Monday, July 24, 2006

Manola Vice East Coast Premiere

Manola News, Miami Beach, July 24, 2006 -- The stars will perspire on South Beach tomorrow as they drip onto the red carpet for the East Coast premiere of Manola Vice at the Stinton Cheese Theater. Tickets to the event cost $1,000,000 and benefit the University of Miami Pee Pee Medical Research Department.

Hollywood's most lukewarm celebs, such as Flimsy Hohan, Possum Hilton and Justnipple Simpson, are also expected to alight into town for a glorious after-party at South Beach's hottest and most humid club, Condo.

When asked about the philanthropic twist to the event, Mr. Colin Farrell slurred: "Bollocks! Haven't you ever ever heard of drinkers with a pissin' problem?"

Co-star Manola BBB, demure and soft-spoken as usual, just smiled and noted that Mr. Farrell is a perfect gentleman when it comes to relieving his bladder: "He always does it downwind."

A recent article from Irish tabloid Jolly Green Giant reports that the two stars are rumored to be engaged, but it is not known whether the copy editors, drunk on Black and Tans, meant to simply say that "Mr. Farrell was engorged."

Critics at the LA premiere last week stark raving salivated over the film's remarkable deep and penetrating story. Touted as this century's Dr. Zhivago, the story is a sweeping, epic romance of one man's quest for a woman who would finally appreciate his wanker. Far from being a corny remake of sappy historical romances, this movie challenges audiences. In one heart-wrenching sequence, Sonny Crockshit and Lara Tankbitch, the two coke-crossed lovers, are seen tredging through the endless maze of mangroves in the Everglades, with only one boiled peanut to eat. Ear-splitting mosquito buzzing replaces violins and we know that they made the right choice: a good blow job over destiny.

No doubt, the flick is bound to stir some controversy. But then again, when it comes to Manola BBB and Colin Farrell, what else to expect?

Here's what the critics are saying:

Annie Steelclit, The Miami Bumpost: "Bring kleenex. A romantic sperm-jerker if I ever saw one!"

Anna Pornikova, Anorexia Daily Review: "A movie so moving, my boyfriend forgot to play popcorn surprise."

Dick Maximus, The McLatchy Hurled: "Mr. Farrell's performance overshadows the great Omar Sharif by several inches. It choked me up."

Tickets to the premiere are sold out, but you can still attend the after-party for $1,000,000. Blow jobs not included. Call 1-800-ASS-WIPE for further details.

Sunday, July 23, 2006

Vamos a Miami Contest

Vamos a Miami Contest

In the spirit of democracy and freedom of speech, Sex and the Beach is proud to announce its first writing contest ever! Let's tell our children what life is really like in Greater Miami and the Beaches!

Help us get this book banned before it even hits the shelves!


1. Entries must be brief -- no longer 50 words! If you send an entry as big or bigger than Colin Farrell's penis, it will automatically be disqualified!

2. Prose style must be naive, as if written for some young, impressionable pansy, but the underlying satire must be saw-toothed, with cojones. Most importantly, it must make readers laugh their asses off, so that we end up with a quick and easy butt-reduction exercise plan.

3. Topics range from government, politics, education, transportation, fashion, food and entertainment.

4. Please submit your entires in the comments section.


Runner-ups -- as chosen by an impartial panel of judges headed by the illustrious Dr. Annie Steelclit -- will be featured in final publication!

The grand prize winner will receive a mind-altering blow job from Manola a lifetime supply of deposit slips to Manola's checking account!


Contest open to all creatures great and small who either live in or are familiar with the South Florida area, regardless of political and or sexual orientation, except for employees of Manola, Inc. which rules out Colin Farrell, which is just as well, as we'd rather have him in the kitchen baking Shepard's wearing nothing more than an apron.

Although we prefer to focus on Miami Beach, we realize that we are still connected to the mainland by a slim thread of reality several causeways. So you folks from yonder in the tri-county area, don't be shy!

Monday, July 17, 2006

Exclusive! Colin Farrell Medical Transcript [updated]

Colin Farrell Medical Transcript

Manola News recently obtained medical transcripts from Colin's latest therapy session. Eminent psychologist, Dr. Shrink Mai Pinga, sits with legs demurely crossed and asks Colin a few diagnostic questions. Colin, showing how hard it is for him to cross his legs, answered each question truthfully, without divagation.

