Friday, March 30, 2007


Maria promises: inane, silly, goofy and cornball sexual humor from Manola returning to this blog real soon ... but in the meantime, I just wanted to say:


In keeping my eyes, ears and heart open, I receive messages and learn, even when those messages are hurtful or uncomfortable and unfamiliar, especially if they are directed to me, but all the same if someone else is the target. And so it comes as no surprise that in the past few days with many of my neighbors preparing for Passover, I "crossed paths" (I love that idea) with a quote from the bible that sheds some light on the Kathy Sierra issue, which is -- at the end of the day -- a gift and an opportunity to reflect on who we are as human beings in a community.

Don't for a moment think I'm a religious freak. Heck, I'm not even Jewish. As a matter of fact, what's the deal with price gouging during Passover? I went to Kosher World (around the corner on Arthur Godfrey) the other day to buy a couple of provisions and you might as well call it Priceover! But I digress ...

I'm a sucker for historical documentaries and so I've stayed glued to recent programs that explain the relationship between Jesus and Judaism. Mind you, when I did my first communion, the books kindly omitted that the last supper was a seder. Whatever.

As well, a friend of mine, Pepito Cohen -- whose grandparents used to sell ties in Romania and eventually settled in Hialeah via Cuba only to sell ties again, competing with ño! Que Barato -- well, he and I have recently discussed Kabbalah at length and its interfaith implications. "The bible was the first blogging machine," says Pepito. "There must've been twenty bloggers on Mount Sinai saying yo Moses, what you talking about? They all came with their tablets and started blogging on stone."


Look it, matzoh schmatzoh. Chicken soup is universal. To me, it all seems like many a thread in a seamless fabric. It all boils down to this: LOVE, or the lack thereof.

And so this quote from the Talmud by Hillel struck a chord:

"What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbour. This is the whole Torah; all the rest is commentary. Go and learn it."

Oh and coincidentally, this dude I pledged my heart to when I was a wee wisp of a woman -- Jesus of Nazareth -- yeah, he was a contemporary of Hillel and was quoted as saying:

"In everything, do to others as you would have them do to you; for this is the law and the prophets."

Please indulge my heresy for a moment, as this makes me go hmm ... I would like to take Hillel's quote slightly out of the context of Judaism in particular:

"What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbour ... all the rest is commentary."

If this doesn't sum up the blogosphere and its potential to connect people in a positive way, I don't know what does. If the blogosphere should establish a code of ethics, a standard of behavior, well fucking duh ... this is how we should treat others in life and in cyberspace. Just because I can't smell your BO through my monitor doesn't mean you have a right to be an asshole to my IP address.

Clearly, the folks behind Meankids didn't have a spiritual bone in them when they decided snark was the new black. What level of professionalism -- let alone spiritual maturity -- inspired a group of peers to publicly start doing unto others what they would not have done unto them?

Or are these people co-dependent doormats who just love to be insulted, derided and threatened?


Quite unfortunately, Kathy Sierra wasn't able to turn the other cheek, as Jesus would have recommended.

There is a far greater message here that I hope you, fellow bloggers, will capture. Snark and negativity does have its place in the world, of course, and it's the basis for great humor. But I invite you to look at the source of such commentary as more of a clearinghouse for the ego rather than a pure, compassionate message from the heart. When "I" make fun of someone else, "I" am only revealing a great deal of my own insecurities. I welcome you to be consciously aware of blogging from the heart, even when it's nasty, funny or crude. It's possible to have a heart and still be snarky, as long as it's in context, with set boundaries.

If Web 2.0 is creating community, what kind of community is it? As Pepito says, "People have fought wars over the bible, the first blog. Is blogging going to be the same thing? The world is still barbaric. We have much to learn."

Indeed. But the world is changing and we have the power to turn things around. Hugh (whom I am not equating with biblical prophets, by the way, he's a fine bloke, but that's not the point) recently commented: "Love and goodwill are driving this revolution. The selfish will be left behind."

