Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Dr. Annie Steelclit Reviews Shveckle

Martin Scorcese, move over. Schveckle's in da house. Actually, it's Brooklyn! Fuckin' A!

If you enjoyed celebrity sunglasses, well here's a sneak peak at an underground, somewhat anonymous and very opinionated eyeball!

Yeah, but the thing is, bombastic adjectives and sophomoric humor aside, she really IS the next Scorcese of Brooklyn! Check out her extraordinary street photography on Flickr; you'll learn to see this corner of New York in a whole new shvecklicious light!

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Saturday, February 24, 2007

She Wants to Move

Hi, I'm a Mac! Welcome to the new and improved Sex and the Beach where we're riding the wave of Sex 2.0! This year, we'll be adding video entertainment to our usual schedule of superb content. (For example, "her ass is a spaceship I want to ride" and other delicate, poetic tidbits.)

In this first installment, Manola goes behind the scenes as Locarbhiflavor to expose the Flickrholic behavior of Shveckle. And you thought Britney Spears had coiffure issues!

Move over, Bang Brothers! Who wants skanky porn when you can see the world through Manola's celebrity sunglasses? Stay tuned for truly sophisticated video productions direct from Miami Beach!

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Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Kisses on the Beach

Last month, some celebrities were caught swapping spit on the shores of our fabled beaches, but you don't have to be a star to enjoy one of the finest sporting activities in life. I highly suggest a romantic picnic on the full moon rise, somewhere between 30th and 41st Street off Collins Avenue, to set the scene for your smooching.

Kissing should be taken very seriously. A relationship without kissing is missing the mark. Kissing is foreplay and bonding, even if it's a peck on the cheek. When was the last time your heart beat so? Your knees trembled? Your panties got wet?

Behold, here is some inspiration, from sweet to slobbering ...

Aw, shucks. Rachel Hunter and boy toy Jarret Stoll of the Edmonton Oilers Ice Hockey Team remind us it's never too late to feel puppy love.

Marc Anthony is a small guy, but you know he's gonna make her shake that ass.

And here's Mickey Rourke, who works out at Manola's gym (yes, those biceps are impressive), inhaling a female companion.

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

Oh, special thanks to whoever nominated Sex and the Beach for Blog of the Day!

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Saturday, February 17, 2007

Does That Make Me City?

manola sex and the beach city link sex and relationships column

Have you ever been stuck in a drive-thru, a dental appointment or a divorce proceeding and wondered:

"What would Manola say about this?"

Well, wonder no more! Manola is coming to a local paper near you!

City Link Magazine has latched onto the cervical lining of Manola to cover SoFla when it comes to all matters sexy great and small, starting March 7!

Yeah, first I used to say, "You won't see me on the side of the bus, I AM THE BUS."

Well, wouldn't ya know? Hell, now I really am the fucking BUS!

In between really serious correspondent work in Africa, Panderson Pooper managed to squeeze in an interview with Manola.

panderson pooper

"What's it really like, lady?"

"Oh shit. Now I have to be like all fucking serious and stuff," Manola said. "It's been a long time coming. Ya know, as a freelance writer, I sucked a lot of proverbial dick. Man, I lived on faith, scrambled testicles and scotch bonnet pepper sauce till the paychecks came home."

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Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Valentine's Day

valentine's day sex and the beach
Manola Hearts Her Readers! Happy Valentine's Day From Miami Beach!

Last year, still freshly wounded from her association with Mr. Thinks He's Huge, Manola pondered the meaning of Valentine's Day:
There are men who buy you flowers thinking they are going to seduce you for a night with such a simple gesture. There are men who pretend to want to spend the rest of their lives with you who never buy you flowers. And then there are men who buy you flowers because they love you and never want to spend a night without you. The MAN YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE WITH will know the difference. And so will you.
We've come a long way, baby. In 2006, I wrote that I hadn't experienced "any garden-variety angst" about being single on Valentine's Day but the truth is, I could never have imagined how truly relieved I'd feel 365 days later.

As a matter of fact, having the opportunity to work on the most important relationship in your life -- yourself -- is quite liberating. After spending time wiping my ass clean of any shit that once called itself lover, I can proudly declare: my ass -- and most importantly -- my heart, is squeaky clean!

Approaching this holiday without buying into the commercial nonsense is an occasion to wake up and smell the love you do have in your life. And I do mean smell, in honor of the delicate metaphor. Bad love smells bad. Tastes bad. Looks bad. Feels bad. No amount of flowers in the world is going to cover up the smell of a rotten relationship. Yes, when you let your heart wallow in the cesspool of a crappy situation, love stinks, literally.

Yet, once you completely remove the odor-causing and offending walking penis from your life, you can really feel love coming at you from so many other directions. Perhaps this is why, this year, I can breathe a tremendous sigh of relief. The air smells sweet and I feel more loved than ever, even though I'm single.

