Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Hurricane Season Boyfriend 2007

Harry, take me to the salon, darling!
Women of South Florida: it's that time of the year again! I know you've been busy fussing to and fro botox appointments, but have you prepared for hurricane season?

Granted, I'm well aware we single gals over the age of 150 question the usefulness of men in our lives, but let's face it, a penis with a body attached to it is very handy from June to November!

In my relentless pursuit of convenience over effort, I made a huge sacrifice last week -- I actually gave up a pedicure appointment to do a little consumer investigative reporting!


Don't bother with Ho Depot. The mega supplier still only carries plywood, flashlights and battery-operated fans. But if you can't resist the temptation, stop by for tasty cheese arepas and Sabrett hot dogs. As well, satisfy your green thumb and disdain of frugality at the nursery, where you can buy perennials that will be utterly destroyed during the first tropical storm of the season.

Oh and if you're feeling a bit velociraptorish, there's always fun with "Ambush the Hottie" game! Try it just for shits and giggles: wait patiently in the flooring aisle, lovingly fondling a tube of grout while holding firmly onto a caulking gun. Whenever office worker by day/male stripper by night walks by, bat your eyelashes and ask him naively, "Does this heat up if I blow on it?"


The staff at this mom-and-pop harguer estor/botanica in Hialeah is unique to Tancredolandia™ because it not only gives good wood, it also throws in a bit of spiritual advice at no extra cost. So when I spied my target -- construction worker by day/male stripper by night -- and asked him to "ponerme los shutters" he broke out in reggaeton and rapped "ay mamasita, mueve to culo! mueve, mueve, mueve to culo!"*

Tancredolandia Lesson 1: Harguer Estor


Not ready to give up in my steadfast search, I hopped back onto 112 and crossed the pond. As I drove over the Julia Tuttle Causeway and enjoyed the always breathtaking view that leads me home, I sighed and pondered the irony of living in paradise. "Beauty comes at a cost," I thought. Eureka! Such a dilemma who can better understand than a gay man already?**

I turned south to Lincoln Road, figuring I'd score a buff dude with a heart of gold and the brawn of Hercules. Just think about it: how utterly lovely to have a gay hurricane season boyfriend! We could give each other pedicures and reenact scenes from The Bird Cage! In South Beach it wasn't hard to spot my next victim -- gay by day/even gayer at night -- and when I asked "what's your favorite hardware store?" I got directions to novelty shop Gaydar on Alton.

Oh, such disappointment! Nice lingerie, but unfortunately leather codpieces won't protect me during a category one! It did get me thinking though -- why not just tent our homes with huge latex, wind-proof condoms that we can just pop on and off?


So in the never-ending search for the perfect hurricane season boyfriend I have nominated the one man I know who can cook up a storm and still lift me by the seat of my pants if the apartment should be flooded by Atlantic surge ... not to mention hot-blooded liquids spewing from his man-loins!


I hereby declare world renown chef Robert Irvine as my hurricane season boyfriend for 2007. In spite of his quirky English overbite, Bob darling raises the bar when it comes to hurricane season boyfriend standards. With a military background, he's sexy because he can delegate and GET SHIT DONE without whining. And with the sensibility of a culinary artist, he can turn canned PORK AND BEANS into a sensual prelude of porking bliss. I've got a feeling even the mosquitoes will steer clear with these biceps hunkering around the apartment. The star of Food Network's Dinner: Impossible will definitely have his hands full with Manola.


Here's what my bitches have to say about their ideal hurricane season boyfriends!

Yvette from Miami Rhapsody: Oh, a no-brainer. My ideal Hurricane Season Boyfriend is Matthew McConaughey. Imagining that chest, those abs, the adorable face, I can't think of anyone I'd rather slide around a wet blue tarp with. Why would I care if the house blew down, if it meant I could look forward to naked brunch with my boyfriend Matthew? Just the thought of grilling by candle-light with a bottle of wine, with my boyfriend Matthew, makes me want to pray for rain.

