Strip N' Slide (WARNING:R-RATED IMAGES HEREIN)

One of the wonderful, wonderful things about living in South Florida is that during the third week in January, you can open up your inbox and get and email like this:

Hi guys,
My roommate is going to throw a bit of a party on Friday night and it looks like it will be getting out of hand. He wants to have a slip n slide in the house (since its horribly empty now) for a fun little diversion and a few kegs, bottles, jello shots etc to go along with it.

Hmmmmm....Slip n' slide + Tile Floor + a few kegs + jello shots = Somebody gettin' they head split-the-fuck open. What my host failed to mention was that there was a surprise for everone at the end, which you will see if you continue reading. Now, you know I like phtoblogging about as much as I like eating thumbtacks, but this story is sooo much better told through pictures.

NOTE: I APPEAR IN NONE OF THESE PICTURES. SO DO NOT ASK.

Yeah, so I guess by "It's about to get out of hand," Jason meant "We're having a stripper come by after we kill 2 kegs and 150 Jello shots." His girlfriend was a little pissed when the stripper grabbed him and his roommate and took them together down the Slip N' Slide, but otherwise a good time was had by all. Except for Graig who, when introduced to every girl at the party was greeted by, "Oh, you're that guy form the Christmas Card on the fridge!"

You Wanted White Girls...You Got 'em!

Redneck nation was in full effect this weekend in South Florida, as 99.9 KISS Country was nice enough to throw their 21st annual Chili Cook-Off at CB Smith Park in Pembroke Pines. If I ever complained about there being a lack of white people in South Florida, I really should have rephrased that. There is a shortage of white people in Dade County. Broward is as redneck as they come. This became quite evident as the Country Music luminaries of Gretchen Wilson and Keith Urban descended upon a park full of 30,000 screaming rednecks. Of course, taking me to a concert featuring the CMA Male and Female vocalists of the year would be like taking someone from MIssissippi to Ultra. “Any a these guys do any ackshul singin’? All it looks to me is thar plan’ a buncha records. Sounds lahk mah kid on his dag-gum casio.” I digress. The point is I was less interested in the music than the throngs of scantily clad white girls running around drunk off of Coors Light.

There is apparently a new-ish trend among redneck girls (and I do love redneck girls. I want to marry one) of having leather belts with their names engraved in the back. This, I believe, was developed so that they could figure out which men they talk to can actually read before going any further. I suppose this is a serious problem in many parts of the South. One particular girl with “Mandy” etched on her waistline below a tattoo of something involving the Stars and Bars, had on a T-shirt that I wanted to read.

It was emblazoned with the Rebel flag and had some long diatribe that began “I salute the flag of the southern states…blah,blah,blah,” and was very hard to read in my chili-and-beer induced stupor. So one of my friends and I stopped her to read her shirt, and as we did, my friend took a liking to her chubby little friend. I, being the good wingman that I am, figured I would make conversation with this pock-marked, yellow-toothed Broward County Beauty. How bad could it be?

“I like your shirt,” I told her, trying to make conversation.
“Yeah, I fucking hate black people,” she replied. Wow. Okay. This effectively ruined the “Heritage Not Hate” conversation I was about to spark up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, I think we should just string ‘em all up from trees. It’s funny, too, because among my friends they all know I am like the biggest racist on earth, but for some reason black guys just keep coming up to me. And I tell them ‘Look, I fucking hate all y’all black people’ and they still stick around. Good thing I know all the bouncers at Round Up (the local country bar and site of the official Chili Cook-off “Pre-Party”). Last night this one guy was all up on me and Larry, the bouncer? well, he’s a cop too, and he says, ‘Mandy, you want me to arrest this nigger or string him up from a tree?’ I said, ‘Larry, you know if it was up to me I’d have his ass swingin’ from that pine tree in a heartbeat, but you’re a cop so you gotta arrest him.’” WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU SAY TO THAT!!??? I paused for a minute, looked over at my friend who was now dancing with his little butterball, and knew I’d have to somehow continue to engage this bastion of tolerance.
“So, ah, do you go to Round Up much?”
“That’s the only goddam club I go to. The rest are fulla spics and black people (oddly enough, I never heard this girl use the word “nigger”). I been there Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. I told you, I know everybody in there.”
“So you’re from Lauderdale?”
“Yep. Born and raised. My family been down here for four generations. I was raised in a real white supremacist house. Like, my daddy was in the Klan, my granddaddy was in the Klan, and his daddy was in the Klan too. I’m fourth generation Klan.”
Hmmm, now may not be the best time to mention that I’m Jewish. I was scouring my brain for an appropriate response and all I could manage was;
“Really? I did this report when I was in school about a lynching in Ft. Lauderdale in the 30’s. Were they involved?” She didn’t know. She asked me where I was from. I told her I lived in Miami.
“Damn, y’all live all the way down there and you come all the way up here? For what?”
“We like white girls,” I replied. Which is true. But I guess the old adage is true about too much of a good thing. Apparently it does get worse than the spoiled Jewish/Cuban girls you find in Miami. Of course, I don't think I'll be going out on any dates with Klu Klux Mandy.