Now, you anti-Valentine's Day grinches are just as annoying as the corny couples. One bunch of grumpy, frustrated single people complaining about a day that celebrates love makes me roll my eyeballs just as much as a couple of teenagers sit swapping spit in front of me at the movie theater.

You can still celebrate love without a lover. Love is love. Go do some good lovin', will ya?

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Sunday, February 11, 2007

Anna Nicole Smith RSVP

anna nicole smith kiss sex and the beach

Anna, while you were alive I didn’t think much about you. And when I did, I thought you were a blonde, buxom bimbo who had thrived on the leeching public and bloodthirsty yellow journalism industry to keep you alive – you know, alive as far as the public was concerned.

Whenever we crossed paths, it was through the pitiful road of media, when all I could see was a caricature – a pathetic yet gorgeous woman sucking the gullible billionaire and the media dry for money and publicity.

No sane woman living in South Beach would've noticed the fate of the Texas trick. Ah heck, I lie -- we see this everyday -- those sugar daddies with better comb-overs than the Trump are hooking up with hare-brained, silicone-boobed damsels like the sand is a blowin'!

But, Anna, now that you’re dead and your most recent claim to fame is being a mother who has recently lost a child just after giving birth to one, all I can think is that no matter what the medical examiner says, you were born into and died of grief.

Anna, now all these men whose dicks haven’t seen the light of day for years are claiming paternity to your child – which is to say – they’re trying to get their dicks wet with J. Howard Marshall’s fortune.

Anna, did you know your network documentary would be nearly Shakespearian? Follow the trail of money -- it leads to death! Suspect paternity. Libelous suits. Passionate unions. Every time you straddled some man’s loins, Anna, it lead to madness and misfortune.

Anna, what the fuck? You make me feel all Horatio Cane, cheap red wig Revlon back-lit and biting my lips softly, squinting my baby blues with compassion.

Yo girl! Girl with spunk to spare, couldn’t you have waited until your daughter was at least a teenager to croak? What’s Dannielynn going to do now? She’s going to have to deal with being a beautiful, troubled woman in this world, torn, like you were, among the desire of marketing geniuses.

Anna, you were personally responsible for whatever crap you put into your body, but we leeched on your infamy like it was manna from heaven, because we wanted it. And the paparazzi, as well as the inscrutable editors, fed it to you as if by signed medical prescription.

You may have not sucked Hugh Hefner's dick, but you sold Playboy. You may have not slept with George Marciano, but you sold the GUESS line. You created a fashion revolution. I mean those old Italians knew about ass but took them a billion years to discover perspective. Then suddenly, some agency in the twentieth century decided that Ruben had a thing going. Go figure ... yeah, figure.

Anna, you brought Mae West back to life. And who didn't love Mae West? Yeah, it was all wrong too. But girlfriend had spunk and could talk her way out of the toughest cluster fuck. What was not to love, if not the talk, let alone the thighs?

Anna, you were and always will be the Marilyn Monroe of our generation, the seventy-year itch of a world that is so hungry for bodies and scandal that it forgets the bodies and scandals it fed on just minutes ago. We may have eating disorders but we feed on the destiny of celebrity bodies as if they were low-fat frozen dinners.

anna nicole smith sex and the beach mavrix photo

Anna, don’t laugh. Seriously. The vultures were waiting to pick at your foie gras, which is why I say, don't RIP, RSPV. We need the likes of you. You took your exit when the world forgot it was dying of information obesity. You died when the RSS and XML feeds had had enough of forgiving Kate Moss for doing coke and getting caught.

But you know what, Kate Moss gets away with it because she’s skinny and her fashion clients don’t want the negative PR. Oh, and Paris Hilton, she gets away with it too because she’s skinny and born into money.

Listen Anna, you know you don’t rank up there with Oprah opening schools in Africa. You never were exactly Angelina Jolie and Madonna adopting orphans from Africa, much less the late Princess Diana raising awareness about philanthropy, but there’s still something about you that was real that the average woman could understand.

Why? Let me tell you why. Because you were everything America loves and yet everything America is ashamed of. All wrapped up into some body – everything the media just loves to suck on while it pukes it out in its bulimic relationship with reality.

Yeah, you heard it right people -- er soul and blood sucking industry. I’m getting all Jesus on your ass. Judge lest you not be judged. Or swallow your own hypocritical fucking puke, why don’t you?

Yeah, I want you to get mad at these words. Sure, get pissed off, fuckers. I don’t want you to have erections about Anna anymore. I want you to think long and hard about a world in which a gullible woman sells herself this way for success.

I want you to think of Greta Garbo and Judy Garland, real women of talent who fell into a shallow grave of memory ... reclusive and into ignominy ... how fucking dare you judge Anna Nicole Smith?

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

Special thanks to MM (you know who you are) for requesting this post!

