Thursday, June 29, 2006

Looking for Love With Many Strange Keywords

Businesses -- like Microshaft and Hassle -- pay thousands of dollars to optimize the search engine rankings of their websites and yet little humble demure innocent Sex and the Beach -- not even a year old, sucking on a lollipop -- has achieved consistently high erectile placement for some very -- gasp, ooh and ahh -- eyebrow-raising requests!

Ah, isn't the age of information lofty and liberating? You can take the gutter out of the mind but not the mind out of the gutter!

Disclaimer: to those of you searching for smut under a mattress ridden with bed lice, Manola apologizes for not being the object of your depravity! And to those of you who appreciate a little fun and hanky panky -- rest assured -- the mattress is sanitized for your pleasure each and every time Manola opens her big mouth!

"anal with two men & a woman"

This is actually the beginning of many a great Russian novel, like Dr. Zhivago and Anna Karenina. As well, the riveting narrative of a quadratic equation from a high school algebra textbook. Gives Manola a headache -- too much math involved.

"strictly ass"

As opposed to what, Ziggy Stardust? You want ass without dick? You want ass without pussy? You want ass floating in outer space without being attached to a body? 'Splain, please!

"butt floss bimbo"

Because you know, the Oxford Dictionary defines bimbo as "one who wears butt floss" [sic].

"cock blocking example"

Clearly, a scholarly investigation on a wrestling maneuver practiced by bitches worldwide.

"men love penis"

They do?

"men chicken legs"

They have?

"he is huge"

Really? Are we talking about God all mighty or Colin Farrell's penis?

Come again?

"what attracts a man to a woman's vaginal scent"

In the great words of Billy Idol: "Nose without a face ..."

"singles women South Beach Miami hot looking"

Clearly Manola and pussy ... oops, no I meant posse.

"hot mamma's"

Mothers I'd Like to Flambée (MILF) is just acclaimed French chef Pepe Le Pew's pervy interpretation of a classic dessert.

"size of colin farrell's penis"

And your point is ... so utterly redundant! "Can you fuckin' please fuckin' bring me a fuckin' Philly Cheesesteak? I've had enough of that fuckin' Irish dick, please stuff my fuckin' mouth with fuckin' beef, already!"

You know, you are a fuckin' idiot ...

"porn sex pixs"

Utterly pathetic. No wonder the search revealed photos of Mother Teresa instead of Jenna Jameson. "Pixs" is a common misspelling of "pics" (portraits of international catholic saints), you dim wit.

"vaginal anatomy"

Hey Einstein, look it: it's a freakin' Sears brand garage-door -- press that little button the right way and it will LIFT and OPEN.

"panty sex in the beach"

As opposed to what? Must you have panties? You're asking too much. Sharp sand grains up the ass isn't enough?

"i am poor i want marry woman how can i get a woman"

I thought DESPERATION had a name?

you gotta shake it, baby ... please

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

MacArthur Causeway Is Melting in the Dark

[embarrasingly and yet for the sake of your entertainment, updated]

macarthur causeway miami beach florida

"A throat-clearing -- nay, cat-screeching in unmelodious discomfort -- ode to the days of yore, a tribute to those pioneering, half air-conditioned days gone by of hardship and just plain ole' swash-bucklin' fightin' o' drug lords in pastel linen jackets and sock-free leather shoes! Manola's voice is like a forgettable mule's braying paying reverence to those lamborghini-speeding pioneers of Miami's economy, and our soon to be reborn hero -- that conqueror of evil, Sonny Crocket -- in the form of the ever-generous, SUPER-SIZE ME Colin Farrell ... behold, even at half mast, the Irish man cometh and his cup runneth over ... a man who sees the half-pint of stout full, no doubt, and giveth a whole new meaning to MIAMI VICE."

--Ms. Annie Steelclit, music critic, Stone Gathered Moss Magazine

Colin Farrell Miami Vice

i recall the yellow cotton thong
that I wore, at the south beach night club,
overpriced drinks, tasted bad

whores like tender ladies in your pants
and the women pimping, gin and tonics that were free

macarthur causeway a traffic jam in the dark
all the sweet white powder, flowing down
someone left the coke out in the rain
i don't think that i can snort it
port of miami does import it
yet i'll never have to bribe a cop again

this is an audio post - click to play

i feel love

Sunday, June 25, 2006

The Right to Bla Bla Bla

manola blablablanik aclu card


"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that the right to bla bla bla is unalienable, heck, even the right to canoodle with aliens!"

scully alien


Don't get any ideas, political pundit, Manola still only cares about Colin Farrell's penis; however, she may every now and then express a political opinion, as well as some bodily fluids.

Friday, June 23, 2006

Breaking News! Love Hurts!

Manola News, Miami Beach, June 23, 2006 - IT'S OFFICIAL: THE HEART BEATS FOR LOVE! Manola 180, ever the short-sighted, uninvestigative and misinformed reporter, tuned into CNN this morning to see if the Sears Tower located just a stone's throw from her headquarters on Miami Beach had been blown to smithereens by suspected terrorists.