Perhaps I’ll see her again when we go to Round Up on Thursday for line dancing lessons. Althgouh secretly, I'm kind of scared she'll learn my last name and ask Larry to string me up from the pine tree in the fornt. I will keep y’all posted on how this venture goes. I am not exactly Fred Astair, hell, I’m not even Fred Flintstone when it comes to dancing, but I am eager to learn. Should be entertaining.

Relax, Ron, Sacramento Isn't That Bad

Ron Artest, welcome to the Capitol City! While I know the phrase “You’ve been traded to Sacramento,” is the NBA equivalent of hearing, “The judge denied your request for clemency,” that’s what you get for being an out of control whack job. You didn’t really think they were going to send you to Miami, did you? But Ron, even though Chris Webber has claimed to have cried when seeing nothing but rice fields driving from the Airport to the Arena, I assure you there is plenty to do in the place often referred to as “The NBA’s Siberia.” And, honestly, Ron, it’s not like you’re coming from New York. Unless you have a previously unknown penchant for the IRL or regular-season football, there ain’t much you were getting in Indy that you can’t get in Sac. Except sub-30 degree temperatures.

Luckily for you, Mr. Artest, I happen to be a native of Sacramento. And since Governor Arnold is not exactly rolling out the welcome mat for you, I would be remiss if I did not let you know some of the wonderful things about California’s Capitol City:

1. The Railroad Museum – This is exactly as exciting as it sounds. If you are as fascinated by freight hauling as I am.

2. Old Town – Because no other city in America can boast an “Old Town”

3. Arco Arena – You will not have to deal with any of those “parking,” “traffic,” or “other physical structure” issues that plague inconvenient downtown arenas. Nor will you have to encounter any actual “people” until you arrive at practice. Just watch where you step when you go back to your car.

4. The Capitol Building – Should you decide to raise your kids in Sacramento, there will be no shortage of places to go on field trips

5. The American River – Oh, wait. You can’t swim, can you? Never mind.

6. Los Angeles – Yes, the gleaming Hollywood Hills and Sandy Beaches of LA are only a short drive away. At least they are if you ask anyone from the East Coast. Feel free to start cursing me around hour 5.

7. Skiing – Only three hours of traffic up snow and ice covered US-50 has you in Lake Tahoe for some of the best winter sports in the country. The best time to go is typically November thought April or, as you might know it, basketball season.

8. Vibrant Nightlife – I believe Vlade Divac is the city’s most high-profile club owner.

9. San Francisco – (Noticing a theme, Ron? Half the things on this list are actually other places) Sacramento has been called “overflow parking for the bay area,” which his pretty accurate as it is a long shuttle ride down I-80. And when you hear people say, “I’m going to the city,” they don’t mean they’re going to downtown Sac.

10. Cal Expo – Though Sacramento has not managed to lure the big-dollar sport of thoroughbred racing yet, we do feature a lovely, state-of-the-art harness track. Because nothing says class like harness racing.

11. Sutter’s Fort – I lived in Sacramento for five years and I still have no idea what this place is. My guess: there was some guy named Sutter and he built a fort. (Sidenote: If you go by my boyhood home on 34th Street, you can see the historical “Meltzer’s Fort,” built entirely out of couch cushions and old bed sheets)

12. Sacramento Rivercats Baseball – Sacramento has the best attendance in all of AAA baseball. This is what happens when there’s nothing…..I mean “That’s because Sacramento has the best sports fans in the world!”

13. Ahhh…..
14. Okay…….
15. I got it……
16. No, never mind, I don’t……

Okay, look. There’s a reason they’ve sold out an 18,000 seat arena for 20 straight years. And it ain’t the winning tradition. But, look on the birght side; in two years you are going to be playing at The Palms anyway. So if you can just find yourself some fans to fight and some teammates to belittle between now and then, I guarantee your stay with the Kings organization will be a pleasant one.

Graig Makes a Splash in His Blogosphere Debut

Not that I am at all Angelina's biggest fan. In fact, some days I read her blog if for no other reason than to infuriate myself. But I read this post today and have been discussing it with several people via email all morning.

The inherent miscommunication, gender dynamics and gender politics contained in this short paragraph are way too much for my little fitness trainer’s brain to comprehend on two hours of sleep. It basically serves to show how little women understand about men and vice versa. Especially when you are young. And unfortunately this type of situation is when that lack of communication and understanding can have some truly horrible consequences. On both sides. Situations like the one she describes are how guys who believe they are innocent end up in jail, and girls who think they made their intentions clear get hurt. I blame alcohol. We should all just become Mormons and none of this shit would happen. But my boy Graig had a much better take.

