Tuesday, January 31, 2006

The Limits of Candor

sex and the beach the limits of candor

APB: Help Manola Find Her Jeans

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.)

Monday, January 30, 2006

I'll Have a Grilled Writer with a Salad, Please

Oprah's BBQ for James Frey


Dear James,

James Frey, oh James! You are my hero! You put the "ME" in "MEmoir."

In a world that has nothing left to say, we are all guilty of using reality for our own benefit. Have you watched TV lately? It's all about "reality" ... Survivor, American Idol, Biggest Loser ... oh and THAT'S not embellished? What about Project Runway (aka Project run ... AWAY) that's SO embellished, it's even sewn at the hem, with sequins! What about five gay guys doing a fashion intervention on a fat shmuck living in New Jersey? Oh, that's something I'd swear on in court, right hand over bible "nothing but the truth," let me tell you (provided said bible was bound in imported Italian leather and designed by Donna Karan). What about Wolf Blitzer's "Situation Room" ... as if THAT'S not embellished? (Wolf, why don't you do the naked newscaster shtick? Would just LOVE to see you in fishnet stockings whipping Jack Cafferty's ass.)

We live in a country where the former blow-job coveting, cigar-smoking President redefined "sex" as we know it. We live in a country where our current leader can't conjugate a verb correctly. And so I must wonder, who gives a crap if some ex-addict writes a book that people enjoy reading. Hey, at least people who don't normally "read" anything other than sign posts ARE reading! (Let's not even get into the fact that most of the population does not speak or read English ... but that's another rant entirely.)

No, you bad boy you (Oprah was right to bitch-slap you on the wrist), but James, you silly ex-addict, all you needed to do was add a disclaimer page. Five simple words: "based on a true story."

I am torn between the Frey-Oprah battle. It would've been much more entertaining to see both of you mud wrestling. (Oprah wearing her bling and Manolo Blaniks, of course.)

James, I do have a soft spot in my heart for you. If I've ever seen a glazed-over expression that said: "God, I need a drink" you pulled it off brilliantly. But you can't walk in the cold Chicago wind to the local watering hole. Now THAT'S sad. And THAT'S reality. Hard, cold alcohol-free REALITY.

Oh, and there's genocide, war, plagues -- just to name a few crises that burden humanity. As well, our planet is multi-tasking natural disasters. Earthquake here. Tsunami there. Hurricane on the side.

James, consider yourself lucky to be a writer with so much negative publicity!

You'll survive this.

With love,

Manola B

(Dear Readers, in case you are wondering: there is NOTHING embellished on this blog. EVERYTHING I say is absolutely true. South Beach is the Bermuda Triangle of "reality" material. Trust me.)

Sunday, January 29, 2006

Beachhattan Lifestyle, Part 1


Driving down West Avenue in HoBe, where there are so many fucking high-rise condos, you can barely feel ocean breezes or see blazing-blue Goya skies anymore. You forget that you live on a flat-ass barrier island in the subtropics -- an island that is basically a pit stop for every major hurricane that hits the USA. As an expert on the lack-of-topic, I officially baptize my native homeland "Beachhattan" ...

I cannot help but wonder about these statistics, which are -- DISCLAIMER ... ouch, please Oprah, don't give me a guilt trip and drive me into relapse!!! -- somewhat fabricated, so very embellished and completely innacurate. I mean, if you're going to write a memoir a la James Frey, what's a little cake frosting on the freakin' yarn? Why not bribe the fact-checkers (post previously held by author) ... after all, I'm just counting the stray thick hairs on my bar of soap to give me the TRUTH, OK?


... average number of monotonous, minimalist and ugly buildings designed by a "so" (can you just SEE the gesture?) gay guy and a maniacal, greedy developer in Beachattan that all look the same -- made of poorly-installed but lovely azure-tinted glass, of course -- design-wise being touted as some architectural marvel, although looking like stiff stainless steel penises on viagra shooting up into the sky: 8,000

... average number of quaint, low-rise buildings, well-designed and ecologically-friendly, respectful of the natural landscape and local culture -- stubby, lowly buildings that experience "sun block" in the afternoon from those towering monsters: eh, maybe 10, if we're lucky?