Tere from A Blog, A Mom and the Life In-Between: My IHSB is Johnny Depp; I'm sure he's picked up some good survival skills from the Pirates movies. And I KNOW he's smart enough to keep me entertained and interested through those long, boring nights. Of course, I don't plan on letting him talk much, seeing how dark, stormy nights are perfect for hot, sexy make-out sessions. I mean, who the hell cares about a blown roof when you're straddling Johnny Depp?

Balou from Searching for Normalcy: My fantasy HSB is Tyler Florence. Not only is he hunky enough to put up the mandatory plywood, but I'm sure he could McGyver up some fabulous meals using only a sterno and a flashlight. Who wants to eat cold Chef Boyardee all week waiting for FPL to get their crap together?


"I'll be your wind ..."

"I'll be your beaten hurricane ... "



*Do not give the author of this blog shit about this tasteless portrayal of Cuban Americans. She is Cuban American herself and therefore can make fun of her own people. Let my people laugh in freedom, coño!

**The author of this blog is Jewish by proxy. Shit give her not for using Yiddish syntax already!

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Thursday, May 24, 2007

Urban Beach Week Sizzles Fo' Shizzle!

south beach fry-it diet

This weekend many of you will flee from Miami Beach in mass exodus while others simply avoid the island like the boobonic plague. But we die-hard seasoned bitches don't let a little festivity bother us, no way. Heck, it's not like Urban Beach Week is a category five hurricane or something. Besides, Urban Beach Week is a lot safer than Extreme Republican Congressmen and Televangelists Beach Week -- an event so sinister, I bet you never even heard about it, huh?


Colleen Dougher at Citylink writes a fabulous survey of survival tips from top folks in the local hip-hop scene.

Alex at Stuck on the Palmetto questions if increased police presence means white people are all a bunch of fearful, racist dumb fucks. Join the debate!

Please to be Fanless drnk photojournalist d00d again!

Oh, and whatever you do, don't forget to take a moment on Monday to honor those who have served our country!

Animated mock ad by Manola originally published in April 2006. Don't give me shit about this! My grandfather raised pigs and my parents ate lard!

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Citylink: Sexual Yoga

"I had just met a tall, ripped blond at the spa. I kneeled demurely in front of this complete stranger, hesitating to look up at his piercing blue eyes. It was awkward at first. We gazed at each other, not knowing what to expect. I tried not to be overcome by the manly vibes beaming from his hot body. Slowly, we started to breathe in unison, my ample bosom trying to keep up with the rhythm of his heaving chest. He was drawing me in to him. And then …"

Read my latest column at Citylink for more of this titillating story!

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Sunday, May 20, 2007

Planet Manola: Dating Sucks Ass

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

Ah, puppy love! So young, naive, hopeful and utterly blind!


Actually, who are we kidding? Most grown-ups have their heads up their asses when it comes to love. Case in point: my dear friend Yvette, who does not have her head up her ass, but has dated many assholes -- literally.
I can count one hand the number of times in my life I have uttered to another human being the words, "I have diarrhea." There are lots of other ways to say that you are unwell. Saying that your stomach is upset does the job nicely. Saying that you have a stomach "thing" is universally understood. But the professor said, "I have horrible, horrible diarrhea!"
Now, even though I refrain from dating in my present life, I still take to heart some very sage advice Sir Fish A Lot's mother once shared with me. A retired police officer, she was the first white woman to walk a beat in the Bronx, so you know she's one tough cookie. "Whenever a man breaks your heart, just think of him taking a dump on the shitter."

When I was a crazy South Beach girl actively dating all kinds of loonies I met on mismatch.com, I used this advice preemptively. Why wait until he disappoints you? Whenever you decide to be a lemur and take that leap of faith called the first date, just picture the man in front of you taking a dump on the shitter. If the thought makes you want to run to the bathroom and hurl then you know he's not the one for you. But if you're able to see past that then proceed to date number two.