Christmas Card Boy comments at the end of Angelina's post and pretty much sums up the male perspective on this issue:

"agreed that if you say no, the guy should stop. but let's get something clear, and it's no one's fault but your own if you can't grasp this concept: guys like to have sex. if you are even a little unsure about whether you want to sleep w/ some guy, then dont go back to his place or have him over to yours. and if you frequently drink too much to make this happen, then perhaps you should look more closely at your apparent drinking problem than the guys you meet when you are drunk. nip it in the bud. if you put yourself in this situation then that is your bad. take responsibilty instead of saying how guys are such assholes and love to rape girls. too many girls have made shifting blame and responsibilty a favorite pasttime... "

His comment was exponentially better than mine, and inspired a debate over several more comments. I have now used Graig’s material twice in two weeks here, and he has seemed to inspire some lively conversation among some of Angelina’s readers. Since I know he lacks the time to keep a reguilar blog, as it would cut in to poker and spinning, perhaps I should just have him as a regular contributor. “Posted by Graig” or something. What do you think?

To The Crackhead Who Ruined My Lunch at Taco Bell

Dear Mr. Crackhead;

Bro, you know I have exactly two options for lunch every day: Taco Bell and Pollo Tropical. While both are thoroughly unappetizing, I must make the inevitable choice or else suffer through an afternoon of hunger pangs and unreasonable outbursts at co-workers and clients. (Goddamit, Katie, why the fuck are the 25 pound weights racked where the 20s are supposed to be?! You think this is fucking Bally's or something?! What the fuck is wrong with you?!) And while lunch at a restaurant that features meat in plastic bags is probably the most unappetizing thing I can imagine outside of this, I try to make the best of it.

Which is why I must ask you why you found it necessary to walk in to the South Dade Shopping Center Taco Bell at the exact time I was sitting down with my number 6, no cheese. Why did you have to pick the precise moment I had finished slathering my Chicken Fiesta Burrito in Fire Sauce to cross over US-1 from your shack in Richmond Heights, stand at the door, and start cackling maniacally for no particular reason? Were you just hell bent on ruining my only real meal of the day? Did you want me to think you may very well have dynamite strapped to your chest, and be preparing to blow me, a Cuban family of six, and the Mensa convention working in the back, sky high? Because I did. Did you want images going through my head of a Channel 7 News-copter showing what was left of my little neighborhood Taco Bell, with a tagline of “14 Confirmed Dead in South Miami-Dade Taco Bell Tragedy?"

Because, dude, I really don’t want the last thing I ever taste to be a chalupa. I don’t even want anybody knowing I eat at Taco Bell, for that matter. If I die, the headline will no doubt read “Marine Killed in Taco Bell Blast.” You know what that means? It means my name will forever be linked with the people who brought us the Double-Decker taco, that’s what. It means that all the Fox News watchers who don’t bother reading articles will say things like, “See honey, things are going just fine in Iraq. They already have a Taco Bell.” They will undoubtedly put my official Marine Corps photo on the news too (which they do every time a Marine dies, even if it is of something completely unrelated to the Corps. Like Chlamydia.) which makes me look like a dorky little kid wearing a hat that is too big for his head. Thanks.

Mr. Crackhead, you forced me to pick up my quasi-Mexican food and take it back to my office. My office, in case you didn’t know, has floor to ceiling windows looking out on a gym. And nothing screams “Fitness and Nutrition Expert” like shoveling a 7-layer Burrito into your mouth. You could very well have ruined my career had I worked at gym with more than 12 members. You are lucky, Mr. Crackhead, very lucky. Because if I lost my job because of you, don’t think the first place I’d go after I got evicted isn’t that back room in your crack house. And I’m warning you, I hit people in my sleep.

Sincerely,
White Dade

Please Excuse Our Mess....

We apologize for any inconvenience, but like the rest of the county, White Dade is under construciton. And, lucky for you, since this is White Dade and not Regular Dade, the construction should be finished on time and under budget, roughly by the end of the week. You may already have noticed some improvements in the aesthetics and features of this blog today, but for those who are a bit slow on the uptake, here is a quick guide:

Dade County’s Finest List – Note: This is not a link to the Miami-Dade Police Department, The last thing I need are those bastards knowing about anything I do. No, it is a list of posts that have either gotten a lot of comments for one reason or another or ones that people (my mom) told me they particularly liked. And there is a lot of crap to weed through in my archives, so I thought I’d make reading the good ones easy for potential new readers.

Blogroll – A year ago you tell me I’m getting a blogroll I’m thinking I either have a serious gastrointestinal blockage or that I’m going out for sushi. You tell me that today, and I say there is a list of 13 fine blogs and one ugly one just down and to your right on this screen. Should Dade County’s Finest and/or my extenisvie archives not satisfy your thirst for cut-rate amateur writing, feel free to visit any of the blogs listed. Some of them are kinda okay.

Catchy New Titles – No more blah default titles that blogger gave me. No sir, not here. Here at White Dade we come up with original titles for our sidebars like “The Latest From Miami.” If anyone has a better name for my recent posts, please feel free to advise.

Yes, that is ALF – A friend of mine told me I was coming off like an asshole on my blog. This, I think, is probably a good thing because most bloggers I read that are regularly referred to as “assholes,” “jackasses” and “bastards” get roughly 14 million hits a day. So I will continue my snarky tone for the duration of White Dade’s lifespan. But in an effort to make myself a little more friendly and lighthearted, I have decided to put up ALF as my profile picture. Because who could really take virtual vitriol seriously when coming out of the mouth of a furry alien puppet? I think he will be replaced by a new 80’s icon each week. So keep a lookout for comments from Alan Thicke, Bea Arthur and Harry Hamlin.

