it; it was what it was. We couldn’t drink, but back in the 1980s it was easier for my friend to score blow than it was to buy pastel-colored linen jackets.

In high school, she had been the Overweight Popular Underdog, but she was still the quintessential Blonde American Pie, Goody Two Shoes, Most Likely To Succeed, Yearbook Headliner our Senior Year. After graduation when reality struck hard, she acted strangely for a while under the guise of the snort, until, thankfully, she got the labels – and the powder -- out of her life.

I stuck by her side through it all.


On one of those nights, Temporary Cocaine Addict, Some Joe, Oregano Man and I closed shop. After tossing back a few beers at the South Pointe jetty, the four of us walked back to my friend’s apartment and I ended up sitting next to Oregano Man on the couch while the other two enjoyed a noisy romp in the bedroom.

Oregano Man lay back on the couch with his legs spread, exhausted. I sat tightly on the edge as we looked askance at each other while the other pair of ships that had crossed in the night screeched like pigs at slaughter.

After an awkward exchange of words, I offered to grab us a round of beers, but instead he grabbed my hand and lunged toward me. Next thing I know, he’s stuffing my face into his hairy chest and all I can smell is tomato sauce, paprika, salami and that God damn oregano!

“Oh baby,” he said as he climbed on top of me like mozzarella melting on rising dough!

Hey, I love me some pie, but having some greasy pussy-pouncer slobber all over your milky-white breasts is not exactly Betty Crocker porn!

“Get the fuck off me!” I yelled as I pushed him off.

“But Manola!”

I grabbed his left hand and pointed to the ring.

"Manola, my ass! Go fuck your wife, asshole. And take a fucking shower, for Pete’s sake!”


In the days, months, years to come, I developed a benign repugnance to the scent of oregano. I say benign because I have nothing against the noble herb. To this day, whenever I cook any of my favorite dishes that require oregano -- mostly Greek -- I buy it fresh, pinch a few leaves here and there, toss the rest and have myself a good laugh.

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Saturday, September 09, 2006

Manola on 25 Peeps

[sorry, but Manola is no longer on peeps ...]

BREAKING NEWS! Manola is finally a contender on 25 Peeps! Click here to keep the smile you all know and love forever popular! If you do, I promise to post a picture of my boobies!

Monday, September 04, 2006


miami bloggers cross-blogination anderson cooper panderson pooper


Want to wear Manola's shoes for a day? Are you a double-wide? Size 8 shoe, that is? Female, cross-dresser or transvestite? Bunion sufferer? Do corns get you down and pedicures make you high?

None of the above? All of the above? Regardless, no matter! As long as you're a Miami blogger, you're eligible to cross-bloginate with Manola and others in a veritable wordsmithing orgy!

The CDC (Center for Dick Control) and the WHO (World Ho Organization) were, up until this announcement, mainly concerned with the spread of Bitch Flu.

Blog Flu, however, poses an imminent and far more creative threat. There is a marked concern that these casual blog encounters might prove fatally humorous, not to mention incredibly entertaining!

According to our medical expert, Doctor Suck MyGupta, precaution is necessary because there is no protection against mental stimulation.

"Although Miami bloggers represent a rare case of high-risk contagion in a quarantine situation, the general public may actually be threatened if the cerebral cortices of the uninfected, by way of eyeballs, come in contact with any random Miami blogger's mental excretions."

Sexy Hindi medical correspondent that he is, Doctor Suck MyGupta manages to find the compassion necessary to freely offer additional advice, instead of selfishly servicing his own Manola's sexual fantasies with Manola, of course:

"Always get tested before writing on someone else's blog and by all means, ask the new Miami blogger you're humping reading if they are negative for BTDs."

Miami bloggers, however, seem poised like a group of stubborn libertines to spread the virus of joyous writing far and wide.

But according to Janet ReHo, the apparent threat of biological terror is no more dangerous than a member of The Mile High Club sneaking a tube of Astroglide aboard a Virgin Atlantic flight.

In fact, the enterprise is actually quite wholesome. "It's not an attempt to create freaky hybrid blogs," yells the former attorney general over the phone. "It's not even the bare-blogging spread of blogearal diseases! Damn it, don't interrupt my beauty sleep unless there's a compound of freaks to blow up!"


Two brainy, creative beauties are behind the innocent shenanigans. Tere -- fabulously mommy -- provided the term in a flash of copywriting genius for Rebecca Carter -- fabulously environment -- who originally suggested the brilliant idea!

In Rebecca's own words:

On September 19, several Miami bloggers will do a bit of a switcharoo. Each blog will feature a post written by another blogger in the group. The post will be related to the blog on which it will be featured. It's basically going to be a fun, silly day in which we can use our blogs to create a bit of confusion, mischief, or maybe just great new content by a guest blogger!