Shrink: "What did you have for breakfast today?"

Colin: "Granola Manola."

Shrink: "What did you have for lunch today?"

Colin: "Pink Taco a la Manola."

Shrink: "What will you be drinking at happy hour?"

Colin: "A pint of guinness with a Manola chaser."

Shrink: "What are you planning on having for dinner?"

Colin: "Bangers and Manola."

Shrink: "Aha."

Walking over to his desk, Dr. Shrink Mai Pinga jots some notes down in the patient's folder. After a few minutes, Colin begins to wiggle in his seat.

Colin: "So, am I a sick fuck or can I go now?"

Shrink: "You're fine. Get the hell out my office and give Manola my regards!"

video exclusive

Saturday, July 15, 2006

Fractured Mannequin

fractured mannequin sex and the beach

Ladies, welcome to Manola's lounge. Sit back, sip on a martini, slide off those sling-backs and put your feet up on the velvet ottoman. Allow me, oh goddesses, to offer you a tale of caveat emptor -- retail therapy gone bad.


Shortly before I went off the deep end, I decided to take birth control pills to please Mr. Thinks He's Huge, because His Royal Anus couldn't stand condoms. Indeed, something happens when you fall in love with an asshole -- your brain, that otherwise reasonable organ that reminds you to look both ways before crossing the street to avoid being hit by a car -- completely shuts down.

Never mind that you've always gained weight in the past just from even thinking about progesterone. Never mind that you couldn't even talk about hormones without getting bloated. Never mind that you went from junior jeans to bearded circus freak overnight. No, never mind that you're not a fairy prancing about the forest in ballet slippers, like the waifs in the commercial.

"You too can enjoy fucking like a rabbit just by popping this little pill," said pharmaceutical company spokeinthecorporatewheel, Mr. Pack O Lies. "Only .25 percent of women gain half an ounce on this otherwise harmless medication that has liberated women worldwide!"

birth control yasmin commercial

Liberated? My ass! I really mean it this time: MY BIG CUBAN ASS EXPONENTIALLY MULTIPLIED! I belong to that .25 percent, you snake oil-selling carnival barker! How can it be liberating to sacrifice your health for a man who isn't willing to collaborate with you on family planning and do what's best for the both of you to prevent an unwanted pregnancy?

So the pounds packed on, the fucking became less frequent and the depression turned more rampant.

The formula is simple: You love an asshole. You take a pill to prevent mini-assholes. You get fat. You stop fucking.


And wrong timing. My nephew's wedding was two months away and the entire family, in a most interesting and utterly dysfunctional twist, gave me shit about the fact that I wasn't going to look like a Hollywood hobag anorexic lollipop head, as if I had to be a red carpet silicon and collagen-ridden celebrity skeleton to make myself presentable. Even though I wasn't a bridesmaid, the family rumor mill buzzed about the disgrace of my weight gain and the shame it would bring to the family.


Not only was I in love with an asshole, I'd been born into a clan of loving folk turned suddenly -- because of the stress of the event -- into a pack of irrational yapping prolapsed colons.

My mother wanted to control my wedding wardbrobe, because my arms were too fat to go sleeveless and the fate of the Middle East somehow depended on whether or not the guests at my nephew's wedding gazed upon my horribly deformed upper limbs.

As well, my sister wanted to influence my choice of dress, because God forbid I show a speck of bosom and turn my nephew's wedding into a skank back-alley version of Moulin Rouge, which surely would've exacerbated the effects of Global Whoring on the ozone layer.

So unwittingly, my normal-turned-Stepford-family alienated the crazy aunt -- "Well, she's a writer ... you know!" -- sucking me dry of any enthusiasm I might have about the future of a nephew whom I dearly love. I resigned myself to the fact that my self-esteem was slowly, excruciatingly being crushed into a non-descript blob of fat labeled hazardous waste.


On one of those rare evenings in which Mr. Thinks He's Huge had consumed half a liter of vodka and felt affectionate, which was really an unsuccesful ruse -- nay a losing excuse -- to shove his wanker up my rectum -- we talked about what I'd wear to my nephew's wedding. He held my hand and promised that we'd upstage the couple celebrating their nuptials.