I am planning some more neat things on here, hopefully a photo behind the header, a cooler font on the top and some links to other sites of interest. Is there anything any of my literally dozens of readers would like to see? Let me know. Also, if you check my profile, you will see I have also started a template blog to experiment with different stuff before I put it here. Don’t bother visiting it. Like so many people I know, it is completely devoid of any useful content.

*Special thanks to all of you who helped me figure out how to do this correctly.

The Secret to my Stress-Free Lifestyle

Tom Leykis is a fan of saying that nobody should ever get into a serious relationship before they are 25, and that is a bare minimum. For a long time I couldn't figure out why he said this, since I had been in a couple of them already (and was when I began listenign to his show). But as I grew older, I began to realize something: After college most girls don’t view relationships as a feeling out process, learning what you like and don’t like. No, most women will only enter into a relationship if they see a future in it. I could write for hours about my theories as to why women do this, but that is not my point today.

In college, having a “girlfriend” or “boyfriend” just means you have somebody to have sex with on a regular basis and bring to your fraternity/sorority formal. That’s it. Most people I know didn’t consider their college sweethearts marriage material, they see them more as practice so that you know what you’re doing when you actually have to be serious. Which is great. But after college, like everything else, things get more complicated. There is this little thing called “obligation’ that rears its ugly head. Some people do not seem to realize this, and insist on being in relationships for sexual access and possible monetary advantage. Alice wrote a list of advantages to being in a relationship last week, and I suppose there are some past the two I mentioned, but I felt the other side needed to be presented. To me, these far outweigh the incentives to the other.

A brief list:

1. No obligation to anybody to do anything
2. Freedom to fuck whoever you want without worrying about covering it up
3. No stress.
4. Taking vacations by yourself without being made to feel guilty
5. being able to spend time with friends of the opposite sex without being badgered about it
6. Being able to spend time with friends of the same sex without being badgered about it
7. No nagging feeling that you could probably do better
8. No nervous wreck period or playing "Check the Cell Phone"

I could go on and on and on all day. But being single in your twenties, as far as I am concerned, is the smart way to go.

The White Dade Campaign to Save Matt Johnson

Dear Blogosphere;

Matt Johnson needs your help. Until a few months ago, the self-proclaimed “King of the One Man Party” was relegated to weekends involving a 30-pack of Stroh's and watching “NWA: The Best of the 80’s” And I ain’t talking about the the pioneering street rappers from Compton. I’m talking about Dusty Rhodes, Boogey Woogie Man Jimmy Valiant and Ric Flair. Yes, that NWA. Which you wouldn’t expect, what with Johnson being black and all. But I digress.

For most of his life, Johnson’s sexual conquests were mostly limited to black-out drunk Tavern. patrons, underage girls that his amateur porn-director uncle set him up with and waitresses at Chi Chi's. And some hideously, hideously fat women. Johnson, actually, has held the belt (an award given to the man who has slept with the fattest girl) on multiple occasions. So it was pretty obvious to everyone what would happen when a tall, leggy blonde. decided that she wanted to make poor Matt Johnson her personal plaything.


JOHNSON WAS SO EXCITED, HE GLADLY AWARDED "THE BELT" TO A NEW CHAMP

She was a former UVA football groupie (and, really, if you’re going to be a groupie, UVA?! I mean, seriously, if you are going to give up any pretense of morality and be a groupie, aka the lowest form of human life, you may as well do it for a decent team. Miami. Florida State. Texas. But Christ, UVA? Have some self respect) which should have immediately raised a red flag. As that ever so wise urban philosipher Ludacris once said “You can’t turn a ho into a housewife, ho’s don’t act right.” But facing a future of nothing but belt contenders, he ignored it. When he took a trip to Miami in November, he spent half the time he was here on the phone with her justifying himself for going to visit his friends. I had flashbacks to my coke-addict stripper girlfriend and immediately went into convulsions.

A few weeks ago they had a fight and she went out and fucked one her ex’s, most likely a UVA football player. Johnson took her back, and this is his fault. But some subscribe to the “Everyone deserves a second chance” school of thought, so we just shook our heads and let it go. Then, again, last night she apparently went out and did the same thing again. Johnson is a G-Dub fan, so perhaps he was confused when President Bus Short said “We have a saying here in Texas…Fool me once, shame on you…wait, no, fool you twice, shame on….fool me twice shame on…no, uh.” So perhaps he needs explained to him that most Americans with an IQ over 9 (aka those who are not G-dub fans) know that it’s supposed to say “Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me.” Johnson, let her fool him twice. Shame on him.