... average number of said high-rise buildings that will get the shit blown away from them during a mere Cat 3 hurricane if the eye makes a direct hit because they are made of poorly-installed glass: 8,000

... average number of buildings that will survive a mere Cat 3 hurricane because they were made of concrete in the 1930's: eh, maybe 10, if we're lucky?


... average number of people who heed a hurricane EVAC warning on Miami Beach: 8

... number of people who will fucking DIE if they don't get off the island during a mere Cat 3: 8,000


... average number of cheap-ass units author looked at before moving into actual residence: 20

... average number of units looked at where you'd prefer cockroaches to condoms: 1

(OK, smack in the middle of HoBe ... gay owner showing you the apartment -- which is IMPECCABLY clean and cute -- but he whisked the unwrapped condoms off the newly remodeled granite counter top, and showed me to the bedroom, where there was a what he called an "access" door -- complete with chain-lock, that lead to the "community laundry room," and when I opened it, I found a perfectly respectable gentleman, reading the newspaper in his bath robe, somewhat resembling Anthony Hopkins playing Hannibal -- with his dick hanging out for a good hygenic airing. So, in spite of the cedar closets and parking, I declined the offer.)


... number of over-priced condos being marketed to wealthy Latin-American drug lords and their harems of abused women trapped in bad relationships but who can afford Gucci bags: 8,000

... number of toilet flushes the infrastructure can actually handle: 800

... number of toilet flushes Miami Beach actually has at any given moment, which give "low tide" that bad olfactory reputation: 8,000,000


... average time it takes to drive two miles from author's home to Hobe if taking most direct route (Alton Road): 20 minutes

... average time it takes a socialite celebrity to park: 20 minutes

(I mean, talk about dumb and dumber! The Lindsey Lohans who keep making parking violation and car accident news -- well, you can't just park your glossy yellow Maserati -- which of course, matches your fake blond hair!!! Oh, let me tell you, it's such a chore. First, you have to manage the hurdle of getting to the thirtieth story of your high-rise stainless steel penis residence and have your packages of decadent-and-totally-unecessary-shopping transported by illegal immigrants, after giving the key to your also illegal immigrant valet, whom you are probably fucking because you hate the sugar daddy drug lord whom you cohabit with because he buys you Gucci bags.)

... average time crook spends breaking into car that has a much coveted parking pass of a Miami Beach local: 20 minutes

... average time it takes a regular Miami Beach local to find a parking space without all this heavy emotional drama: 20 minutes

... average number of parking spaces in Miami Beach: 3

... average number of people seeking a parking space: 3,000

... average number of cheap thrill-seeking teenagers who, coming from the land of the living dead -- suburban mainland Miami -- drive into, make it past the DUI post and park on Miami Beach: 300,000

(Weekends in HoBe: adolescents who want to take EX and screw on the dance floor of an over-priced dance club where you will surely be scrutinized before you even get into the door, I mean JUDGED by the cross-dressing bouncer who announces "vaginas only" and where only Skank Hilton gets in because of her "informal dress," "loose attitude" and "exposed quite frankly and freshly depilated pussy," and, of course, afterwards forking over a good percentage of a trust fund on the cover charge and drinks.)