There's strength in numbers and even greater strength in love. And yes, if we keep coming from the heart, the heartless will be left behind. Blog unto others as you would blog unto you.

tags: , , , blogging, mean kids, snark

related: Helen of OY

Dyck don't take it personally, when I wander so much light headed in the moors, they all seem like game show hosts to me ... is Rochester a Pansy-Come-Too-Lately? Well, when is the price exactly right, darling?

When Life Throws You Manolos, Walk the Talk


I'm taking off my heels and showing my calloused feet. It aint easy walkin' or bloggin' in stilletos, trust me. And as my regular readers know, occasionally I kick back and write as Maria, the author of this blog, and not as Manola.

Surely, something far more serious other than the bank heist in my neighborhood must've happened this week for me to remove the mask of fiction and simply state: it's not funny anymore.

Bear with this narrative maze -- it's all connected in a Mrs. Dalloway kind of way.

To wit: I've been pondering the whole Kathy Sierra issue for days on end, but that story is stuck in my other hard drive, which I can't even access via firewire G4-to-Powerbook cable, because my monitor decided to pull an Anna Nicole on me ... oh, so bad. Anna, I know you'd laugh with me.

So the post I've been writing for days might as well be a used tampon at this point. My Mac dealer is going to hook me up with a bail of Twitter and a new 19" wide screen flat, drop off point somewhere between the beach and the Bahamas, wink wink.

So in the meantime, working from my lapdance, I'm just going to tell you what's on my mind, straight up no chaser -- via a different IP address.


This week, against all desire and compulsion, I've got to cover Exxxotica, the "adult entertainment business" convention (it's not PC to call it porn, don't ya know). I'm going to be up to my ass in ass (as if that were possible) -- objectively. The last thing I want to do is interview a bunch of porn stars, but work beckons.

What does this have to do with Kathy Sierra? Well go read about it at Hugh's and then come back for an extra serving of truly fried vice.

Listen: where do we draw the line with pornography that is healthy and pornography that's used to criminally threaten, undermine and humiliate human beings? Pornography that is unwarranted, unsolicited, uninvited and simply out of the question?

I write about sex. Kathy doesn't. It's not fair. Yet, I'm mortified. Yes, simply mortified that a completely innocuous blog such as Kathy's would be subject to such a response not only from strangers, but from peers.

Let's not beat around the proverbial bush, shall we? Is the internet really safe for women? Is cyberspace some kind of hallowed burqua in a world of macho men who can't take women with brains?

At the core of this question: can women really trust the safety net of the so-called net? Must we pander to clowns who seek to suffocate our voices via a medium that is all at once too friendly and too dangerous? Should we reconsider the position of anonimity, when the the social media is gaining ground?

Kathy's story hit hard. It's simply unnerving to any woman writer -- regardless of her medium -- and let alone to one who uses the internet as her source of expression and income. Suddenly, thanks to some death threats that involved sexual violence, she's kaput.

And yes -- my SoFla girl bloggers -- pay attention!


It all makes sense to me now, thanks to a conversation I had with wonderful Stephanie last night on the horn: she gave me the skinny on what it's like to be a female in the tech world, let alone a blogger. And seriously, could it be true? Hasn't the glass ceiling been shattered?

Apparently not.

Not in Silicon Valley or beyond.

And it doesn't matter: it's simply unconscionable that any woman who puts herself out there for professional reasons should be subject to such harrasment.

This isn't just about Kathy: this is about the Charlotte Brontes, the Virginia Woolfs, the Jean Rhyses, the Gertrude Steins, the Frida Kahlos and of course a thousand and then some amazing women who've spoken their minds suddenly not being able to speak their minds for fear of their lives.

And it has me thinking: you know, at least there's a certain honesty in porn. You know what you're getting behind the beaded curtain. But in the professional world of blogging and technology, we should all be equals, no matter what the size of our boobs ... or dicks.

SHAME, SHAME, SHAME to the so-called technology world that cannot honor its participants in a compassionate, enlightened manner. SHAME, SHAME, SHAME that ego is a sex organ and not a personality trait. SHAME, SHAME, SHAME that the industry that claims to bring people together treats women like chattle.