"I'm going to buy you the most beautiful dress, Manola," he lied through this teeth. "I don't care how much it costs. Buy something to match the color of your cerulean blue eyes. I'll wear a matching tie. We're going to upstage the couple celebrating their nuptials."

liar on sex and the beach

The weeks passed. I stayed on the pill to please him and kept gaining weight, in spite of diet and exercise -- yes -- exercise: an exercise in pointless frustration.

A week prior to the wedding, I was looking forward to buying the dress, because even though I was in love with an asshole, at least he was on my size 14 side. He had mentioned more than once that he'd be the macho man holding my arm, making the family swallow humble pie.

But as was to be expected, three days prior to shopping, Mr. Thinks He's Huge put on indifferent airs, picked an argument out of his dossier and like a prisoner of war, simply disappeared. And truly, there was no war to speak of. Nor a prison.

I brought the now infamous dress alone on a Saturday morning at Macy's in Aventura Mall. My heart, which was now barely beating like road kill on its last breath, sunk deep as I peered into the mirror at the woman wearing the soft yellow empire-waist dress, wrapped in flowing, fading turquoise gauze.

I looked at her yet didn't recognize the face or the body. I had let others tell me who I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to look like and what I was worth based on their idea of this boundless thing called a soul bound up in a body that had put on extra pounds to please its lover. I shrugged my shoulders at a gorgeous dress that meant nothing for an event that had been spoiled before it even happened.

The dress was supposed to mean something for someone, but instead, it became ordinary, dirty and inconsequential, like a smelly kitchen rag tossed into the hamper.

Automatically, without feeling, I wrote a check for $150, knowing that I'd have to ask my family to cover the cost of the dress.

That was a good day, wasn't it? Admitting to my family that the man who would walk with me, arm in arm, down the aisle and to the first row of pews, was an asshole who didn't keep promises. Admitting to myself that the man I was in love with wasn't worth the little scrap left of my heart.

But at least I kept my promise of not showing the now infamous dress in public until the ceremony.

It hung patiently, waiting to be embodied, in my closet.


Mr. Thinks He's Huge finally returned my phone calls on Monday. He rang and spoke cooly: "I'm penciling in my agenda. When are we having dinner with your brother? Oh and did you buy the dress?"



No offer to compensate me for the cost of the dress, no enthusiasm about seeing the dress, no looking forward to the wedding. Was it a question of money? Surely, an honest man would've been honest.

I swallowed my humble pie. I was going to have to put on a face and go through with this, reluctantly, because when I had sent out the rsvp, me plus one had been an important number, considering that one of my nephew's cousins had refused to attend because she was not allowed to bring her boyfriend. See, only those who were officially attached were encouraged to bring guests. I had branded my disaster as official.

The day of the wedding arrived.

Guess what? I drove there alone, because Mr. Thinks He's Huge was late. He never walked down the aisle with me, arm in arm, to sit with me proudly, on the first row of pews. He missed the entire ceremony and showed up just in time to drive to the reception.

It's just as well. I sauntered down the aisle in my four-inch heels and and sat next to my other sister. Before I could say hello, pain melted and we giggled, sobbed like idiots and felt such love and joy, What the heck -- the moment had finally come -- we were here for my nephew and his bride. I forgot all about Mr. Thinks He's Huge, the dress and my family's arrogant humiliation. I let the love wear me. The dress was just an accessory.

After the ceremony, ironically, I was the belle of the ball. My sister even said: "Why, you're positively glowing! Your dress is absolutely stunning! You don't even look fat."

Why? Because I was happy, bitch. I wasn't going to let anyone get in the way of this celebration. And yet, it was the best and worst of days, because in order to rejoice in the wedding, I had to push aside this festering canker in my heart that dared called itself my the love of my life and then I had to put on a face for a family which, instead of accepting me for who I was at the time, tried to turn me into the laced-up lab rat I could never be.


My dress was a beautiful shade of yellow, draped by a fading turquoise gauze. But I was color blind. More importantly: heart blind.

A few weeks after ny nephew's wedding, I'd been off birth control and Mr. Thinks He's Huge was pulling one of his morning suck-me-and-fuck-me pranks. Instead of pulling out, he came inside me.

I lay in bed, stone cold mortified. He got up out of bed, put on his pants over his still leaking penis, looked evasively at the mirror while he brushed his hair back and said "well, you can take one of those morning after pills."

I had two choices: 1) risk a pregnancy from a man who claimed he had been cheated into having two children by his former girlfriend or 2) my health, by taking what is essentially a month's worth of hormones over a period of 72 hours.