... average annual salary (net gross) of a local buying condo: $28K

... average monthly mortgage of a local: $28K

(investing in a 700 square foot musty-smelling, art-deco condo with creaking wooden floors, lacking elevator, laundry service or parking but a plethora of loud drug dealers and the unasked for sexual noises of active neighbors heard through the wall)

... average hotel room rental rate (in which you pretend you are NOT on SoBe, 'cause it's so nice, like at The Delano): $28K

... cost of hangover-required orange juice needed at such a presumptious, preposterous place so price-gauged by celebrity status: $28K

Detox vs. Retox

south beach lifestyle detox and retox

Saturday, January 28, 2006

The Forbidden Fruit

Yes, dear readers. The author who created the character of Manola B works on an Apple computer and would have it no other way. Lately, she also carries an old-fashioned journalist's notebook and pen around wherever she goes, because material for fodder is a universal phenomenon, but a particularly prominent one in South Beach, not to mention the USA. And most importantly -- inspiration comes late at night during bouts of insomnia or hungover mornings -- so a sticky note pad and pen are ALWAYS a mandatory design accessory on the night stand.

Friday, January 27, 2006

Pen Envy

Nothing is sacred. Kate Moss, the wafer-thin, powder-snorting, model who is so NOT a role model for women and mothers, just signed a deal with Virgin Books for $1.8 million dollars to publish her memoirs.

If I lose, like, five hundred pounds and start doing, like, drugs, and like, writing about having cigarettes and club soda for lunch, and like, my rock and roll star boyfriend, and like, my job which is so, like, as important to humanity as Mother Teresa's legacy, like, will I finally get a book deal?

Thursday, January 26, 2006

Dating and Dairy in HoBe

Report from Boobette, still dating strong in HoBe:

Expiration date for a guy not calling you after the first date: one week.

Did you know men can expire, just like milk? It's like accidentally taking a sip of curdled milk from the carton and then spitting it out in the sink. Take enough sips of milk gone bad, and you'll become asshole-intolerant.

Manola's Favorite Bar of Soap


tags: ,

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Memories, All Alone in the Moonlight

It is a testament to the sorry state of my love life that the only creatures who visit me late at night belong either to the feline, rodent or reptilian species. They're all furry -- or leathery. Well, combine them both and then you're talking about a man who has spent too much time on a Harley and/or a sailboat and/or putting on the latex. But I mean it: I'm talking critters, not homo sapiens.

Last night, while peeking out the curtain, I saw Mr. Possum poking around in my garden. My neighbor, the lovely blond widow who sleeps with her sliding glass door open, complained that her black cat -- the feline perpetrator of commiting the unspeakable crime of attempting to trap a small Cuban lizard in its jaws, only to spew it out after a few mouthfuls of pure torture -- such a meaningless act of death, dear Jesus -- couldn't be bothered by the entrance of Mr. Possum into neighbor's messy apartment.

"Oh, too jaded by that reptile experience, huh? Don't even get up from your lazy cat-ass when a huge rodent invades your care taker's apartment!!! Oh, cat, I have hair-raising circumstantial evidence ... and I take umbrage at your indifference ... I remember waking up to my neighbor's high-pitched blood-curdling screams during the Cuban lizard incident. 'Let it go! Let it go! Oh my god, let it go!' If Hitchock would still be alive, Rear Window would have had another plot ending, let me tell you."

But I digress ... seriously, while my neighbor screamed high hell, I thought she was being murdered. I woke up with the additional preoccupation that the usual panic attack actually had a real origin, you know, like maybe I'm an unemployed writer and the most romantic phone calls come from the bill collectors at 7 AM, and then someone was actually committing a crime, and not just providing me with foder for comedy. But no, this stupid-enemy-of-Scorpio-spawn-of-Satan cat is finicky about its prey. I don't like this cat. It sits on my terrace wall sometimes, in the dark. All you can see are its yellow, beady glittering eyes -- like the cat in Alice in Wonderland -- staring at you with a cold, spine-chiling stare.

Well, I REALLY digress ... Mr. Possum, remember, looked terribly warm and fuzzy, and I think he was lonely, because possum run in packs. Maybe he strayed from his gang -- a renegade rodent. If you're looking for a warm bed in my property, good luck, buster ... I don't care if you're an orphan!!! All pathetic beings, including unemployed writers, can call mi casa their soup kitchen.