Top ten warning signs on subsequent dates:

1. He brings alcohol to the movies, beer to bed and drinks giant margaritas with gummy fish.
2. He argues with you about the location of the urethra relative to the vagina and he's not your ob/gyn.
3. He's a Chilean who makes sophomoric and insensitive jokes about Cubans and you're Cuban.
4. He expresses vehement hatred toward entire foreign civilizations.
5. He's 46 years old and throws rocks at cats.
6. He tells your friend, whom he just met and is serving dinner at her home, that she doesn't know how to cook.
7. He blows smoke in your face even though you don't smoke.
8. He takes you to a cheap all-you-can-eat sushi dump and tells you about the million dollar condo he's about to buy on Collins Avenue.
9. He takes your hand, places it on his dick and says "Look how big it is!" All this while hugging good night in front of people dining outdoors at Smith and Wollensky.
10. And last but not least ... he takes a dump in your toilet and forgets to flush!


And speaking of gross, do you remember Oregano Man? OMG, he was standing in line behind me at the Morningside Publix the other day! I haven't seen this man in nearly 20 years and he still looked like he had just bathed in a vat of EVOO!


I received some exciting news the other day. EX BF #2 is going to do the Appalachian Trail and write a book about his experience. He will spend six months hiking the trail from Georgia to Maine. I am very happy for him. He's such a talented writer with a great passion for the outdoors, much of which he shared with me. I wish him a safe journey and Godspeed!

Photograph of young lovers kissing at the 41st street lifeguard stand courtesy of locarbhiflavor.

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Saturday, May 19, 2007


Attention perverts! YOU WIN! Some genius folks who study the obvious have made it official: there are a bunch of fucking sickos out there who really use teh innernets! Woo-hoo! That's a brilliant, earth-shattering, paradigm-shifting realization: SEX SELLS BECAUSE PEOPLE LOVE SEX! ORLLY?

Maybe President Hairy Twat is right! 89% of all pornography is produced in the US, so there really is more than one "internets," if you think about it! OURS and THEIRS! God Bless HOmerica: the only hypocritically Puritanical nation that expresses moral outrage about the word HO and yet produces more porn and insulting lyrics than any other country on the planet!

These are amazing statistics, considering that Miami is home to Bang Brothers and other successful pornographers! Geez and I thought Miami is a totally back-assward Third World Country! My, how do we even think about sex in Miami when we are all a bunch of yahoos who fry bananas and talk funny compared to our highly intelligent, cultured and clearly superior purebred countrymen in Colorado? Oh, the humanity! It brings me to tears!

Oh and that reminds me, since porn is banned in Saudi Arabia, that explains why free sex videos staring a fat lazy mexican with bad skin jacked up teef and messy hair! is the most popular blog post EVAR! WARNING: SLOW LOAD. Fanless has 1,370 comments to date!

I don't even want to discuss how ironic it is that we are bringing democracy and not porn to the Middle East! WTF? Porn is our natural resource. Oil is theirs. Give the people what they want! PORN FOR OIL!

OK, enough about politics. Sex 101 Quiz: if you swallow after giving the Jolly Green Giant a blowjob, do you get your daily recommended serving of vegetables? Is skirt steak vagina a low-carb meal? Can an iron dildo also be used to mash potatoes? Is "Hunk in a Loincloth" the same as pigs-in-a-blanket?

-- Internet study video via Brian Breslin's Twitter via Techcrunch. Hey, pimp-out Twitbin!

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Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Manola Hearts Horatio Cane

Dear Producers of CSI,

Boy do you have it all wrong. Ending your season with impossibly blonde Calleigh Duquesne wearing black stilleto pumps to a crime scene? Oh and Mr. Hot Lips -- aka DELCO -- whose labial assets reminds one of the most delicious blood oranges sautéed in tender garlic is now lusting after Miss Alice in Fisticups? And seriously, screw the mojo, what about normally way cool and superbly stoic Alexx Woods -- honey pie, you may dissect bodies, but how can you wear such hideously obvious hair extensions and still call yourself a professional medical examiner?