What's wrong in a world where porn stars respect each other and bloggers don't?


And that's all I have to say about that ... for now.

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Sunday, March 25, 2007

Pervy Lounge

manola cartoon 18th century quadrilleThere's a hot spot in South Beach that combines the intimate feel of a jazz lounge with the energy of a dance club. And by intimate, I mean that last night my shirt absorbed the sweat of many strangers as my breasts inadvertently collided with various and sundry sleeveless, strapless and horny humans of both the male and female persuasions, with perhaps a few in between or undecided. And by energy, I mean that we can stop having a war in Iraq over oil, because if you could just bottle and harness the release of the pent-up sexual energy that nearly blew the roof off the building, the so-called energy crisis would be no more.

Yes, I went clubbing last night for approximately 2 hours for the first time in a few years. Better yet: I got carded at 39 years young!

Now, when I was a wee chick, I used to get my dance on at institutions like the Hameo and The Bitchin' Club. Dance floors were for dancing and when you wanted to swap spit or grope your lover you practiced discretion and moved off the dance floor. And surely, if you wanted to have sex, you went to the parking lot or the beach.

Ah, memories. The sand is long gone from my ass, the Bitchin' Club is defunct and even though the Hameo's marquee still shines, it's not the fun, carefree club I knew and loved. But that's another story.

Back to Pervy Lounge, where no one was actually dancing. Good lord, what has happened to the art form in the last twenty years? Was I in a clubbing coma when "get down tonight" became an orgy of dry humping?

I'm no prude, but boy did I start contemplating the limits of candor! To wit:

  • One couple was making out so heavily I wanted to walk over and pull his pants down and throw them on the couch. Forget getting a room! Relieve your erection now! You'll have blueballs by the time the cab drops you off at the hotel. And as for her, what of the embarrasing arousal stains on your satin cargo pants?
  • One girl was dry humping everyone on the couch. She tried this random gesture of estrus with me and unfortunately I had no $1 bills. Besides, between putting boobs in someone's face and having boobs put on, I prefer the former.
  • Oh and another couple, let's call them Fred and Ginger, had only a layer of denim to prevent them from a glorious session of bum fucking. He flat against the wall and she rubbing her generous rump against his groin in a frenzied dance of anal interruptus.
  • And one mas was sitting on the couch next to me while I was too involved in my own gyrating dervish to notice that he had in fact positioned himself quite strategically so that his face would be near my own largess, if you know what I mean. So when I walked away, he stood up, placed his hands on my shoulder and looked lustily into my eyes. Note to self: improve ass-gawker radar skills.
  • And yet another couple was bumping and grinding like they were the hottest shit in the house, but they never once looked into each other eye's. Quite sad, actually.
And so the following conversation screaming match ensued with my wonderful friend, Nectarina.

Manola: Jesus Christ what the fuck is all this bump and grind and squat and hump shit?
Nectarina: It's just a prelude to sex.
Manola: Oh come on, what's the point of having sex later if you're already having sex NOW?
Nectarina: It's foreplay.
Manola: Bumping uglies with a stranger you might not even get laid with is foreplay?
Nectarina: It's all good, babe.
Manola: Aw yeah, but girlfriend, I feel like I'm air-fucking here 'cause I don't have a partner!

Nectarina cracked up, lit up a smoke and we sat down for a spell, while I sipped my vodka tonic and pondered many philosophical issues. If folks are dancing at a groovy South Beach lounge to make a swinger's club look like granny's knitting club and a stripper's pole dance look like formal cotillion, we must ask: are you so hog-tied repressed in your life that you have to unleash a mighty libido in public? And if you're having an outrageously wonderful sex life behind closed doors, don't you want to take a break when you go clubbing? And if you go home and give your boyfriend shit about watching porn, aren't you a hypocrite for participating in the voyeuristic pleasures of this club?