We are all supportive of Matt Johnson. We are good friends. But, ladies and gentleman, this good black man needs your help. We cannot stand by idly and allow this woman to continue to do whatever she likes while dragging Matt Johnson through the mud. The Matt Johnson I know is a strong individual who would not let a woman drive him to a weekend of drinking Gilbey’s and watching Wrestlemanias I-XIX. Perhaps a UM football loss, but not a woman. He needs your help. He needs to know that while it’s tough to find anything over a 4 to have sex with, jerking it to Skinemax is a hell of a lot better than what this bitch is doing to him. He needs to know that being single is great. No more drunken arguments, no more fending off asshole UVA football players, no more stress, no more justifying visits to your friends. No, he won’t get laid nearly as much as he’d like to, but ultimately he will enjoy life a lot more than he did when he was with a girl that didn’t treat him well.

So, Blogosphere, I am asking for your help. No money is required, just a simple visit to his blog, or mine, and leaving some advice in the comments section telling him that this girl is no good for him. Together, I know that we can save Matt Johnson.

Thank you for your support.
White Dade

All it Takes is a Little Arrogance

I have to assume that the various police departments of Dade County read my blog. Because how else could I explain having my license run not once but TWICE in 72 hours? Write two lousy posts about how you are above the Dade County Traffic Code and every goddam cop in South Florida seems to have it in for me. I'm sure the APB went out last week something like this:

"Keep on the lookout for a Baby Blue Saturn with Wahsington State licence plates and a Marine Corps Bumber Sticker. That is White Dade. He Thinks he's the shit."

Since the Hag felt it neccsary to try and steal a table from Johnny Rocket's in the Grove Tuesday night RIGHT IN FRONT OF A CITY OF MIAMI COP CAR, above my objections I might add, I got my license run that evening. Even though I was a good thiry feet away from the Hag and his table. It is hard enough to get a COM to get out of his car, much less run your license. Thanks, Hag. Never mind that I may still have an outstnading bench warrant from some unpaid non-moving violations in 2002. Forunately, in true Miami cop fashion, he said, "You guys better find your way home. We don't need you making trouble in the Grove." Basically saying "Go drink and drive down in Pinecrest, 'cuz I don't want to have to write you up for it now."

Then today as I go to lunch I got my Florida Moving Violation cherry popped as one of Palmetto Bay's finest saw it fit to cite me for trying to sneak into the left turn only lane while trying to turn South onto US-1. A move I have made dozens of times before. But they knew. That is the last time I brag about getting away with anything even mildly illegal on this blog. Because I know they are all listening.....

This Blog is WORTHLESS!

So apparently there’s this thing called Technorati which, among other things, tracks the number of links to your blog and serves as a sort of blog search engine for specific topics and probably a bunch of other things that I am highly unaware of. To tell you the truth, I have absolutely no idea what Technorati does, but I do think the name is kind of cool. It sounds like an Italian sports car. I’m sure everyone in New York knows what Technorati is, but, as someone so bluntly told me this week, "You're not in on the New York Scene." Anyway, this brilliant advance in human technology has been used to power this amazing calculator that now allows you to see how much your blog is worth.

I have absolutely no idea how this is formulated, since blogs are FREE. This meaning that no monetary value would be assigned to them. I am also not aware of any blogs that currently have any assets that could be credited to their Technorati value. There is no Opinionista Annuity, no Stephanie Klein Savings Bond, no TAN Treasury Bill, so how on Earth do you amass blog wealth? Traffic? Links? Sleeping with the guy who formulated this shit? Well, whatever it is, White Dade ain’t doin’ it. Upon entering my URL in their handy little box I was presented with this:

My blog is worth $0.00.
How much is your blog worth?

Nothing??!! Zero??!! C’mon! I mean, the picture of Graig's blind date alone is worth at least a nickel! The Andy Harnik photography? The rants about The Hag? Some of that has to be worth something! If Larry is worth 40 grand, I’ve gotta be rating at least, I don’t know, five bucks? No, no apparently my collection of words on an LCD monitor are worth less than the screen they are printed on. But this led me to wonder: How are some of the other blogs I read valued, and, more importantly, why? Some results

The Assimilated Negro (TAN) - $14,113.50. Respectable total for one of my favorites, but if this formula is indeed based on links then Patrice here is clearly the master of self-promotion. Read his blog and you’d think he had his own category on AOL.

The Daily Dump - $25,968.80. Seeing as how Dan has written about nothing but CSI for the last year, I would have to assume this is all CBS money.

The IJC - $13,548.96. This is the first guy to link me, and I’ve linked him several times as well, which I am guessing accounts for roughly half of his net worth. You’d think a Jewish guy would be able to make his blog worth more, though.

Industry Whore - $35,001.48. Wow! A 35,000 hooker? That is one expensive piece of ass. I guess the going rate in Hollywood is a little more than it is 150 miles south .

Rum & Popcorn - $0. This only seems fitting as Ali is probably the best writer out of this group. Good. It is nice to know that these values have absolutely nothing to do with talent. Which brings me to my next point…...

Manhattan Transfer - $50,808.60. Worst widely-read blog I’ve seen that does not involve celebrity gossip. Remember that rant I went on a few posts ago about things I hate about other blogs - ? Here’s your inspiration.

Tales of A Delectable Redhead - $4516.00 (EasyJournal) $7339.02 (Blogger). Okay, this one makes absolutely ZERO sense to me. The latter blog is never updated, while the first is updated daily and was linked by Gawker. Am I missing something? Alice's total net worth is around twelve grand, which leads me to believe I should start publishing White Dade in multiple formats since her content is exactly the same in both blogs. Of course, 8 times nothing is still…..well, you get the picture.

