South Beach Sucks!

Ahh, South Beach in good ole’ Miami, Florida - home of the beautiful people, sexy models, and some of this nation’s finest nightlife. Surely, there would be no better place in the world for a stratospheric high-climbing Internet celeb like myself. In the past, I had often complained about having to hang with the plebeians. As CEO of the Ugly Webcam Girl Bitch Slapping Consulting Firm (I will pitch you on this further) with a bevy of new clients at the Internext Porn Convention in Miami, surely, South Beach would be a welcome escape.

As a charter member of The Order Of The Moderately Successful, I'm not officially a baller. However, I do hang around with ballers, and therefore am a Baller by Association, and I'm still hustled into the VIP rooms at the hottest clubs in South Beach.

Indeed, South Beach is populated by the most superficial people east of Hollywood. It’s also the hottest spot north of Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell, so I can’t comprehend its appeal to the old Jewish ladies who inexplicably flock to this sweltering locale. Surely, they have not felt this kind of heat since 1941. With that in mind, remember these three rules when visiting South Beach:

1. What you drive up in, determines whom you will be driving home with.
2. How you dress determines who you’ll be undressing.
3. Always Armor-All your shirt.

I went down with Paul. No, not down ON Paul, down WITH him. Paul and I were already smacking the shammy across our shiny shirts, making a futile effort at the gym to work off that day’s bocadillos con chorizo, and gaining a deeper appreciation for hair care products in preparation for our big night out. Yes, this would be a glorious night of topnotch VIP treatment in South Beach – the place to see and be seen! South Beach, to its credit, is loaded with gaggles of hot snizz-o-la. Upstanding, poon-thirsty gentlemen like Paul and me are willing to endure many tribulations to get our drink on and make our nuts do the windmill, but what we thought would be a glorious all-expense-paid night out in the SBC turned into what I like to refer to as the Tenth Circle Of Hell for the following reasons:

1. NIGHT OF THE LIVING METROSEXUALS: For those of you not familiar with the term, a metrosexual is a guy who appears to be gay, but whose true homo tendencies still lay dormant. Think GQ Magazine. Think Calvin Klein ads. Not having consummated said tendencies makes them officially straight, but as a wizened cabbie quipped to us, “What’s the difference between a straight man in South Beach and a gay man in South Beach? About three drinks.” The markings of a metrosexual are shiny shirt, hair coifed/gelled to perfection, shaved chest, and a vanity so intense he probably does a few extra pushups just so he looks “extra buff” as he gets out of his mid-model BMW that he wishes was a Porsche. He will be at the club applying the Wearing Down Mack Approach to as many local women as possible to overcompensate for his latent gayness. WARNING: Recently, there have been scattered reports of metrosexuals traveling in packs and disguised in mesh hats – beware, they can be a cunning breed.
(On a side note, its little wonder that the Metrosexuals are drawn to places like these because these clubs are GAY AS HELL – white walls, chairs shaped like crescent moons, no Budweiser products, and never-ending techno. I’ll bet that if whoever designed these places had as many dicks poking out of him as he has had poking into him, he would look like a fucking PENIS PORCUPINE! I prefer a dark place where I can just vomit in the corner.)

2. VELVET ROPE PRISONS: Yeah, that’s right, step aside bitch – we are VIP muthafuckers! Or are we? See, once you get there, you still think that you aren’t there yet, because here is pretty lame. Seems to me, a typical night at one of these hot spots goes something like this:

Huddle outside in a sea of metrosexuals, until a security goon recognizes your VIPenis and lets you in ahead of the riff-raff.

You say, “Fuck these peons!” and stroll past the next velvet rope into the VIP Area, only to still be slammed elbows-to-asshole with EVEN MORE goddamned annoying metrosexuals.

You exit the VIP Room to find a less crowded area, jump back one Velvet Rope, and then reality hits you...

3. THESE DRINKS AIN’T GONNA BUY THEMSELVES, BITCH: Not with the V.I.Penises anymore? It’s time to pony up for some drinks, which, if you’re lucky, you might only have to mortgage one or two vital organs to purchase. Two shots of Jager and two Budweisers = 34 USD! Wait one second, did you say 34 FUCKING BUCKS?! Fuck this.

Sounds like it sucks, right? Not for these idiots! Somewhere in the world right now, a metrosexual is trying to claw his way past the Velvet Rope Prison. He will stand in line, night after night, hour after hour, and drop $50 just to mix with the other plebes! If he is ever “lucky enough” to make it to the VIP, he’ll have to pawn his sister’s uterus just to buy an apple martini for a piece of loose snatch dancing on the bar. I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.
My problem with the metrosexual is a philosophical one: if you primp like a fag, preen like a fairy, and wear pornstar shades that would make Liberace spackle his sequined shorts with envy, how can you possibly consider yourself masculine - because you tag a lot of ass? A woman who fucks a metrosexual is doing so because she secretly wants someone to exchange hair care tips with, and she’s probably only three slippery nipples away from making out with her girlfriend. Again, I’m not hatin’ on that, but it hardly jibes with the caveman’s club-her-on-the-head-and-drag-her-to-your-lair theorem upon which masculinity is based. I’ve puked on women, belched in their faces, and defecated in their beds, and yet they all came back for more. On any given day, I’ve slapped three bitches in the mouth by noon, but if the metrosexuals had their way, we’d all be slapping ass in the Versace men’s dressing room.

You stinking metrosexual bastard, you.