Ah, screw it. Dance has always been about sex. I learned the hard way by pounding my already busted dancer's bunions practicing tango for several years. Tango is an art form in which you explore relationship as an act of receiving and giving. Tango challenges you to see love as an exchange of energy and to seek a pure, seamless communication between yourself and your partner. It's a beautiful metaphor for life and loving.

There's a world of difference between the subtle exchange of sexual energy in a tango and the raw, animalistic display of the dance I witnessed. It's sexual, to be sure, but far from erotic. Want sexy? Leave something to the imagination and some room for the heart.

Don't get me wrong. It really is all good. Whatever makes kids happy: fine by me. It's certainly quite an entertaining spectacle and heck, they even played some of the same tunes that I rocked to at my twenty-year high school reunion!

I freely admit I had a blast air-fucking my imaginary man in pointy-toed animal print stilletos while shaking my ass and keeping an open mind. But damn, I just have to wonder, has this generation hit rock bottom? There is no place to go from here but the mattress.

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Thursday, March 22, 2007

Breaking News! Manola Can't Afford To Be Sperminated!

manola blablablanik sex and the beach condom

Was Immaculate Conception the Original Safe Sex?

Insurance companies suck ass. Who do they think they are? The Catholic Church? Holy Mother Mary, is this what you had to deal with when you popped Jesus out in the manger? Fuckin' A! You know, that's what I call a calvary. Why didn't the three wise men bring you insurance coverage?

I pay just over $200 in health insurance each month, which is a real steal for a freelance writer, trust me. Knock on wood, I barely have to use my insurance -- no meds, but wouldn't it be lovely if they covered Belvedere Bellevue-Is-An-Insane-Asylym Vodka? I mean, why are booze and blood-sucking insurance policies labeled as premiums? Crazy!

But guess what? My renewal policy, which arrived in the mail today, tells me that if I want to fuck around knowing the ob/gyn will get paid enhance my current coverage, I'm going to have to fork over some extra dough.

"Above premiums do not include pregnancy. For maternity coverage, add $110 per month. A 15-month waiting period applies to maternity coverage."

Do you know what that means? It means I need to pay an extra $110/month and WAIT 15 months to be sperminated. Whoa! 15 months to have intercourse? Crazy!

Oy Vay Ist Mir! Love of my life and father of my child, do you hear that? So even though I haven't even met you (or perhaps I have, wink, wink), we need to talk about procreating before we do the wild thing, you see? Because you know, if we're going to have sex before the "waiting period," you'll have to wear not just the obligatory one, and not just two (gives a whole new meaning to plus one, like it?), but five fucking condoms, or at the very least saran-wrap the hell out of your wanker, plus I'm going to have to cover my cervix with sperm-killer like a Miami Beach spring breaker filling up on beer, don't ya know? My vagina might as well be like a house tented for spermites!

OMG, 15 months makes you a virgin practically all over again! I don't even know if I will be able to locate my sperminatable parts after such a waiting period. I will definitely have to get technorati to ping me, via sonar. In the meantime, I'll shave my head and move to a cave in Tibet and practice total brahmacharya.

OK, on the other hand, if I pay $1650 towards pushing a watermelon human being out of my vagina, it's a good deal, considering the valet parking at Mount Shania Twain Hospital costs $2K per minute. And aint that grand: it's like clubbing on South Beach. I'm paying all this money "just to see" if you'll let me in and I'm sure the price tag is compatible with many a club's "bottle service." Crazy!

sperm sex and the beach woody allen
Sperminators Anonymous

OK, seriously. Manola has nothing against the little intrepid buggers. I guess that's why they call it family planning! But heck, I'm pushing 40, not pushing babies. Is it worth the investment to pay for a baby just in case I get sperminated by man I haven't quite met?

Well, at least my home girl Balou has got support from the entire planet. Skip the wedding directly, mamasita. Have the baby! I'll bring you frankincense, myrrh and a damn good insurance policy.