DrunkBrunch - $4516.32. Very underrated blog that has a whopping 421 profile views (this is the only stat I am able to access) since June. That’s almost as bad as me, so, again, how she is worth 32 cents more than a blog linked by Gawker?...A mystery.

Johnson 3:16 - $0. I didn’t even have to look it up. Still worth more than his last car.

This formula to me is like a blogging version of the BCS. Replace words like “linked” with “beat by 45” and “Gawker” with “Florida State” and you have a nearly identical argument. I have no idea how they figure out either one. All I know is that it makes about as much sense as it did to have Nebraska playing Miami in the Rose Bowl the year UM won it all. Come to think of it, I could probably do one of those cute “Blogger/College Football Team” comparisons that they do with Simpsons and South Park characters, but not enough people who read this would have any idea what I am talking about. Perhaps I’ll save it for next year when White Dade will be worth, without a doubt, at least a buck fifty.

Beer Pong: The Greatest Game Ever Played

There is no other game on Earth like it. It requires epic coordination, intense concentration and the alcohol tolerance of your typical Irishman. It brings people together and separates the men from the boys, the girls from the broads. It inspires greater debate among young people than any political or ideological issue. It is beautiful and ugly at the same time. It is greatness. It is glory. It is…Beer Pong.

Colloquially referred to as Beruit (and if anyone knows the origins of this term please do let me know) this game involves sinking a ping pong ball in a quarter filled cup of beer at the other end of a table. The cups are set up in a sort of pyramid shape of either 6 or ten cups. The first team to sink all of the other team’s cups wins. I could explain more, but pretty much everybody who reads this has played, so you know what I am talking about. And, like sex, no two people play by the same rules.

I have gotten in fights over when to re-rack (5 or 4 cups? Or just two per game), when to pull a cup (mid-turn or after both players have shot) rebuttals (one shot? Shoot till you miss? Shoot till your team misses?) putting two balls in one cup (bring it back or remove every cup touching it) elbow or line rule. We now have a sort of Captain’s meeting before each game to make sure these things are ironed out early.

I have also gotten in fights over who has next on the table at the Tavern. I have had University of Miami football players nearly 100 pounds heavier and six inches taller refuse to buy a pitcher as the challenger. I don’t care if you were the #1 recruited lineman in America, nobody drinks for free on my pong table. We stood at a face off with the better part of Miami’s defensive line for a good half hour until one of their buddies bought the pitcher for them so we could play. They beat us in about three minutes. I guess lineman are good Pong players. But we didn’t back down. That is Pong pride, baby.

You can determine a lot about a man by how he plays beer pong. We take Tuesday night Pong as seriously as most middle-aged men take Tuesday night rec-league basketball. A losing night kicks off seven solid days of depression, not shaving, and practicing until the taste of Bud Light makes you go into fits of projectile vomiting. A winning night sees you going home with pong groupies and doing cocaine off of their ass.

Love can be found across a beer pong table. Any woman who will drink a beer that has had a ping-pong ball shot into it that has been rolling all over a dirty bar floor will not hesitate to put much of anything in her mouth. Hell, that’s just flavoring. Girls who are pong regulars are kind of like girls who are racetrack regulars; They have that degenerate edge that lets you know they’re not expecting you to take them anywhere nice. Hell, they're not expecting you to take them anywhere at all. Except maybe home. I wonder how many couples met and subsequently got quickie wedding at this year’s World Series of Beer Pong

Beer Pong is the only game you play better the more you drink. I know Mickey Mantle used to get a nice buzz before every game, but I have won games of Beer Pong I don’t even remember playing. I have seen teams get on a table and struggle through a game with a couple of girls down for Spring Break from Towson State, then proceed to kick the crap out of every group of guys they play, winning the last game in three turns. Then going home with the Pong groupie of the night and going at it for hours and hours on end, fueled by nothing but Miller Lite and glory.

God Bless you, Beer Pong! You give athletic prowess to fat, out of shape beer drinkers in a way no other sport not called “Baseball” can. You make Tuesday Night superstars out of regular guys. You make ugly women beautiful, poor men kings and cheap beer delicious. You are poetry. You are divine. You are…Beer Pong.

PHOTOS COURTESY ANDREW HARNIK PHOTOGRAPHY, INC.

Confessions of a Supplement Junkie

The cycle usually goes something like this: A half hour in you start to feel the brain-bleed, where you can actually feel the neuro-transmitters in your brain moving faster through your synapses. Next your eyes become large and you begin to do everything faster. Soon you feel the need to move. If you are working out, about an hour in you will “blow up,” and every set you do or every step you run is the most intense and electrifying you have ever experienced. This lasts about 15 minutes, then you settle in to state of increased energy for about another two hours. Towards the end you begin to look a little strung out, mouth open, eyes sagging. At this point, once you sit down you will only be able to stare straight ahead and not say much of anything. Then comes the Drop, You immediately feel the need to take nap or lie down. If you are seated or lying down, you will probably dose off for about ten minutes. After you wake up, you will be extremely hungry. Once you eat, you will have concluded the Cycle, except for your increased body temperature. If you go to sleep right after you take it, you will most likely sweat through your sheets.