Who wants to swap spit so far? Warning: some of these blogs might be Rated G!

Critical Miami
Miami Vegan
Stuck on the Palmetto
A Mom, A Blog, and a Life in Between
Transit Miami
"Klotz" as in "Blood"
26th Parallel
Urban Paradise
Hidden City
Freckle Face Girl
Miami Beach 411
Sex and the Beach

If you are a Miami-based blogger and are interested in participating, please comment here to put your name on the list on or before Sunday, September 10, 2006.

So come on, don't be shy! Cross-blogination, like a black-market diet pill, is perfectly safe and stimulating! And if you happen to wear Manola's shoes for a day, you can leave your hat on!

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Blow Me [updated]

manola sex and the beach coconuts

[12:30 PM]

Ah the life of a single woman on Miami Beach! If there's one thing I can count on, it's some jerk named Ernesto swooping into town today ready to knock the coconuts off my palm tree!

I live on the one block that loses power first and gets it back last. So if you don't hear from me in a few days, it's because I'm busy trying to make an internet router out of coconut shells and twine.

Oh, that reminds me! My flashlights are working just fine, but in the absence of a hurricane boyfriend, I still need some batteries!

[2:15 PM]

While standing in line waiting to purchase some last minute supplies, I was stuck right next to the feminine hygiene products, which led me to the following profound conclusion:

A hurricane is like menstruation. When it comes, it's really annoying. The rest of the time, you go into denial and forget it happens.

get your feet wet

Our friend Rick from Stuck on the Palmetto has purchased a generator so he will be riding out the storm in comfort. Stop by for Ernesto-related news coverage!

Alesh from Critical Miami makes a mean hummus, worth trying under any weather conditions!

Monday, August 28, 2006

Oh! Me So Horny!

Don't Marry a Career Woman Forbes Cartoon Sex and the Beach

Recently, Michael Noer of Forbes Magazine ejaculated an emmision article warning men not to marry career women. The article was retracted, but not completely forgotten, in what could've been a cowering common gesture of editorial interruptus. Wisely, after wiping the sticky jizz of his keyboard with Windex -- really, Windex works wonders! -- the piece was reinserted with a counterpoint from his colleague, Michelle Corcoran.

Manola Blablablanik responds to this intellectual frisson with a tender missive to Michael Noer, not delicately mincing her words as usual, but slicing them thick with a machete and frying them in garlic!

Dear Sir,

Just because you feel intimidated by a woman who has the potential to out do you in everything you held sacred as a testicle-carrying member of the human race, doesn't mean you aren't worthy of love. Yes, love. I'm talking tough love, baby. Let-me-get-all-medieval-on-you love, baby. I mean, just because you barely hung on to your fragile macho identity until the little itsy-bitsy spider that chewed on your ego spit it out into oblivion -- SPLAT! -- let me tell you that another one of your kind, Sir Luther Campbell -- that bastion defender of women's rights -- was being "nice" with ME SO HORNY until you started getting "nasty" with ME SO GINY.

I don't care if you write for Forbes. Know what? Forbes, Shmorbes. MY BIG FAT CUBAN ASS! What did you expect out of life? Weekends a la Eyes Wide Shut? Kids safe at home while you engaged in some secret society ritual, fucking sluts trapped in a mafia prostitute ring? Did you dream about tennis with the neighbors followed by port and cigars with high-falutin' perverts who think all women should be chained down to the sofa provided they serve their pussies and the breakfast oatmeal warm while kissing your proverbial ass with "... oh, me so horny ... oh, oh ... oh so horny ... oh me so horny ... me love you long time ... ?"

To be fair, I know the tables have turned far. Women with balls are only as good as their hearts and if they're not in touch with their hearts they are no better than you, testosterone power-weilding junkie!

I, Manola Blablablanik, oracle of South Beach, know all too well. Some women use their heels simply for walking and some puncture aorta and ventricles for amusement. But not all women are of the latter kind. Some women do have it all -- brain, heart and soul. You sir, clearly haven't met the fair, brainy and well-shod maiden to melt your heart into a sweet puddle of love. So be it and good riddance.

And what of men? Some men poke and prod until there is nothing left on the other side of the bed but a leaking sack of silicon!

So play fair in the game of love-cum-war, oh soldier! Yeah, get off your fucking high priest man pedestal and put your penis where your mouth is, you spineless worm! You millenary misogynist!

Want love? You gotta give it.

I hope you're not looking for tail, because with this deeply humanistic approach you've taken to the topic of coupling, the only tail you're going to chase is your own!


Manola Blablablanik

partner in crime

Tipped by the utterly lovely, keenly observant author of Back in Skinny Jeans. Who else in the world gives a voice to ovaries? Ovaries with balls, even?

at least this asshole tells it like it is