But ladies and gentleman, instead, Manola 180 received a friendly reminder from Dr. Suck Mygupta -- as originally reported on Panderson Pooper 360 -- that love hurts.

doctor holding xray


In recent years, medical researchers, doctors and scientists seem to have come to the uranimous conclusion that grief over lost love, either by death or jilting, can cause "acute stress cardiomyopathy," even though French troubadors discovered "mon coeur est ouch" centuries ago.

The condition mimics a heart attack; symptoms include chest pain and breathlessness. In the case of jilting, additional symptoms include the desire to throw all his clothes out the balcony in the manner of Italian movies, which is easy in Italy, as clothes are hung out to dry on the balcony anyway.

Some experts disagree about the reversability of broken heart syndrome. Joey Ramone, an expert observer in the field of rock and roll, has often reminded us that "love kills."

be still my heart

For those of you who have yet to have your heart broken, here's Joey.

Do take care of your heart. A Hearty Life covers the latest news related to that most precious of organs.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Newsflash! Orgasm Amnesty Week

harry met sally


"Dear Manola 180,

It's Orgasm Amnesty Week and I thought it would be high time to tell my boyfriend that I can never come unless I have a vibrator with enough power to run a nuclear plant strapped onto my clit. Whenever my batteries run out, I have to fake my orgasms by squealing like a pack of castrati lab rodents. Should I tell him the truth?"

Yours truly,

Ms. Annie Steelclit"

Dear Annie,

We at Manola 180 offer only the screwiest, most half-baked sex advice and have previously discussed the unfortunate location of the clitoris relative the vagina. Indeed, sex toys are sometimes useful to compensate for nature's failings during intercourse.

Let's dig deeper: an orgasm is a good thing, but communication between lovers is even better. If you don't tell him the truth, how will he learn to please you without having that aircraft turbine attached to your jaded love knob?


"Dear Manola 180,

My girlfriend and I have a loving, intimate and trusting relationship. We enjoy a good healthy romp every morning before work. But I fear I'm inadequate in bed, because she doesn't yelp continually like a wounded banshee, even though she asks me to bang her like a rutting elephant. Afterwards during breakfast she tells me -- with that big smile and post-coital glow on her face -- that she had about as many O's with me as there are floating in her cereal bowl. What am I doing wrong?

Mr. Richard Tusk"

Dear Richard,

Nothing. Don't you know silence is golden?


[get back to work and turn down the volume, shameless reader!]

the truth is out there

Seems like Suburban Guerilla, a firm believer in 'fessing up, came up with the idea. Via email to Manola from Powerpop in Liberal Mountain.

Want to hear Manola moan? Send a salami to Manola in Miami! Hey John, I'm waiting!

Mistress Gear

al rod panties

A must-have in every lady's boudoir and quite possibly the best catalog description of butt floss ever:

"Panty-minimalists love our casual thong that covers sweet spots without covering your assets – putting an end to panty-lines. This under-goodie is 'outta sight' in low-rise pants. Toss these message panties onstage at your favorite rock star or share a surprise message with someone special ... later."

Disclaimer: shameless and commission-free promotion of Al Rod, Miami Beach caricature artist, graphic designer and friend to Manola extraordinaire!

Sunday, June 18, 2006

Manola's Paella

manola's paella

Manola doesn't usually write about food, but today is father's day and instead of thinking about Colin Farrell's penis, she is cooking for el viejo. Mind you, the old man only likes to eat the following: sugar with café con leche, butter with cuban bread, and salt with the following: steak, rice, black beans and fried plantains. Feed this to her father and he will be a happy, silent and satisfied man. Deprive him of this and he will turn into a seventy-something curmudgeon or a three-year old spoiled brat, depending on the tenor of the complaints.

Speaking of which, after spending nearly three weeks in Spain complaining about the food, no sooner did Manola's father arrive in Miami that he prepared himself white rice and black beans for supper. It's true, you can take the Cuban out of the rice and beans but you can't take the rice and beans out of the Cuban!

Occasionally, however, Manola's father will take a wild culinary foray into paella, because Manola's is simply the best in the world, period. Try it at home and make sure you put lots of love in the pot!


Manola's paella is not cooked in the traditional open flat pan. In all her travels, she has yet to try a traditionally cooked paella that is any good -- the seafood tends to be overcooked and the rice underdone. Hence, Manola's paella is an easier version of this peasant dish from Spain that is basically glorified rice.

Note: it helps to wear a pair of Manolo Blahniks while cooking, but it's not absolutely necessary. If you have a man in the house be cautious, as it is a universally known fact that men become frisky at the most inconvenient time. Before he props you up on the counter top for wild, passionate sex, make sure you have already sauteed the garlic, as you must be very attentive during this phase of preparation!


Bring water to a boil and then let simmer until cooked your choice of fish, preferably something meaty like mahi-mahi, until done. If you are a wealthy mogul, you can add lobster, but the paella will not suffer without the buggers. Do add shrimp, however, remove from heat and let stand. The shrimp will cook automatically yet remain tender as the broth cools. Drain, conserve the broth and set the seafood aside.