FLASHBACK: I remember cooking chicken wings in the South Miami cottage where my second boyfriend and I lived, several moons ago. To keep the grease-stench out of our humble abode, and to avoid a major fire hazard (I kid you not, the interior walls of this cottage were done up in wooden shingles), I plugged in the electric deep fryer inside but cooked the wings outdoors. Next thing we know, while the oil was cooling to a thick, white congealed mass of cholesterol, a posse of possum appeared by the window, sniffing out that unmistakable smell of fried avian flesh. They were adorable ... a mommy possum and a complete litter -- sort of like Snow White and the Seven Rodents.

But more recently, in So Be, I've had close encounters of the other kind.

iguana sex and the beach

First, there's Mr. Iguana. He's mean, lean and least of all green. Orange and black stripes decorate his tail. He bobs his dewlap up and down like a drunkard having a hard time downing an aspirin. I love reptiles -- seriously -- as a kid, I wanted to be a paleontologist, one of my favorite movies is Jurassic Park and if I could adopt a velociraptor, I would, which I sort of have, being owned by a green macaw named Jalapeño -- but please, don't come as close to my window as Mr. Possum did last night. Furry OK ... leathery, stiff and bow-legged with a sticky tongue ... NO.

Then there's Van Gogh. Van Gogh is a one-eared tabby cat with a lazy-blue eye who decided to gang-bust the other strays in my neighborhood, while establishing his turf. If T.S. Eliot were still alive to write the Sopranos version of Cats, Van Gogh would definitely play the head honcho.

Stealthy and sneaky, he refuses to be photographed and evades even the most expert paparrazi, even when he throws VIP parties at a nightclub on Washington Avenue. Sometimes, you don't see him for days, and you think he's gone for sure, the headliner on the South Beach Road Kill Report, but no, you drive around the block, and there he is, selling crack to stupid bimbo pigeons, talking on his cell phone dealing drugs with the Russian mafia and performing money-laundering transactions from his blackberry.

When Van Gogh first moved into our turf, each night was a veritable symphony of meow! Apparently, one of the cats felt offended and threatened at his trangression of territory, but beneath this all this aggression you could sense the deep sexual tension. Next thing I know, Van Gogh and Lazy Cat are dozing peacefully on the chaise lounge of my terrace ... and narry a peep was ever heard from either felines to this day! In fact, they have even been spotted canoodling in the corner of the parking lot! Conclusion: who says you can't resolve your differences with sex? Especially when you don't have to pay for the motel room?

Here is Van Gogh's lover, livin' la vida lazy:

cat sex and the beach

Misfortune Cookie

"You are the crispy noodle in the vegetarian salad of life."

fortune cookie

tags: ,

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Involuntary Womanslaughter

Involuntary Womanslaughter

Crimes against womanity. My ex-boyfriend: guilty of commiting, HUH? Guilty of commiting WHAT? That man couldn't commit to anything!!! Except to his own wandering dick (read: that apparatus you use to detect metal objects on the sand, aka, wandering pussy detector) and farting while sleeping ... he used to put a lumbar pillow between our bodies and call it a "fart wall." Hey, the Berlin Wall was easier to topple down, but not the gas he used to put between us ... communist regimes aside, how pathetic is the memory of the former love of my life farting in my general direction? Could this be the title of the next popular love song? "The gas between us ... ?"

And here I was worried about love, life, children and all kinds of serious things that deeply spiritual people lose sleep over, and all I got was a product from his digestive tract that you could use to reinforce your hairspray if you were going for the stiff punk look!!! And, I kid you not, this man was a prestigious professional international journalist in his mid-forties, but (sigh) boys will be boys. Yes, even Manola B. has a bad heart day ... very beyond the curative powers of Zoloft!!!

What Insults My Intelligence

Isn't it redundant to spell out "drug-free workplace, equal opportunity employer" in a job description?