AHH, XENADRINE. HOW WE MISS YOU...

What am I describing? Coke? Speed? Ecstasy? Some undefined chemical concoction of household cleaners and cold medication? No, what I am talking about is ephedra. Remember ephedra? The “weight-loss” herb derived from the Ma Huang plant that was all the rage at the turn of the millennium. Used by college students, girls with body-image issues, truck drivers and athletes of all levels? Yes, that wonder drug. The king of all these products was Xenadrine RFA-1, perhaps the closest thing to legalized speed that will ever exist. This was the only endorsement contract Edgerrin James ever got as far as I can remember, and how appropriate that a guy who grew up watching people smoke crack in Immokalee should be endorsing a product that will triple your heart rate.

Back in the day you could get 120 capsules for about $24. A good Xena-Trip required two capsules, three sent you into Euphoria, four downright cracked you out. So, for about forty to eighty cents, you could have an experience that was, as my drug expert friend Russ said after popping some and doing three miles on the treadmill, akin to low-grade ecstasy. Although I have had some ecstasy that was far less enjoyable than a good Xena-Trip. We used to take it and go to South Beach, drinking only water and Red Bull all night. I used to take it before 8 AM classes after a night of drinking. I even tried taking it before sex once, but that was not a good idea (ephedra, apparently, is a vasoconstrictor. Draw your own conclusions). I have taken two to four capsules of Xenadrine, or something like it, for almost every workout I have participated in since 2000. That is probably around 1300 workouts. At an average of 30 mg per workout, that is about 40 grams of pure ephedra over 5+ years.

Working out on ephedra is one of the most intense experiences I have ever had. Pure adrenaline mixed with increased blood flow and energy. With the right music and proper rest, you feel unbeatable for the entire duration of your trip to the gym. Everyone is your friend. You are the most in-shape person in the building. Nobody can touch you in this place. Working out without it now is kind of like going to a bar and drinking water all night.

But wait, you say! Wasn’t ephedra banned two years ago by the FDA because they found it to be unsafe? Two words for you, my friend: E BAY (outbid me on this and I kill you). And ephedra is only unsafe if you are overweight with a heart/liver condition and take it while working out in a sweatsuit outdoors in Florida in March. The idiots ruin it for the rest of us.

People have tried to get me to stop. I had neighbors in Newport who did cocaine like it was 1985 and used to look at my bottles of Ripped Fuel and say, “Oh, no, I’m not fucking with that shit.” This confused me on so many levels, but it just shows what negative media attention will do. My old boss tried to get me on an ephedra cessation program. Perhaps if they come out with the ephedra patch I will try that approach. I have days now where my head is full of cobwebs until I pop my little grey capsules, which is probably not a good thing. But the same could be said for people who have to have their morning coffee, or their cigarettes. So don’t judge me. We all have our vices. Mine is a dietary supplement.

Blind Dates With Overweight Redheads - Not A Good Idea

So today has been a landmark day for White Dade. First, I believe I was linked for the first time ever, albeit by a blog that was mentioned in the title of the linked piece. But still, not bad for a guy with 95 profile views (I think TAN gets that in like an hour). Second, I became privvy to my first ever piece of blogsphere gossip. Not big or relevant news to anybody, really, but I still feel privilaged. And, lastly we have our first ever guest contributor to White Dade, one Mr. Greg Smith. Greg, for the nine of you who read this and don't know me, is the indivdual who sent me the photo essay about the girl he had slept with that inspired a post last week, and is also the guy who went on the blind date with the fat girl. He wrote an account of the situation that I found rather comical. Since Greg does not have the massive public forum that I do (actually, I believe his email forwarding list is exponentially bigger than my readership) I agreed to post his story. So, ladies and gentlemen, I give you "The Blind Date."

THE BLIND DATE

One of the more inexplicable and mystifying customs of which young men regularly engage in our society today remains to be the blind date. What drives these young lads to tempt such a fate? Is it desperation, lust, or just plain curiosity? Speaking only for myself, it was a combination of youthful curiosity and a why-the-hell-not attitude. Yes, I too rolled the die and committed myself to an evening with a woman I had never met. And while it was my first and thus far only blind date, I learned several important guidelines of this skewed and often sordid dating universe that I feel obligated to share with fellow young men across the country. Before I list a few pearls of wisdom,
Say hello to your new little friendlet me offer you this little universal tidbit of food for thought - and I implore you to keep it in the back of your mind and mull it over as you read on: Hot girls don’t need to be setup on blind dates.

1. The name. What insight can this offer, you ask? Have you ever noticed that hot girls tend to have hot names, and homely awkward girls tend to have, well homely and awkward sounding names? Tip number one - go with your gut. If the girl you are being setup with has a name like Dorothy or Edna, trust your gut instinct and decline.