In a large pot over low heat, sautee chopped onions in gobs of the best possible olive oil until golden, just at the point when the house starts to smell really good. Add chopped bell peppers, preferably in a variety of colors. Continue sauteeing until slightly tender. At this point, tell your man that if he touches you again, you will clobber him with the wooden spoon.

couple cooking Manola's paella

After you clobber him, add an outrageous amount of slivered -- not chopped -- garlic. Simply toss it around the pot until it has released its flavor and you become intoxicated with the delicious scent of sauteed garlic. THIS PART OF THE PROCESS IS CRUCIAL: DO NOT LET THE GARLIC OVERCOOK AND BURN. If you do, start all over again, trust me. And yes, it will provoke another round of man-clobbering.

Next, add red pepper flakes to taste, a generous dash of paprika and Valencia short-grained rice. Stir around to coat each grain of rice thoroughly in the sofrito, or seasoning base, you just prepared. Then add the broth, a bottle of clam juice, Pomi chopped tomatoes, a can of beer -- yes, beer -- salt, pepper and a few threads of the best possible saffron to the mix. Saffron is the KEY INGREDIENT: if you don't have saffron, don't even bother making the paella. If available, add your choice of raw shellfish now and if you like, some frozen peas. Bring to a boil and then let simmer until the rice is done.

Now pour yourself a glass of wine and get drunk on the heady aroma of garlic and saffron. This is also the appropriate moment to please your randy man without even having to take off your optional Manolo Blahniks. Just make sure you dramatically sweep away any sharp objects from the countertop. Besides, the family will be coming over and you want to make sure you have sex BEFORE they ring the doorbell.

(Manola will skip this step as she has yet to find a hurricane season boyfriend.)

In a large, round oven-proof ceramic platter (the Spanish terracota style is classic), fold together the cooked rice, bite-sized pieces of the fish, the shrimp, Spanish capers and finely chopped Italian parsley. Make sure you FOLD and not stir, because you don't want the various components of the paella to become gruel. You can add canned Spanish mussels at this point, even if you have used fresh shellfish, because they contribute wonderful flavor. Keep warm in the oven.

When ready to serve, drizzle the top of the paella with olive oil. Garnish with white asparagus, green olives stuffed with pimentos and a few parsley sprigs.

Manola's dad is not a regular drinker but he would enjoy this dish with a cold, piss-water beer like Miller Lite.

Manola, however, recommends you serve the paella with copious amounts of good Spanish red table wine mixed with tonic for an "instant" and not-too-sweet sangría.

Oh and most importantly, serve it with a smile and lots of love!

Buen provecho!

P.S. Al, what do you think of Manola's paella?

Saturday, June 17, 2006

Tread Lightly on the Heart

pink pumps

Last night, without further ado, suddenly and without ceremony, Manola erased every single message Mr. Thinks He's Huge left on her answering machine -- even though the sound of his voice, now that all was said and done -- made her wince in disgust.

She had been safe keeping these messages for some absurd reason that only the logic of scorned hearts can understand, or in the hopes that -- just in case -- he'd someday be the President of the United States and she could create a scandal like Monica Lewinsky, showing a stained dress as proof of the liaison.

Holding on to what is useless is easy. Letting go of what is useless is not.

All I know is this: don't step all over me man, because I'm not a doormat. But let me, woman scorned, step out courageously into that brave new world in a pair of bold heels, embracing a love I richly deserve and that I would never experience unless the answering machine was free to welcome messages from someone who would tread lightly, carefully and sweetly on my heart.

And in return, trusted lover, I may just succumb to your soothing voice, laying my dreams down, taking my heels off to walk barefoot with you by the shore of unknown seas.

he wishes for the cloths of heaven

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread lightly because you tread on my dreams.

—William Butler Yeats, 1899

Friday, June 16, 2006

Cuba Is Not Sexy ...

... but freedom of speech is. Manola Blablablanik rarely gets political, but the recent blocking of Sex and the Beach occuring in tandem with the ban of books in Miami warrants not just a slap on the wrist but a proper spanking with a wet noodle the size of Colin Farrell's penis.

american flag banning books in Miami

But wait. Why is Cuba not sexy? Because it was a place like everywhere else on earth, paradise to some and hell to others. Corrupt and not so corrupt governments came and went, many good things and bad things happened and life went on as usual just like everywhere else on earth. And just like everyone else on earth, Cuba was special to some people who called it home.

vamos a cuba controversy Then one day, a man with a furry beard came and told Cubans that they could no longer say whatever they wanted and many Cubans fled to a place called Miami, which, just like everywhere else on earth, is paradise to some and hell to others. And then many years later, after these Cubans became Americans and called Miami home because they wanted to live in a place where they could say whatever they wanted, another man who looked like a chimpanzee came and said that they could no longer say whatever they wanted, and just like everywhere else on earth, history repeated itself.

Cuba is not sexy ... but freedom of speech is.

Here's what Manola recommends to the Miami-Dade School Board: instead of banning books, go have sex on the beach, for freedom's sake. You'll be doing this community a favor and maybe -- just once -- we could all have a collective orgasm of relief.

warning: the following links will liberate you

Let these fine gentleman of Miami blogging guide you through the debate. Guys, why don't you do a calendar?

Kenning Kevin

Salty Steve

Artful Alesh

Ranting Rick

Reasonable Robert

Oh! Look at this: not only is it more important than the size of Colin Farrell's penis, it's actually a fine example of irony. There are folks in America creating independent libraries in Cuba!