Oy, it drives a Miami girl crazy, let me tell ya!

Most importantly, what about all the dead people, drug running, corrupt politicians, environmental abuses and crimes and shit?

OMG, your story lines are so freakin' pathetic. You think that just because you throw in -- a) a few anorexic models with attractive faces who act like stupid bimbos b) a smattering of highly photoshopped alligators c) boring-ass aerial shots of I-75 and c) random stupid undergraduate psych 101 course topics about fucked up peeps -- that you can make a TV crime drama set in SoFla?

Has it occured to you that maybe there are beautiful people in South Florida who have brains who just take perverse pleasure in the fact that you are making mondo bucks from misrepresenting Miami?

Plus the fact that you shoot 90% in LA, hello? That's Mickey Mouse set plus two! Mickey Mouse, you hear me? How can I possibly take this prime time tv drama seriously? Most importantly, you so need to hire Manola as your script consultant. Please call 1-800-SMART-WRITING and I'll help you put together a solid story line, ok?


Manola BBB

24 Hour operator available at your service! Need some verb advice? Got an itch regarding adverbs? Just need to jack off to conjugation? CALL US!

Oh and by the way THIS is the best outfit to wear in South Florida, especially if you are a crime scene investigator! Let me tell you something, people who read this blog from far and abroad, nothing, absolutely nothing, can compare to trying to be a respectable human being while sweating like a pig in our climate, which is why I'm trying to tell you, the first issue I have with Miami CSI is the fact that its cast of characters don't dress appropriately for the climate. Heck, I might even start a new blog: SWEAT AND THE BEACH. What do you think?

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PS ... the resemblance between Emily Procter and teh real Manola is scary! I had to make the mash-up OBVIOUS!

Monday, May 14, 2007

Steelclit: Sex Tips for Spiderman

Disclaimer: the following is not intended as professional medical advice, although it may make you laugh as humor is, after all, the best medicine.

In this installment, we answer a reader's questions regarding arachnophilia gone wild.

Dr. Annie:

Is it possible to get an STD from oral sex with a giant mutated spider? How about a scorpion?

Sign me Concerned.

Dear Concerned,

I'm concerned too. There are two issues to address here. First of all, that's not a spider, but a very bad case of crabs. Although the woman appears to be tossing her head back in pleasure, she is actually writhing in agony from severe twat itch. She is a model so she gets paid to pretend she's actually enjoying cunning linguist from a giant spider, but the truth is she is just an airbrushed bimbo bitching about how men get to scratch their balls all the time in public, while women have to deploy discreet maneuvers.

Who can blame her? Let me tell you something, the next time I see some dude fondling his huevos in public I'm going to so scratch my twat with equally smug pride -- I don't care if I'm walking down the red carpet with the Queen of England! That's what feminism is all about! Screw that bra-burning shit. We have every right to relieve our pruritus!

But back to your concern. Don't worry, while uncomfortable, pubic lice is easily treatable with OTC products available at any drustore. Or, if you're into holipstick medicine, try this special Hialeah cure: just wash every piece of fabric in your house in hot water, down three shots of Bacardi rum, watch the Chongalicious video and put a rooster's leg tied in fresh oregano leaves on the doorstep of that vermin you called lover for a night.

To prevent future incidents, find a full-length mirror and take a good look at yourself. What's up with screwing a douchebag with crabs? There's something to be said about moral inventory, honey! Wouldn't you inspect the basement before buying the house?

Second of all, yes it's dangerous to get oral sex from a giant mutated anything, unless it's Gene Simmons' tongue. And speaking of mutated things, I would not recommend idolizing a certain superhero who benefits from his spideresque powers to save the world. Who needs that kind of man? The only tangled web you want to weave is the one that involves your pubic hair and his teeth! Who needs a superhero who is too busy to neglect your sexual needs?