Wait ... Doesn't Botox Come From Pond Scum?

botox and sex and the beach pond scum
Hey, if you won't put it on your face, you won't kiss it, either! xox Manola B.

Monday, January 23, 2006

Top Ten South Beach Anecdotes

1 ... well, let's start at the END shall WE? The number-one-most-pathetic ... a date you meet on match.com -- it's so perfect, cocktails at trendy Nexxt Café -- yet, discussing the relative location of the urethra and the vagina while sipping on mojitos ... you'd think he'd be a prime suspect for sex, but no ... vaginal anatomy is so NOT the topic of conversation before coitus! Guys, hint: want pussy? Don't TALK ABOUT pussy!

2. Your platonic-male-but-straight friend dumping you while you're pissed drunk at Van Dyke because his ex-girlfriend placed a rescue call -- she was having a blind date with self-proclaimed pervert who looked like Bill Clinton and needed an excuse to leave. "Could you please call me and pretend it's my kid's babysitter?" After a few margaritas at Rancho Grande, it occured to me that we should actually go and witness her embarrasment from the vantage point of the upstairs bar. "Dude," I told him, "it's such an obvious ploy to get laid!" I swaggered home -- alone -- with no one to rescue me. And platonic-male-but-straight friend had a romp for old time's sake. Well, that's what friends are for. Enabling meaningless sex with people you'd never be friends with. Oh, the irony!!!

3. The guy who played pool at Finnegans with a hole in the crotch of his jeans. Eight balls and a stick just weren't enough for one-hole wonder.

4. Meeting a poker-crazed Philadelphian at the Irish Pub on Washington and finding yourself at a casino in Tunica, Mississippi several months later, all expenses paid.

5. Your girlfriend leaves the Art Deco festival early while having drinks at The Hotel. The reason: to buy a chicken for dinner with her boyfriend. Next think you know, she's pregnant. Warning: fucking idiots and eating rotisserie makes you horny and then you have babies. No more Boston Market for me!!!

6. Blind faith. Love is blind, after all: You're dating another idiot you met on match.com, and after whisking you away in his moldy-smelling 1980's Mercedes Benz, he treats you to the sushi-all-you-can-eat-buffet on Washington Avenue, the sort of place you go to eat with your friends when you're broke, complete with unflattering flourescent lighting and loud TV blaring sports. This time the topic of conversation is not the female urinary tract, but how he just sprang for a condo on millionare's row. "So you can plunk down a down payment but can't spend more than $20 on dinner? CHEAP FUCKING BASTARD!"

7. Your former best friend, from a Hispanic country in Europe that shall remain unnamed, regaling you with the tale of how, even though she completely took any unspeakable and grotesque form of sex her cross-eyed boyfriend offered, could not bear the thought of inserting a medicinal suppository into her vagina. So while said maniacally jealous boyfriend was performing the clinical duty, she closed her eyes and started to think about something that would get her mind off the object, which is about the size of a thumb, to treat a yeast infection. "Fer, fer ... " she moaned. Of course, said boyfriend thought she was fantasizing about that gorgeous American Airlines employee Fernando who once treated me to business class, when in fact, she was thinking about her friend Fernanda, the restaurant owner who has as much sex appeal as hat full of dandruff. Ah, but the tales of my former friend's genital and urinary history are the stuff of legend. On a way to a party, in the elevator, completely sober and among mixed company, she loudly proclaimed that she had a UTI and needed to change her pantyliner.

7. Speaking of match.com, why don't they call it mismatch.com? So many relationships have NOT happened as a result of this dating service. So many marriages have not taken place! So many babies have not been had! So many divorces have been avoided!

8. Never, EVER trust a guy who keeps a variety pack of condoms and Astroglide within plain sight of the untidy and unmade bed.

9. While enjoying a moon lit skinny-dip swim in the bay among friends, someone -- oh god, there's always SOMEONE -- has to bring up the unsavory subject of anal sex.