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Cock Block

cock block on blogger colin farrell's penis

Actually, spam detection is a good thing, but the system does need refinement in order to prevent "false positives." I'm sure that no human at blogger would've classified Sex and the Beach as spam, although he might certainly want a little somethin' from Manola!

Monday, June 12, 2006

BYOB: Exxxotica Miami Beach

Manola News, Miami Beach, June 11, 2006 - BRING YOUR OWN BATTERIES! With all the sex toys abuzz at the Miami Beach Convention Center this weekend, Miami Beach definitely felt some good vibes at Exxxotica -- the East coast's largest adult event billed as “A Celebration of Sexy." Manola Blablablanik also celebrates sexy as part of her daily routine, so she ventured out from under her rock to learn how to celebrate even sexier with a set of triple AAA batteries in her pocket and a press badge clipped onto her ample bosom.

exxxotica miami beach

[Warning: Some of the following links do reveal some explicit images. If you are at work, shame on you! And if you are under 18, you shouldn't even be reading Sex and the Beach!]


glass sex toy

No sooner did Manola start patrolling the exhibitor booths than she discovered the first of several non-battery and battery-operated items. The gentleman on the left handed Manola this space-age glass dildo, which was warm to the touch. The glass sex toys manufactured by Know Mind come in all shapes and sizes, are safe to use and are so beautifully sculpted, they could easily double as a tchotchke for your coffee table.


vibrating sex toy

Ladies, here's a case of crabs that's actually good and good for you. Manola personally endorses this cute little crustacean, received as a gift courtesy of Loving Craby and shown here in the hands of a convention model. On those days when you feel your man is nothing more than a whining overgrown mammal, give this fella a try.


golden penis world erotic art museum

Oh look! It's bigger than Colin Farrell's penis! Here is the famous golden phallus regularly on display at the World Erotic Museum on Miami Beach. For a mere ten dollars, attendees could pose with the shiny wonder.


sex toy parties

This hot mamma, owner of Simple Pleasures, knows how to throw a good party. What could be better than a girls' night out staying in buying fun and funky products for the bedroom in a discreet environment?

One of the more interesting products for sale at hot mamma's booth was the Chinese Shrinking Cream. On those days when your man complains about your vagina being larger than the trunk of his SUV, you can, after hitting him on the head with a frying pan, still please him by applying this lotion to tighten your sweet spot. Hot mamma also recommended using a pair of benwa balls to do kiegel exercises while walking around the house doing menial chores.


Ah, the world of sex is full of contradictions. One minute, your vagina is too loose and the next it's so tight that your man gets out of bed and heads for the garage for a quart of motor oil. After hitting him on the head with a frying pan, you suggest he slather you with this marvellous lubricant, which is odorless and non-sticky. Plus, it reactivates with water or saliva!

water-based lubricant


The inventor of My Buddy is very proud of his creation! On those days when you've had enough of hitting your husband on the head with a frying pan and he "volunteers" to sleep on the couch, here is a buddy you can always count on for consolation!

mountable sex toy


protesters at exxxotica miami beach

According to a group of protesters staged across the sidewalk at the Miami Beach Convention Center, each and everyone us present was a sex-obsessed heathen who will burn in hell!

Even Manola, with all her gripes about anal sex, would not give a damn about what folks do behind closed doors. And even if she did, it wouldn't do a girl proud to vociferate. After all, try standing on a soap box wearing platform heels!

Free speech rules and so does the celebration of sex!

And now if you don't mind, Manola must run to the store for a fresh pack of batteries!


Special thanks to Woody Graber of VT Shows for the press badge!

Tired of reading the Miami Herald? Try the Sex Herald instead.

Saturday, June 10, 2006

Happiness Is Just a Phone Call Away

sex and the beach phone call

"Dear Manola 180,

I recently met a man who has me utterly confused. He is generous, considerate, courteous and keeps his word. I mean he even calls when he says he will! OMG, I sprained my ankle and he took me to the ER! Oh and get this: he doesn't even want to fuck me up the ass! Isn't this the stuff of movies? I thought I was supposed to be treated like a douche bag!

Pinch me now, please.

Miss Hobe Boobette"

Oh my darling mini-Manola,

Lucky at cards and love is a good fortune few possess. What great news you bring me, to have met a man who has shown you that disappointment need no longer be thy middle name!

To wit, nothing could be more satisfying to a woman than to fall in love with a man who is NOT an asshole. Letting down one's guard with a man you can trust is a real turn on and so much more important than the size of Colin Farrell's penis. Sorry, Pat Benatar, love need not be a battlefield!

Briefly, just so that you come to appreciate this new love, let's employ reverse psychology and review the true and unequivocal litmus tests of asshole vs. real man: PHONE, ER and ASS. During future sessions, we'll discuss other early warning signs so that you can learn to recognize an asshole before it's too late.

Enjoy the love,

Manola 180


No better early warning sign of asshole than his phone manners! This man can't be counted on, even if his life depended on it. This insidious breaker of promises will never call you when he says he will. What's more, he will look down at his phone in disgust when he is with you, because it's most likely his ex-girlfriend, the woman with whom he "accidentally" had two children, which makes you wonder if he ever looks down at his phone in disgust when you call him, as he constantly reminds you to not be like that nagging bitch who spawned his litter, which forces you to walk on eggshells during the entire relationship, turning you into a voiceless doormat who is frightened of addressing any honest grievance.