And as far as the male pill is concerned, wise James says it best: "Be careful about the extent of your hanky panky before you and yours are ready to have kids." Oh James, it's no wonder Viagra commercials cater to the post-menopausal. Insurance loves it some low-risk erections!

tags are like floating sperms: , , , , ,

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Planet Manola: Pinga Versus Papaya

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

Manola's Glamorous Workday

In case you think Manola's glamorous celebrity workday involves being devoured by Colin Farrell, buying shoes, going for a pedicure and fielding non-stop phone calls from admirers, think again. Just look at my desktop.

I don't believe in multi-tasking and neither does Some Cranky Guy. What's the point of doing a million things at lightning speed? Why can't the world just do ONE THING RIGHT? No wonder everyone has ADD now. Yeah, that's right. I'm Addicted to Ding Dongs. Aren't you?

Oh, but I really love my widgets. Mac widget developers, please consider creating one called dildo, another serving the function of nap and pretty please, one that gives insta-shoulder rubs. Well, at least I have English to Pirate Translator on my dashboard.

manola's widgets Random Celebrity Smooching on Miami Beach

As per usual, some famous dudes were sort of having sex on the beach this weekend. The formerly estranged husband-and-wife team of Travis Barker (drummer from Blink 182) and Shanna Moakler (Playboy playmate) have reconciled for the moment and were showing us how it's done right. No multi-tasking here, baby!

Travis is sporting some serious tattoos but that kiss is quite cute, don't you think?

mavrix travis barker shanna moakler kissing miami beachYipee! Sex is fun! Woo hoo!

mavrix travis barker shanna moakler kissing miami beachPhotography courtesy of Mavrix Chatter. Copyright Mavrix Photo, Inc.

Technorati: Please Don't Pinga or Papaya Your Subscribers

technorati ping pingaWhy is pinging called pinging? Every time I go into technorati and ping myself I am reminded of a most unpleasant word in the Spanish language. Seriously, why not call it papaya?

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Monday, March 19, 2007

Abscess of Malice

What a trooper. I've been planting smooches on boys with Mc ... as a last name since childhood!


Dear Manola 180,

The other night, I went on a date with a man that I recently met online. I thought this guy was cool, but I am a bit of a germaphobe, so you can imagine how dismayed I was to hear, during dinner, that he sees no reason to wash his hands after going to the bathroom, especially at home.

While I was contemplating what I imagined to be the various assortment of biological specimens now growing on the stem of his wine glass, my date stuck his index finger in his mouth and started to feel around his gums. The ill-mannered gesture took me so by surprise that I was totally unprepared for him to do it AGAIN. While I chattered on about who-knows-what, this fellow rooted around the inside of his mouth like he was looking for last week's lunch.

Eventually, I was so grossed out and embarrassed that I grabbed his wrist and yanked his hand out of his mouth, muttering, "Please STOP that."

He looked at me with sad puppy eyes, and I had to explain to him that it was very impolite to have one's fingers in one's mouth, nose, or ears at the dinner table and the only appropriate place to do such things was in the men's room. And then I remembered his unwashed hands and began to dry heave. The kicker was his explanation: he was only trying to feel an abscess in his mouth. Oh, goodie. Just in time for dessert!

Please tell me how I should have handled that situation.

Grossed, Point Blank

Dear Grossed, Point Blank:

As the great poet William Shakespeare once wrote: Feeling one's abscess is such sweet sorrow.

You know, reactions to such questions are spermtacular. What say you hit this man on the head with your fragile imported glass in which your martini was served, or better yet -- beat him with lashings of adverbial impropriety with words spelled starting with the letter "f" and "a" ... or let's be lady like, as we are wont to do -- you probably did the right thing -- hopefully, NOTHING AT ALL.

Ha ha ha, look at that, is there a chunk of filet mignon trapped in your chops, date? I have an ice pick in my purse. Want to borrow? Stop abscessing! I mean even Manny's Right Testicle is coated with protective silicon, what gives? What's up with the confit-appropriating properties of your pearly whites?


Same thing goes for you, girl. If you are a germaphobe I highly recommend not dating. Men will always give us pleasure and cooties all at once. Men are full of sperm. Not only that, they piss and take shits and burp and are generally super gross and smelly, plus hairy. I love them still, but you know what I mean?