Having been blessed by the astrological sign of Scorpio, I must say there is absolutely nothing wrong with this extremely demented and highly disturbing Kafkaesque mis-en-scene. In fact, it's very important for any woman to be able to instantly whip out her stinger when cavorting with an asshole. Then again, he might enjoy having his tender bunghole ripped open by a sharp, irritating object. You just never know! My advice: if your sexual partners habitually turn into dangerous insects just prior to the walk of shame, you might consider laying off the designer vodka.

But whether your proclivities turn to the local jerk or the dandy tourist, make sure he covers his wanker with a rubber. Sure, you can deal with a case of crabs, but AIDS is not funny!

Just in case you're a scorpion who has been living under a rock for the past few weeks ... check out some brilliant spunkalicious chutzpah from Hialeah! PS ... lip gloss is not good sexual lubricant!

-- Steelclit question via email. Source: New Scientist. Advertisement for a French AIDS campaign: "Without a condom, you're making love with AIDS. Protect yourself."

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Sunday, May 13, 2007

Saturday, May 12, 2007

Planet Manola: Cleavage Conundrum

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

The South Beach Steering Committee, Lincoln Road

What can I say? At a very jaded 39 years of age (none the worse for wear), I have suddenly become aware of THE POWER OF BOOB. Never mind that Rubens and Goya channeled me before I was even born and that my girls have been exhibited proudly at many renown museums and art galleries around the world. Never mind that in my wild South Beach days I wouldn't leave the house without a credit card, a pack of condoms and décolletage. No, never mind all that -- it took my BFF Nectarina to point out the obvious to me yesterday:

"Girl, do you know that guy? He's been staring lustfully at you for the last ten minutes with a smirk on his face!"

"No, I don't know him," I answer as he scoots away on his moped.

"Girl, you got boob power."

What? I'm wearing a baggy, old Target tank top. I'm not even remotely showing tit, because believe me, as any South Beach girl knows, if you want to show tit, twat or toe it's not only easy, it's acceptable. It's hot and muggy as a rutting elephant's ass, anyway. Stubble-free armpit is as far as sartorial finesse goes in this climate; tailored twats are more important than haberdashery.

But still, to be stared at like a sidewalk peep show and not even benefit from the price of emission?

Sure, in my baggy, old Target tank top, you can see a little pathway from the hills into the valley of pleasure, but what's the big deal? Aren't model types with fake boobs parading before us in this tourist haven? Doesn't everyone's stylist down here have a background in professional fluffing?

And it made me wonder: could it possibly be that men are finding naturally beautiful, intelligent, vivacious women with a modicum of class far more interesting? Or do I have a sign plastered on my forehead that says BLOW JOBS 99 cents?

It wouldn't be the first time last night I'd receive lustful stares.

Alas, there are more questions than answers to the cleavage conundrum. But I do know this, ladies: there is nothing more beautiful, more powerful and more intoxicating than knowing age is but a number and that sexy is about not being the insecure, pitiful younger version of yourself, smaller jeans and tighter shirts not withstanding.

Here's the real conundrum: Being beautiful and not appreciating yourself: worthless. Being who you are and appreciating yourself as beautiful: priceless.

I know so many women who find fault with themselves even when they are dazzling beauties. I invite you to come to the place I've found. Come to the real South Beach of your mind, not the cover of magazines nor the adolescent fantasies of men. This is Manola's South Beach and it's accessible to anyone with guts and chutzpah, I don't care if you're flat-chested or have nuclear warhead nipples.

While sipping Trappist Ale at The Crabby Bar, Nectarina and I met some gentleman. One of them was gay and told me: "You're at least a C-cup."

Yes, my darling. A C-cup and so much more, a world of wonder here on this little island. I'll raise my cup of Chimay to that!

UPDATE: Speaking of boobs, have you taken care of yours today?

Photography courtesy of guess who? Locarbhiflavor!

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