Real Man
No better early sign of a man with a heart of gold than his phone manners! This man can be counted on, because his life depends on how much he cares for you. This loving keeper of promises will always call you when he says he will, and so help him God if he can't, because there's a good reason he's not calling and because you've come to trust him, the missed phone call seems trivial in comparison to your love. Barring any genuine need involving family or work, he will not even have his phone on when he is with you, but if he has children and the mother calls, he doesn't look down at the phone in disgust, because he knows that she's calling for a good reason. You ask "oh are the kids, ok?" and the moment passes unnoticed. Because he is practically flawless in his gestures, you never need to nag and so instead of walking on eggshells, the relationship is easy like Sunday morning.


After a weekend of sexual shenanigans, you acquire that women's common bane known as a urinary tract infection, but he doesn't respect the fact that you are standing naked, by the bed, with a medusa crown of wrath, holding a symbolic sawed-off shot gun ready to shoot him if he and his jolly wanker come within an inch of your body. Oh no! Instead, his six-foot, two-hundred pound body throws your petite frame down in bed, forcing you to have sloppy sex while you writhe in pain and continually tell him that he's a forty-something man who should know the difference between an anus and a vagina and to please stop trying to penetrate whatever hole that suits his fancy.

To make matters worse, you end up in the ER the next day and when you call him -- because of course, he hasn't called you to see how you're feeling, as his pathological numbness to you as reached new heights -- he says "I'm tired," instead of offering to come by the hospital, which is a perfectly reasonable expectation, considering he lives only minutes away and oh, by the way, he is allegedly a loving man. "Call me when you're done," he says. Of course, being the doormat you've become, you call, and naturally, being an asshole, he doesn't pick up the phone and you end up driving yourself in unspeakable pain to the pharmacy for antibiotics.

Real Man
After a weekend of sexual shenanigans, you acquire that women's common bane known as a urinary tract infection, but he shows genuine concern and takes care of your every need during your time of physical distress. Because you cannot convince your primary care physician to call in a prescription, you go to the ER as a last resort. Well, not exactly. He drives you to the ER. He's had a hard day and he's tired, but he can't bear the thought that the woman he loves is in so much pain. You look and feel like shit, but he manages to soothe your anguish. In fact, he steps out to buy you chicken soup, which you're craving.


This really isn't about ass, you know. It's about respect. Threatening to go have sex with another woman who will please his need to stick his penis in a rectum is quite possibly the greatest sign of asshole EVER. At this point, you are wondering if he should just switch teams, because quite frankly, and with all due respect, gay fellas do enjoy the rump hump -- not that there's anything wrong with that! Hey, you are an open-minded, tolerant woman who respects what lovers in every flavor do behind closed doors and -- most importantly -- you also know that respect and honor is KEY, even in the kinkiest of worlds. So every time you make love, you purse your lips, legs and conscience tightly in anticipation of an act that constitutes a sincere violation of your body and spirit and he simply doesn't care. I mean, every time you take a dump, you think of him for having relieved you of constipation. Is this love? NO.

Real Man
You tell him anal sex is a deal breaker. You love each other madly, in spite of his desire to penetrate you in every possible orifice. Because you trust him, you have the wildest, sloppiest sex without worrying about where his jolly wanker may wander. Because he respects your wishes, you might even give him an occasional "treat," which you both enjoy. It's THAT GOOD. And when you do take a dump, you're not thinking of him, but hoping he's not nearby to catch a whiff -- you sweat and defecate Guerlain, of course! -- and besides, you're having a good laugh at the porn magazine he thinks he's hiding from you! Is this love? YES.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Oh boy, GYN!

george clooney sex and the beach

Each year, barring any unforeseen health complications, I pay a visit to a doctor who really cares about my vagina and I look forward to this routine as much as I look forward to being hit by a truck.

A friend of mine, prodigious mother of four, once told me that when you arrive at the hospital for delivery, your vagina becomes Grand Central and that, like husbands, children and credit card debt, you get used to it.

Ladies, I don't know about you, but I never get used to it.

Even though my doctor couldn't hurt a fly and in spite of the fact that -- in case you didn't already know: I am not a virgin, but a woman who has been struck by cupid's arrow, actually make that a variety of "arrows" in all shapes and sizes -- each and every time my doctor says "OPEN WIDE" I wince in anticipation of the clicking sound and tight squeeze of the speculum and the sensation of having my uterus swabbed with a long q-tip and scraped by a metal scrub brush, which feels like getting a bee sting where the sun don't shine.

But what truly never ceases to amaze me are the conversation topics that ensue while laying supine, legs in stirrups and ass propped on a cold table while a physician pokes around in my netherlands. To wit, here are my favorites:


Manola: "How 'bout dem Bears?"

Doctor: "They beat the Packers."

(Duly noted, neither physician nor patient know the difference between a sports team, a meat facility and a furry mammal.)


Manola: "Dominus vobiscum."

Doctor: "Semper Ubis Sub Ubis."


Doctor: "Your cervix looks a healthy shade of pink, Manola."

Manola (with deadpan glare fixed on the fluorescent lights ): "Oh, that's just dandy! It'll match my suede sling-backs."