I really wish that men would be perfectly cootie-free, but then again, the slightly slobbering kisses of humans with Scottish brogues have recently reminded me of the universal search for a holy grail.

My point is: sex is wet, mushy and involves sharing germs, no matter how you paint it, babe. Oh and there might even be some emotional intelligence involved. Crap. And we love it, don't we? More crap. Crapola!


We turned on our Oujia Board to contact Sigmund Freud for consulation. Siggy darling told us that "whenever a man tools around in his own mouth, he's clearly sublimating yet expressing his desire to probe a vagina."

Now, darlin, as far as I'm concerned, you know if the aim of all life is death sex, there's no better way to turn a woman on to her philosophically implicated spread eagle ways than a finger on the abscess. Wow, you know, next time you look at a man, if he's not fingering some mushy, microbial, infected part of his mouth for morbid pleasure, what else can you expect of him? On the other hand -- oops! sorry choice of words -- let's hope that at least he's reaching you in some way, and hopefully, in a good one.

Oh Gross Point Blank, I wish I had a better answer for you, but the muck is reality. What we gonna do?

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Saturday, March 17, 2007

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

A Speedo Delivery

Why can't this package be dropped of at my door? Stud, hunk, scandalmonger and actor Bobby Larios seen here carrying his weight on South Beach.

Photography courtesy of Mavrix Chatter. Copyright Mavrix Photo, Inc.

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Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Samba Jalapeño's Hatchday!

samba jalapeño

Hey y'all, I hatched just two years ago but boy oh boy has a lot happened since! You may remember me as the world-famous model, Parrot Hilton. My mommy totally exploited my young chick good looks. OMG it was so Pretty Baby. But you know what? I've cashed in my residual royalty checks and am now living the life o' birdy.

Squawk! Ok, I am totally kidding. But seriously, I was named after the fact that my mommy loves Brazilian music and I look like a semi-ripe pepper, green on the outside, red under the wings (wink, wink). And in between the red and green -- aside from my spicy personality, of course, I'm such a bla bla bla bird, let me tell ya -- I boast shades of blue that will make the heron across the street ashamed! I'm a bird's bird!

My mommy, Manola Blablablanik is so nuts, cool and groovy, I just want to eat her furniture. Do you know what it's like to live with a nutty loopy semi-reclusive writer 24/7? OMG I have to talk and shit ... get a load of this, not only do I know how to bob my head up and down to bossa nova, I also talk like a crazy Cuban. (It's ok, my mommy is Cuban-American, so we can make fun of ourselves and still be politically correct.)

Here is a list of my jabber, so far:

hi samba
come here
step up
bye bye
see you later
I love you
all right
I'm going to go out
I'm going to take a shower
bad bird
look at the bird
thank you
samba jalapeño
I'm the real macaw
peek a boo, I see you
look what you've done

Now, I would like to direct your attention to the come-hither gorgeousness of my gaze. The apple doesn't fall from the tree, as I could've only learned such hexing from my mommy. In any case, I am incredibly green, feathery and downright irresistible. Will you send me a pack of Brazil nuts just because? Also, send my mommy a free ticket to Brazil, because she has been nuts about Brazilian dance and music a long time and now it's shoring up on her blog. Behold, a crappy video of one of her favorites: knock-out guitarist Baden Powell's version of Samba Do Aviao.

And in the meantime, please pardon me, I don't mean to be rude, but I've got a few peanuts to chew ... yummy!

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Saturday, March 10, 2007

Anne Coulter Does Not Speak for Me

Ann Coulter Does Not Speak For

Manola doesn't like to discuss politics, but when a foul-mouthed mysoginist with breasts attacks the very core of people with ovaries worldwide, weapons must be brandished. Make no mistake, we love us some freedom of speech here at Sex and the Beach. A crazy-eyed, stick-figured blonde who calls politicians faggots has the right to say whatever the fuck she wants, even if it's stupid, tasteless and embarrasing. Sure, go ahead and yap all you want, but we're not going to empower such discourse. We're not going to play doormat to your pumps, bitch.