The choice was simple.


manola happy

My nephew and his wife are happily married and happily, my family's momentary lapse of reason has long ago subsided. They've come to accept the nutty wordsmith crafting away in her little Miami Beach hovel.

And several moons ago, during one long, dark night, Manola was born ... it's good to laugh when the laugh's good ... fractured and imperfect, laughable and loveable.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Manola's Mango Snapper

sex and the beach mango season

July marks the beginning of the doldrums in South Florida, interrupted only by wild afternoon thunderstorms and the snoring of men who go into hibernation, because football, basketball and hockey are out of season, and baseball is as snooze-inducing as a rise in the barometer. And this year, with the World Cup frenzy just about to go flat like Miller Lite on a hot day, we can expect our lads to go into a two-week coma.

But July is also the most sensual of months, nay, a veritable blooming orgy of the most succulent fruit in the tropics: the mango. Ladies, why not entice your favorite ball-and-chain-turned-zombie out of his sweat-soaked hammock with this tasty delight? Remember: once they start playing with balls other than their own, the mangoes will be out of season ... and so will the sex!

And you know what that means: yet another year of thinking about Colin Farrell's penis!

Even if you're life doesn't involve the above sports widow scenario, Manola strongly encourages anyone with a love for the true fruit of paradise to try this simple, yet tasty dish!

(Yes, it's fattening, rich and that's the point: you don't eat it everyday. So what? You want low-fat sex? Here's the skinny: if that's what you like, I've got a recipe for cardboard and a case of club soda just for you, baby.)

Snapper in Spicy Mango Cream Sauce

2 thick fillets fresh snapper, preferably mutton
1 large ripe, fragrant mango, flesh puréed
whipping cream
unsalted butter
ground cayenne pepper
fresh lemon juice

First, dredge the fish: dip the fillets in lemon juice, then flour, pat off excess and set aside. Melt butter over low heat in a pan large enough to accommodate fillets. Once melted, place fillets in pan. Flip over after a few minutes and cook until done. Make sure butter never burns. Slow and warm is better than quick and hot, baby. How to tell? The flesh should go from translucent to white, without flaking off, slightly perky to the touch. Ooooh, perky, yes! We like that! Set aside and keep warm in oven on low.

At this point, your man may have awakened from his coma and will be trying to put a bun in YOUR oven. Discourage him. A shit, shower and shave is absolutely necessary or he will never be presentable for dinner.

Add mango purée, whipping cream, cayenne, salt to pan. Simmer on low until thickened, stirring slowly.

Plate fillet and pour sauce over fish. Garnish with chopped cilantro.


In a brandy snifter, add Barbancourt Rum, mango slices, fresh ground cinammon and nutmeg and let stand covered for at least one hour. Remove all clothing and feed mango slices into each other's mouths.

The rest is up to you ... Manola can only conjure so much!

Special thanks to an old friend for clarifying the specific dates of the man-zombie schedule.


You see Al? Cubanita cooking isn't so bad: you might even like this dessert with a cigar!

Thursday, July 06, 2006


lemmings on the bridge

Coming soon to an ego near you! Look, all the lemmings are lined up and ready to jump off the bridge! As I live and breathe, how did I even survive another day with YET ANOTHER screwy method of hiding behind an online persona in the hopes of finding my ain true love -- Colin Farrell's penis?

F****L.COM is the first ever “social bookmarking” site for people! Just like you can save links to your “Favorite” web sites in your web browser, on f**** you can save links to profiles of people on your favorite dating or social networking sites. Even better, you can share your favorites with others! Also, you can “tag” your favorites with keywords and use these keywords to find new people to meet. Best of all, just like T****D****.com, f**** is completely FREE!





I am more than a bookmark. I am more than a keyword. I am more than a tag. I am more than a profile. I am more than a blog.

BUT MY ASS? At least that's real!

Ring, ring! Oh, sorry, must go! Colin's on the phone!

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Sexiness

july 4 on sex and the beach

Today is Independence Day and citizen Manola wishes to examine why a bunch of powder-wigs in the 18th century gathered 'round a cramped, candle-lit room to sign their John Handcocks in the name of something known as liberty and -- unknown to them at the time -- the right to fuckin' order a fuckin' Philly Cheesesteak sandwich in the language of your choice, or let them fuckin' eat fuckin' Spam, God fuckin' damn it!