Manola: "So, when did you decide you wanted to look inside vaginas for a living?"

Doctor: "Oh, this is just a hobby. My real job is helping women push watermelon-sized humans out of a keyhole."


Doctor: "Please bear down and relax. In order to check your fecal matter for blood, I must unfortunately insert my gloved index finger into your rectum."

Manola: "You know, if you only looked like George Clooney and we had candlelight, wine and soft music, this moment would be incredibly romantic."


Doctor: "Before the exam, please empty your bladder into this cup."

Manola: "I am so not pregnant. I haven't got laid in months."

Doctor: "I insist. Look at what happened to Mary."


Doctor: "What are you using for protection?"

Manola: "A bullet-proof vest."

Doctor: "Seriously."

Manola: "Doctor, if you can get me laid by George Clooney, I'll send you a bouquet of condoms, ok?"


Doctor: "Have you noted any unusual lumps in your breasts lately?"

Manola: "No. I whisk cornstarch in cold water to thicken the gravy."


Doctor: "Was your ex boyfriend Mr. Thinks He's Huge a jerk? I see traces of bad relationship on your uterine wall."

Manola: "Oh my God, no wonder I couldn't read the writing."


Doctor: "Ok, you can put your clothes back on now."

Manola: "But I was planning on sneaking out of the hospital in this paper gown!"

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Blue Balls

blue balls sex and the beach miami manola 180

"Dear Manola 180,

zOMG! I was, like fooling around with this guy and stuff, 'cause I thought he was like teh guy, and we were like, gettin' our freak on and stuff, and like the thing is, he wanted to do the deed and stuff, but I didn't, 'cause he didn't want to wear a condom, so like -- zOMG -- he told me that if I didn't let him fuck me right he'd be hurtin' from blue balls.

zOMG! Teh guy was so hurtin' he left the bed and started playing his guitar and wailing like teh 16th century French troubadour, which like, I don't even know what that means, but he so like started playing the pity-my-poor-pecker card!

So like, what teh fuck is this blue balls shit, oh wise Manola? zOMG! Teh balls looked perfectly normal to me, you know, sort of like that shade of rigor-mortis grey a chicken leg has while defrosting on the countertop.

What should I do about teh guy? zOMG!

Ms. Sue Feel Ball"

First off -- before anyone gets off -- grasshopper, even though you have mastered the subordinate clause, how do you expect to grapple dick if you can't even understand TEH use of basic definitive articles in this extinct communication device once known as the English language?

Secondly -- and most importantly -- let me applaud you on your choice to protect your vagina from this manipulative excuse of a testicle.

According to Jane Austen, who is at this moment rolling in her grave, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a man thinks with his penis. But has anyone ever wondered -- as William Wordsworth intimated -- what the penis thinks of the man? What about the feelings of those fragile, dangling dumplings in between a man's legs?

I bet those testicles hid in shame, looking cautiously out of their dark, damp lair at their parasitic host: "Oh, there he goes again, acting just like our redolent neighbor, Mr. Asshole."

Thirdly, defrosting chicken on the countertop is not hygienic. If you can wade off germs in bed, why stop at the kitchen?

As you've had your doubts about handling raw meat and because this post would horrify the rabbi around the corner who just blessed my sirloin, let me offer you the following counsel:

NO MEANS NO. Always has, always does and always will. If a man doesn't respect your wishes, who cares about the dire anxiety and hue of his balls?

Now, without pointing a wanker, let's put on a pair of gutapercha rubbers and wade carefully through the mind of man. Do you remember that chemistry experiment in high school, when the hawkishly ugly teacher -- surely the one who moonlighted as a dominatrix -- made you fill a balloon with hydrogen until it burst?

Well, similarly, a man's penis, if aroused, will in its flight-or-fuck condition seek to burst forth like a grandiose display of patriotism on July 4th. And honestly, is your vagina the only place to prove that the sperm-spangled penis yet waves?

Admittedly, a man may experience a certain discomfort at not being able to thrust brass from his cannon; however, this pales in comparison to all the pain we women must endure, thereby making the brass monkey vs. vagina argument a completely moot point. Vagina trumps penis, period.

Girl, here's where you must soldier your resolve. If your man is love-worthy, offer alternatives in the battlefield of bed. Try man-handling the dangerous projectile with your hands, for example.

But if you suddenly find yourself face to testicle with a man you thought you loved -- said man masquerading in the form of a worthless sperm sack -- give him a good symbolic kick in the balls: he'll be singing the blues for sure.

Final ejaculation: stay away from men who claim to suffer from blue balls. You'll know when you've met the one with the right cojones, because instead of blue you'll see red -- in his loving heart.


Manola 180

Monday, June 05, 2006

Old Woman Living In A Shoe

brad pitt and angelina jolie have baby

Congratulations to Bradgelina for successfully swiping genetic material and spawning a female messiah!

tags: , , ,

Saturday, June 03, 2006

Sex on the Beach: It's Not Just a Cocktail!

"Dear Manola 180: We're here in Fargo, North Dakota, waiting for the planet to thaw and the only outdoor sex possible involves my frigid clit AND my husband's freeze-dried hemorroids. We'd like to go to Miami Beach and have sex IN the water, hoping to defrost, but we're still saving up for vacation. Do you have a recipe for that cocktail, Sex ON the Beach, to help us stimulate our hibernating libidos? We haven't seen flesh since last summer. Any suggestions? -- Mrs. Yah."