The fine ladies at the Center for the Advancement of Women have put together a petition that I hope you will sign.

Go spin the wheel.

Via the fabulous Stephanie.

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Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Citylink: Sex and the Animals

sex and the beach manola citylink sex column
I am woman, hear me roar! That's not a far cry from a byline photo. I could definitely smack my chompers on Jake Gyllenhaal!

At long last, I'm making my debut as Citylink's new sex columnist. In the first column, I review Ron Magill's educational, laugh-your-ass-off Sex and the Animals presentation at Miami Metrozoo. Don't miss all the raving about walrus penises and chimpanzees in estrus!

If you've come here by way of Citylink and are a Sex and the Beach virgin, slip into something comfortable, pour a glass of your favorite poison and cuddle by the ac with some classic Manola. The archives are chock full of favorites, here are just a few:

City of Miami Beach To Fund Pubic Hair Removal in Sanitation Policy

Food Foe Kate Moss Warms Up to the Plate with Real South Beach Diet

Jaundiced Tranny Bozo Found Posing for South Beach Escort Ads

South Beach Miniskirt Crisis Boosts Imports of Antibacterial Fabric in Aftermath of Vaginal Excretion Epidemic

Paleontologists Unearth Rare Carnivorous Raptor Sporting Jurrasic Hair Extensions

South Beach Grouper Gropes Unsuspecting Gays Unleashing Apocalyptic Wrath

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Thursday, March 01, 2007

Planet Manola: Nutritional Mammaries

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

Thanks for the Mammaries

March 8th International Women's Day! If you've got tits and ovaries, here's your chance to flaunt them, along with your heart, mind and soul. (And no, silicon implants DO NOT COUNT.) Take time on this day to consider how far women have come in history and what more we need to do to make this world a better place.

Feast Not Famine

Speaking of making the world a better place ... at the turn of the year, Stephanie from Back in Skinny Jeans tagged me for beauty predictions. Here's what I think (and hope) will happen:

In 2007, those of us who have been misguided in obsessing over this

stupid dieting skinny bimbo in a bikini
instead of this

famine... will realize how ridiculous it is to starve our bodies and souls for the illusory promise of happiness based wholly on looks and not action. Instead, we will take good care of our bodies and most importantly, we will be more selfless in aiding those who are in need. A few humanitarian celebrities who have already paved the way -- Angelina Jolie, Madonna and Mia Farrow -- will continue to outshine the morons of Hollywood -- Posh, Britney and Paris, to name a few.

Legions of smart women who know better abound but so do thousands who suffer from eating disorders and are literally starving themselves to achieve unrealistic standards of beauty. Whole spirits are being broken over appearances when on the other side of the world, children and their families go for days without food.

It boggles the mind, even as the stomach grumbles.

Eat Food, Not Bullshit

The greatest disservice the world can do to womankind -- apart from violence and abuse, of course -- is to blindly support a culture that turns women against their own bodies. Chronic dissatisfaction with your body IS a real "illness" in my book, even if you don't suffer from an eating disorder.

If you're old enough to read this, take heed: don't buy into this crap. Love yourself exactly as you are before the world sucks you dry of precious self-esteem. Don't waste another minute of your blessed life letting the fashion industry manipulate your ego into thinking it's nothing but a helpless victim begging for attention. Don't let your spirit shrink along with your waist.

YOU are in control and the moment to be happy is NOW, not five pounds less than now. You are a spiritual being on a human journey, not a stupid floozy who measures her self-worth by the size tag on her jeans.

Speak Out

In the true spirit of International Women's Day, women in England who love fashion but are sick and tired of the industry's nonsense are speaking up with positive activism! Take a moment to sign the petition at AnyBody.

Here stateside, Stephanie and fellow blogger Mamavision have put together their own petition at Fashion Slam. Stop by, voice your thoughts and then go listen to their podcasts on Chasing Beauty.

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