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Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Planet Manola: Search Engine Optimization Success

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


... but it should be. Oh those pesky thong issues! When Manola becomes president of the United Babes of America, the flabby arm of the law will proclaim: straight men will wear thongs to work and drink Rolling Rock beer! I just hope they don't fart loudly while carrying a big dick!

Nine out of ten bimbos know the truth about thongs and farting! Farting while wearing a thong is not quite as pleasant as farting while wearing Fruit of the Loom cotton briefs, which are not really "brief" when compared to thongs ... you know, it's kind of like panty years compared to thong years.


You know, come to think of it, if you are what you eat, aren't you also the kind of underwear you use to cover your naughty bits? Seriously, thongs are about as necessary and useful as botulism. We contacted existential philosopher Soren Kierkegaard via Ouija Board and after a few groggy yawns he confirmed that in spite of having lived his entire life in a stark black and white boring European independent movie, he still believed that thongs are indeed the cause of angst, nausea and malaise in modern society. "What is the hegemony of thongs? What is thongness? Are thongs things and if things are thongs what kind of thong thingy then?" Our conversation was interrupted by Jean Paul Sartre, who came back from the dead and proclaimed that it was a thong and in fact not a tree that made him want to puke on the streets of Paris.

Ah, just wait. When Manola is president, she will launch a campaign on the virtues of going commando.


Many internet surfers dump their page loads on Manola because of the word "thong" ... but "monster clitoris" still reigns supreme as most popular search term. Hey Don King, wouldn't you like to see Godzilla Versus Monster Clitoris?

Sadly, this cum shot is all I have to offer by way of evidence.

sex and the beach


Who cares about Bang Brothers when you can lose sleep wondering what happened to a Cuban ex-boyfriend's dick? Not that Manola ever had a Cuban boyfriend, but she never really wondered about the fate of any man's dick. Seriously, you think about him, not his junk, right? It's not like the junk just packs a bag and leaves. It's not like you hear that special song in the old familiar places and ponder: hmm, I wonder how his penis is doing?

OMG, is Sex and the Beach becoming some navel-gazing blog that focuses on inane, sophomoric and scatological humor? No way. Manola would love to gaze at her navel, but "watermelon boobies" are blocking the view!

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Friday, February 02, 2007

Sex and Football

football sex miami beach superbowl

Manola News, Miami Beach, February 1, 2007 -- As the city prepares for a major celebrity infestation and on onslaught of parties thrown to kiss the media's ass, residents have been raiding store shelves for supplies as if stocking up for a category five hurricane. Joe Manager of Walgreen’s on Fifth Street reports that even during hurricane season, customers aren't nearly as anxious. “Today, we ran out of turkey jerkey, tampons and Tanqueray before noon. It’s good for business, but people are reacting like it’s Art Basel on steroids.”

Since early this week, National Fucking Lunacy has taken over the usually sunny disposition of the city’s residents. One customer threw a fit at the cash register as she waited for the cashier to get cigarettes. “This is outrageous. I don’t give a Jessica Biel’s ass about the Superbowl! It’s sabotage, let me tell you. I’m splitsville to Kendall for the weekend. Yeah, you heard right. Kendall. I’m freakin’ evacuating to Kendall!”

Another woman who was waiting in line sighed and exclaimed: “You think that’s bad, honey? Listen to this: my boyfriend is hog-tied to the big screen at Finnegan’s Two on Lincoln Road. I can't even get Tremont to tow his ass home. I bribed a sanitation worker to hose him off the sidewalk come Monday morning.”

Ah yes, the plight of women who don’t give a Paris Hilton Ass Goiter for the Superbowl is hard not only for the first woman, who must suffer exile from her besieged city, but even harder for the football widow whose only contact with her beloved oaf has been stepping on the dirty underwear he has dropped on the floor since the beginning of the season.

Death and Taxes

Ladies, like death, football is inevitable; football is the tax you pay for sex. Don't worry, your man will discover his dick shortly after he enters post-bowl depression. In the meantime, don’t settle for a losing score. Play the field and play to win! Don’t you know vengeance is best served with chips? Here are some tips to get you through Superbowl Sunday.

1. Lace store-brought canned French onion dip with viagra and prepare to be humped like a monkey during commercial breaks. Show your team spirit by using condoms made out of pigskin!

2.If that doesn't work, rig the remote control so that every time he switches between the game, ESPN and the Lingerie Bowl, your remote control vibrator panties buzz you into bliss.

3. Why stop there? Benwa Ball leagues are forming around cities across the nation. Start practicing now. It's easy: think of your kegel muscles as the line of scrimmage.

4. If none of the above work, resort to retail therapy. What’s in your wallet? Why his credit card, of course! Click "buy now" on your Victoria’s Secret wish list once if his team scores a touchdown and twice every time you see cheerleader crotch shot.

And heck, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Sit back and enjoy. The commercials are great and if all goes well, Fergie might even have a wardrobe malfunction! Remember: sex is the tax he pays for football and as every fanatic knows, there's always hope for a Hail Mary!

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