Dear Mrs. Yah,

You hit it right on the nut! Sex, grammar and cocktails are important details for Manola 180. No matter how you write it, say it, slice it, stir it, shake it or mix it, baby, having sex ON the beach is not the same as drinking a sex ON the beach.

ON and IN are prepositions. AND is a conjunction. In latin, the word for sentence is copula. Who knew grammar could be sexy?

Getting back to cocktails, dear Mrs. Yah, don't be fooled by that disgusting, goopy, soppy, mawkish, maudlin and saccharine beverage that makes a Shirley Temple taste like grain alcohol mixed with cherry coke.

No, no and NO! The traditional sex ON the beach is like corn syrup mixed with moonshine -- IF. Manola would rather offer you a warm Pabst Blue Ribbon before claiming that she'd even take a sip of such a heinous excuse for a cocktail (see flipflop notes, below).

manolatini official sex and the beach cocktail sex on the beach cocktail

the official sex AND the beach cocktail


(mixed with a lot of LOVE in an ice-filled shaker to be poured in a chilled martini glass)

3 part absolut citron
1/2 part absolut peppar (or to taste, Manola likes it spicy)
couple of splashes of orange juice
few drops of angostura bitters
1/2 packet of stevia

garnish with orange and lime slices

suggested nibbles for the Manolatini:

•brie and apples baked in phyllo dough, drizzled with honey
•freshly-made tapenade served on crusty french bread
•antipasto of andouille sausage, roasted red peppers, cabrales cheese

flipflop notes

Additional and related questions about drinking and having sex in South Beach!

Dear Manola 180, can you recommend a cheap place for drinking on South Beach?

Darling, no, I can't, unless your wallet is a mutant cross between the personal expense accounts of Paris Hilton and Donald Trump. However, I can suggest the following: when on South Beach, no matter where you go, never, EVER ask for a mixed cocktail, unless you have slept with the bartender and expect quality OR can afford to pay an arm, leg, fake eyelash and silicon-filled boob for a drink.

Keep it plain and simple. A glass of wine, a bottled beer or a plain martini. Sure, you'll still be paying more for your drink than an appointment at the proctologist, but at least you know what you're getting.

(If you do ask for a Manolatini, print this post and show it to the bartender.)

Dear Manola 180, I've heard about this famous tropical drink involving MOJO. Is that a voodoo potion?

No, no and NO. A mojito is the tropical version of a mint julep. When on South Beach, don't you even dare go to Mango's on Ocean Drive. Well go, every tourist deserves to experience a completely stereotypical, artificial and gaudy simulation of what it means to party in Cuban -- at least once.

Do keep the following in mind, however: THE BEST MOJITO ON THE PLANET was made by Rolando -- world's hottest Cuban and most well-coiffed bartender -- who used to work at Condal and Peñamil, the now over-commercialized and over-priced cigar bar on Lincoln Road.

(Back in the day, a mojito would cost about $6 and Rolando made it with love. OH ROLANDO! This hunk of burning rum was head bartender indoors, but he would personally come outside to greet Manola. And to think, she never even slept with him! Now, that my friends, is true service from a real gentleman!)

If you can help it, never order a mojito unless it's from Manola or Rolando, ok? And if anyone has had a Rolando sighting lately, please inform the staff at Manola 180!

A good alternative: buy the ingredients and make it a picnic activity on the beach. Riviera Liquors off of 24th and Collins could be a good start. Good beach access. Parking free after 6 PM.

the official SATB Mojito: the ManolaMoJo

The only low-carb alternative to diabetic-coma-inducing offering at South Beach over-priced bars: muddle stevia and fresh mint leaves. Mix white rum (Bacardi) and shake. Top with a splash of tonic or club soda. Serve garnished with mint leaves in a low high-ball glass with mint. Watch the sun set, the moon rise and your inhibitions melt.

suggested nibbles for the ManolaMoJo

•honey-roasted peanuts
•fried plantains with cilantro mayo

OK, Manola 180, after the drinks, I'm going to be consumed by wild passion for my lover and the desire to express this love near the Atlantic Ocean. Pray tell, where are the more appropriate spots where I can dispense of such emotion and female ejaculate?

Best areas of Miami Beach to consummate your marriage, love affair, or one night stand: anywhere north of 21st street and Collins, especially under a full moon. Just make sure you do the deed in between high and low tide. Don't mind the female ejaculate, it washes off with the waves.

Nota Bene: Avoid the TeePee huts at Nikki Beach Club. Not only must you pay an exorbitant cover charge for over-priced drinks, the bouncer will also expect a tip each time you have an orgasm.

Dear Manola 180, now that I know where to have sex on the beach, any advice?

Bring a large towel or blanket, if planning ahead. It's itchy and scratchy, especially on low tide. Sand in your crotch, annoying gnats, broken glass and seaweed. However, your man's nuts will be exfoliated to a lovely sheen. But HEY! Seriously, if you're having happy, spontaneous and lusty sex on the beach, who cares? You can wash off later. A good aloe and oatmeal moisturizer should take care of any post-beach sex itch, especially if your lover slathers it all over your ass. And you can return the favor. Does a couple good -- survival techniques after a good romp on the sand!