WE THE PEOPLE of the republic of Manola do hereby declare that all humans with sexual organs and half a brain have the inalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of sexiness, because [insert deity here] only knows that the ownership of property AND the practice of propriety are simply out of the question on Miami Beach!

In the spirit of our founding fathers and their hand-to-cock nation-building, Manola proposes the following amendments to the constitution:

The right to wear sexy sandals OR sensible shoes. It's not the shoes -- it's the woman who wears them.

The right to speak your mind, even when no one is minding what you speak.

The right to break your diet because your personal flab club is better than a fan club of strangers.

The right to cry yourself for real rather than cry wolf for someone else.

The right to follow your heart's desire even when you can't put your finger on it.

The right to know life can't be airbrushed and still love it, stretch marks and all.

The right to always be out of step with fashion and ahead of your time.

The right to dream on sleepless nights and sleep on dreamless days.

The right to feel your sexiest just at the moment when you wipe the makeup off and kick those sling-backs off your dog-tired feet.

The right to say no and the right to say yes.

Celebrate your threatened personal freedoms while they last! And most importantly, make some fireworks in the bedroom! It's not just the birth of this grand nation you'll be celebrating but the liberation of Manola!

of thee I rock on!

It was twenty years ago today, that Manola went out to play, she's been going in out of style, but she's guaranteed to raise a smile, so let may I introduce you to the one and only day that she lost her God damn virginity!

What would you do if sang out of tune?

Sunday, July 02, 2006

Newsflash! South Beach Grouper Gropes on Lincoln Road

Manola News, Miami Beach, July 2, 2006 -- SOUTH BEACH GROUPER GROPES ON LINCOLN ROAD! Marine biologist Finn McRoe, straight-laced adjunct instructor at the Hook N' Sinker School of Marine Science, is a man who eats what he teaches and is reported to have been sucking the juice from mussels at Le Bon this holiday weekend. After a few rounds of Delirium Tremens, his bladder begged relief and he stumbled accidentally into neighboring night club Score, only to be sucked dry to the boner himself by a protogynous hermaphrodite!

"It was truly a sight for sore hides," claims witness Mr. Jackoff N. Slyde, who just happened to be peeing in the next stall when the incident went otherwise unnoticed by other club patrons. "I've never seen anything like it in pubic [sick]."

Mrs. Jen I. Tall McRoe, the instructor's wife, who suspected something had gone terribly wrong after her husband had excused himself and not returned to the table, sobbed uncontrollably as she searched for him in the darkness, throwing her arms up in the air like she just don't care, swimming through a sea of throbbing, sweaty happy manhoods, which forced her to just shake, shake, shake her booty.

"It was horrible," wailed the wife as a smiling, scantily clad insta-friend handed her an appletini. "I was a fish out of water! This would never have happened at Laundry Bar!"

Paramedics rescued Mr. McRoe from the scene and sped to Mount Shania Twain Hospital to treat the instructor for minor pickies (penile hickies, according to Dr. Suck My Gupta). His wandering wanker safely wrapped in gauze, Mr. McRoe offered a possible theory for the attack in an exclusive interview:

"Unlike a land shark, who only rarely bites an unsuspecting bimbo on the ass, this fish commonly changes sex to meet the needs of its partner, using club bathrooms to remove its business attire and slip on a pair of fishnets. After applying a bucket of lip plumper, the animal saunters out for an evening of bait and switch. Its gills are so powerful, it can suck prey in from a distance, like a Hoover on overdrive."

south beach grouper

Manola wishes to thank a very special gentleman friend, with whom she shared a delectable grouper dinner, for the humorous conversation that inspired this edition of South Beach Freak Fauna.


The New SoBe Dining Trend

Exclusive! Party Animal Eats Pussy ...

... food, that is. Caught in flagrante delicto by Manola's paparazzi squad, local celebrity Possum Hilton! Behaving as usual like an insatiable opportunistic quadruped, Ms. Hilton chowed down on Friskies left out for an out of town neighbor's cat at South Beach hot spot, Club Manola. Later, the fur-loving creature of the night sniffed around and licked tile. After all the gluttony and debauchery, the marauding marsupial high-tailed it to the Delanus Hotel, where she was spied hanging from her favorite tree.

possum hilton


Memories, All Alone in the Moodnight