10. Being told by an art curator and historian that I would've been Picasso's next muse, love of his life, in fact, that I even look like the mother of his child. Great ... HE'S DEAD!!!

BONUS ANECDOTE ... Argentine, unemployed, forty-something child of Nazi immigrants, walking with you down Miami Beach Marina, and he decides to throw rocks at stray cats ... END OF RELATIONSHIP.


Manola B

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Sex and the Job Search

Dear reader,

I take no credit for these entries from a popular job listing site. Reality reporting about HoBe at its best!


Manola B


Hello, im looking for a nudist painter who can paint some rooms in my house nude, please send me your info and a pic and i will respond asap...thank you

Manola says: hey, afterwards, do I douche with turpentine?


I am looking for a Housecleaner who is Latina and willing to cook & clean my 2 bedroom and 2 1/2 bath townhouse while in the nude, along with companionship about 2 to 3 times per week, maybe more. Looking for someone that is disease/drug free and dosen't smoke and is very clean. If anyone is interested please feel free to contact me at the e-mail address provided.

Manola says: Hello? Looking for someone who is a desperate HO!


I am looking for a little hottie that will clean, run errands, make lunch. 3 or more days a week

Manola says: have no doubt here: the man requesting this is NOT a hottie.


Attractive Gentleman Executive looking for a very attractive female as a home office assistant , occasional masseuss and tension reliever. Hours can be flexible 4 hours per week guaranteed. Candidate must have a pleasant personality must look good in a bikini and an overall good attitude. Povide pictures and short info about you and why this gig sounds good to you

Manola says: Why would a man get married when he can hire a HO?"


Reply to: naturally10inches@

Very Busy Professional White Male seeking a young lady to help around the home once a week for 4-6 hours. Cash paid $ 25.00/hour + Food & Drink. Download Music and Movie Files including XXX rated (wearing only a thong or panties). Review, Edit and Burn to DVD's. Must be reliable and trustworthy. Good personality and free spirit.

Please reply with photo and a day you can set up interview.

Thanks and happy holidays to you and your loved ones.

Manola says: Hey 10-inch wonder, I'm sure if you even looked at a pussy, you'd do ANYTHING on the spot.

Sunday, January 08, 2006

Got Pot? Marry Me!

Back by popular demand! More ranting! But first, I wish to express gratitude to those who responded to the controversial issue of my ass. I must admit, your replies were brilliant:

from Lolita Latina: "Maria, my ass is bigger than yours. But my husband has an ass fetish, so I guess I'm lucky."

from Sharon Schlepovitch: "Maria, your ass is like matzoh! It doesn't rise!"

from Barbara Bimbo: "Your rump reminds me of a speed bump. So very annoying and yet completely necessary for public safety."

from Dapper Dandy: "I really admire you for putting yourself out there. Well, I guess you can't help it."

Got Pot? Will You Marry Me?

Why is that only married people get really great gifts because they choose to enter into a legally binding relationship? Take my brother and his wife, for instance. I recently spent two weeks in California, during which time I prepared some delectable meals using their cookware. "We got that for our wedding," Janet pointed out, as I sautéed onions and garlic for my soup base. And then there's my nephew and his wife, who apart from being the most adorable recently-married/twenty-something couple in the world, also have impeccable taste. The bridal shower was nothing short of a dazzling display of Williams Sonoma cookware. It was enough to make any amateur cooking diva like myself DROOL. And so it makes me wonder: being single, not only are you bereft of tax breaks, you are deprived of quality cookware.

Seriously: I asked my sister for a whisk and a cutting board for Christmas. Maybe a ten-buck investment, as I didn't demand the best quality. I've been using the same 4 x 4 wooden cutting board for years, which I'm sure is a testament to the strength of my immune system, not to mention the pathological origins of some bacteria that will wipe-out humanity.

Anyway, I inherited two whisks from my sister-in-law, who recently upgraded her utensils.