Dear Manola 180, how about actually have sex IN the beach?

Sex IN the beach? Well, that's a calculated risk. Some staff members of SATB have sworn by affidavit that making love in the bioluminscent waters of the Atlantic is nothing short of magic. Do keep in mind, however, that late at night, critters such as hammerhead sharks (in season), sharp-toothed barracudas and snappy jaw'd snook (regulars) are roaming the shallows looking for dinner. But then again, if you're drunk, fucking and happy, who cares?

Dear Manola 180, what are you last words of advice for Mrs. Yah from Fargo?

Mrs. Yah, two simple phrases to help you enjoy our beaches and yet keep you caveat emptor: don't drink anything sugary, don't drink and drive, but do wear sunscreen, stay out of the sun between 10 AM and 2 PM (prime cancer hours), practice safe sex and to keep things interesting -- avoid a mattress at all costs. (Unless you're at BED, of course.) You'll do fine and you'll be the envy of the folks in Fargo.

Happy Defrosting!


Manola BBB

Message in a Bottle

message in a bottle

Dear Lover,

Yesterday, I released you into the sea, without even knowing. You were a torn-up, scribbled-upon-with-black-ink piece of paper from my past, hastily stuffed into one of many empty bottles left behind in my messy cupboard, one of many bottles I drank because of you, the one bottle that was hardest to reach, in the dark recesses of this storehouse of skeletons, where I also keep shrapnel from my heart in a blood-stained velvet sack. To discern your forbidden name on the label of this bottle, my long, grey and tired fingers swept aside sticky cobwebs and thick layers of dust.

I released you into the sea without even knowing, because I passed your building, nestled tightly among so many houses made of glass and flighty columns, houses that topple over after fierce gales and arguments, houses lit by fragile and flickering light-bulbs, and did not even notice that I had thrown stones in the hearth -- the heart and home -- of the man I once loved.

I released you into the sea because I walked barefoot on the sand and the broken shards of my love did not cut my feet. The light-bulb of awakening swung ochre and mild, setting to the west. God blanketed the sunset with a purple sheet and everything stood still, as usual, my ears pricked between the surf and the gentle noise of traffic on Collins Avenue.

The tide washes away any trace of love in such a place where sand shifts and oceans rise and fall. The beach, while beguiling, is merely love's beginning, not its end. Never shall I build love on such sinking terrain, so easily swept away by the wind of tempests. Never shall I let my lover liken my eyes to the sea's shade of blue upon sunrise. Never shall I let the glassy surface of a calm sea, hiding perilous shoals, tempt me to shipwreck. Never shall I let a man turn a clever metaphor, if in so knowing, he lays his love down on a bed in a castle built out of this mirage.

Not that I would not love a man of words, but rather, a man who keeps his word. And with this man -- a faithful maker and keeper of words -- I will happily walk the shores of the beach, and beam warmths of azure, teal and cerulean into his gaze, until he knows not where I end and the ocean begins. With this man, on one of those days in which our love is boundless yet generously spent, content to love each other silently as we wander on the streets of mundane, not thinking of but just being each other, I will scrub my cupboard bright and breathlessly clean, replacing old bottles of despair with wine made from the sea foam that tickled our feet as we kissed at journey's end and our beginning.

And so I realize, in the writing, that this letter is not for one who loved me before, but for one who will love me now -- now that the breeze feels salty, warm and golden on my untouched flesh. This letter is not for the grim reaper of dead-end continents, but the valiant sailor who glides bravely and with joy on the ocean of my heart.

Farewell and welcome, love.


Thursday, June 01, 2006

Hurricane Season Boyfriend: A Man for All Seasons

Today is the first day of the hurricane season and logically I thought about Colin Farrell's enormous schlong and other important preparedness matters such as the fact that we could not possibly (and fairly so) expect one man and one man only to fulfill all our needs.

So ladies, I ask you: in a time of crisis, which one of the following would you choose for support?

Max Mayfield: like your grandfather, a benevolent patriarch leading the way.

Max Mayfield

Bryan Norcross: like your father, soothing your fears during times of peril.

bryan norcross

Anderson Cooper: like your brother, risking life and limb to bring you unbiased reporting.

Anderson Cooper

Jim Cantore: like your very distant cousin, because he sports the kind of upper body that makes you have naughty thoughts about the lower body.

Jim Cantore

Manola, why do you even ask? That should be me in his arms!

Harry Connick Jr

Sing me a tune and carry me away

Ladies, if you don't recognize the world's sexiest crooner in the above photo, that's surely a sign that Katrina blew your libido away, because the sight of a topless Harry Connick Jr wearing waders was etched, nay - BRANDED WITH SEARING HEAT - on the mind of every living, breathing woman on the planet.

"But Manola 180, I am a respectable woman with children and I can't spend my day dreaming about Colin Farrell's penis, Jim Cantore's biceps or Harry Connick Jr's chest. Could you please offer some tips for family fun before, during and after the storm?"

Sure! Dubious Wonder (who, by the way, has children, is sexy and utterly respectable), has compiled a list of entertaining games for kids and their rum-drinking parents.