But I'll have to admit, I was envious of those items from a long-ago bridal registry. Call it the new-fangled woman's penis envy. I love cooking, but I'm not marriage-minded. What's a girl to do? In days past, one married for money. Now, one marries for Calphalon! I fantasize about the slate-gray surface, which I can season ... gently scrub the oh-so-non-stick-silky-yet-hard-as-steel-surface ... how it handles a gas fire ... (yes, that's my next upgrade ... moving out of Miami just to enjoy a gas stove) but I digress, there's nothing quite as pleasing as the scent of perfectly-sautéed garlic wafting into the limbic brain ... hello, lover! And what's more, dear pot, you will nurture me and feed me, provided I keep you hot and well-filled. Is that a good arrangement or what? Pots, yes. Husbands ... eh?

Well, since I'm on this imaginary registry kick, let's not just talk about pot. What about the ONE, the PERFECT knife. This is all a woman needs! Chop garlic, debone a chicken and julienne a leek, while you defend yourself against soldiers from Attila the Hun's army, who just want a bit of quiche before pillaging the town. (Sounds like a Quentin Tarantino movie about Martha Stewart!)

I'd like to conclude with an homage to culinary California. Rosemary and fennel grow wild. Produce is succulent. Yes, I got all hot and bothered about the produce. Is that sad or what? Magenta eggplants, laser-green brussels sprouts, tangy tangerines, mushrooms of exotic varieties next to a tray of freshly-picked shallots ... this was all my eye could register as we rushed through the produce department near Culver City. I'm still reeling over it. Let's not mention the fact that I broke out into hives no sooner did I step off the airplane. Am I allergic to Miami? Does the land of shallots and cabernet sauvignon beckon me?

Two people getting hitched means the newly-formed couple has twice as much crap together as they did during their sorry single lives. Is this fair? I don't think so. If I remain in a state of splinterthood (pun intended), I'll have to marry myself, like Carrie Bradshaw did in Sex and The City, and put my name on a registry. Let's start with a lifetime supply of olive oil ... a ONE perfectly good pot, a decent knife and a sterile cutting board ... just let me know when you want to come over for dinner ... all kidding aside, it will be my pleasure to cook for you, and I'll season with shallots, if I can find them fresh!

Saturday, January 07, 2006

Femmes are from Bars, Men are from Penis

Once upon a time, a woman loved a man and he loved her. They shared porridge, TV and a sofa under one roof.

One evening, after porridge, the man and the woman cuddled on the sofa. Flipping through the channels on the remote, which was resting erect on his over-sized gut, he stopped at Fashion TV and said, "wow, look at those gorgeous bodies."

She shuddered at his comment, let go of his arm and went to bed.

She had a dream of these bodies strutting down the runway, and how her own horribly fat and disfigured body would never be able to compete with her lover's desire.

He fucked her the next morning, just to get his rocks off.

The next evening, they ate their porridge, sat on the sofa and cuddled as usual. Flipping through the channels on the remote, which was resting erect on his over-sized gut, he came across an exposé of Paris Hilton and said, "I bet you hate her."

She shuddered at his comment, let go of his arm and went to bed.

She had a dream of Paris Hilton, strutting on the runway, wearing nothing but genital warts and her ridiculous vulgarity.

And then she realized, her body was not fat or horribly disfigured at all. Why on earth would she ever want to compete with her lover's desire?

He fucked her the next morning, just to get his rocks off.

The next evening, the man arrived home to find no woman, no porridge and no love.

See, on that day, the woman had as many vodka tonics as she needed at her local watering hole, instead of cooking porridge. She took a cab home, cuddled on the sofa with a solitary blanket, kept the TV tuned to CNN and eventually slumped into bed alone.

Instead of fucking her the next morning, just to get his rocks off, she told him to fuck off.

Moral of the story: Men, don't ever underestimate a woman's intelligence. And most importantly -- women -- don't ever OVERESTIMATE a man's.