2. The description. Ideally you want to see a picture of the girl/beast prior to actually going out with her. However, conveniently enough, this is usually not an option. Or if the friend setting you up is one of her friends, beware of a fake picture of a girl that you can at least stomach. Now pay close attention to the following – and this is where I should have been tipped off: if the friend says she, “Has big boobs and a big butt, but isn’t fat….” Run! Don’t listen to another word! I had an epiphany all too late; if a girl isn’t fat, then the word fat should never arise. No one would ever consider her to be fat, therefore the friend should never have to convince you that she is not fat. If the word fat is ever uttered, then it most assuredly means that the chick is, in all certainty, exactly that – a fatty-fat fat fat. Trust me.

3. The location. As a line in a great movie starring Harrison Ford once said, “Choose wisely.” By this I mean if you are actually considering going on a date with this pig after all you’ve read heretofore, do it in the utmost deserted of all watering holes. It is by the force of some unknown, higher natural law that should you choose to go anywhere even remotely popular, every single one of your friends will be there entirely by happenstance to bear witness to the most humiliating event you’ve endured in months. I know this, for it was my own downfall.

The above are merely guidelines, not to be taken as universal truths. But again, let us not forget – hot girls do not need to go on blind dates.

I will now provide for you a brief outline of the events of my first blind date, in hopes that you will learn from my mistakes and if nothing more, have a good chuckle or two.

I was informed that the “date” had meat on her, had big boobs and a big butt, but was not fat. I was also informed that she had red hair, a uniquely identifying trait in a city predominantly Latino. She suggested a local bar that was quite popular, and in my naivety, I agreed. My only saving grace was that I told her to meet me there rather than pick her up – make note of this. I arrived early in order to secure a spot at the bar, only to find that the place was packed. As I pondered my minor conundrum, I looked up to find a red-head with the build of one Sponge Bob Square Pants standing in front of me ordering a drink at the bar. “Oh Christ,” I thought, I hope that’s not her. A large part of me immediately died inside, as I knew this absolutely must be her. Yet some
If things go really badly…small part of me deep down inside – most likely spawned by years of reading the likes of The Little Engine That Could as a child - fought the urge to haul ass, clinging to the hope that perhaps this brute was not to be my fate and some smoking-hot red-head would walk through the door any minute.

As I watched her pull out her cell phone and begin dialing I knew she was preparing to call me, so I made the approach. Sure enough, it was her. I excused myself for a moment while I grabbed a drink at the crowded bar. While attempting to flag down the cocksucker bartender, I glanced across the bar to find a guy who looked a lot like my friend Joe looking back at me with a half-cocked smile. “That’s weird,” I thought. Then to his right I saw a girl that looked an awful lot like his girlfriend, and to her right someone who looked a lot like my French piece-of-shit friend. What the fuck are they doing here?? As they broke into unmitigated laughter on the other end of the bar, I simply turned the other way, wondering exactly what the fuck I had gotten myself into. They would be the first of many friends and acquaintances I would see that night, ensuring that this evening would be immortalized in the minds of many.

The rest is just glitz and glamour that I will leave to the imagination, until I finally ended the night with the declaration that I had to wake up early the next morning. This of course, was a lie.

Am I proud? Absolutely not. Mortified? Somewhat. But, if I can help at least one person, just one…….

About The Author: Greg (pronounced "Graig") Smith graduated from Florida State University in 2003 and currently is an analyst for Norwegian Cruise Lines. This means he analyzes shit. He currently lives with his mother in Palmetto Bay, Florida and enjoys talking to dudes, spinning, smoking weed, playing poker and hanging out with his friends Gayman, Brain, Studio and Frenchie. People say he looks like the lead singer from "Three Doors Down."

1986 is Alive and Well!

Imagine if you will, you are at your favorite Dance club on a Saturday night. It could be Space, Crobar, Sound Factory, Ruby Skye, Avalon, Opium, whatever. Beautiful people are dancing and smiling and acting like complete idiots because they are drunk or high on whatever the drug of the hour happens to be. Now you decide to take a break and go to the bathroom or have a cigarette or whatever it is you do, but when you come out, everyone has instantly aged 20 years. Same clothes, same club, same décor and same activities, but magically, everyone who was young and tight and beautiful is now middle aged and wrinkled and sagging. But still dressed like they were 20 years ago. The ridiculously smoking hot blonde with the breast implants that you were eyeing now looks like a career stripper at the end of her line, and that cute Asian girl you were dancing with now somewhat resembles your drycleaner. It’s like the last 20 years of partying caught up with them in the five minutes it took you to smoke that Marlboro. Kind of like “Cocoon” but backwards and gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Such was the scene Saturday night at Christopher's in Ft. Lauderdale. Christopher’s ("Never a Cover!") is one of those clubs where you have to be 27 to get in, so me and the Hag busted out our old Fake ID’s from college and decided to take the trip north. Always a good idea to be the youngest guy in the place when the average female is in her late thirties. Christopher’s looks a little like the Babylon Club form Scarface, with lines of Corvettes, Mercedes, Porches and the like lining the front entrance. I self-parked the Saturn in the dirt lot next door. The interior was completely lined with mirrors, which is great for looking at yourself, or the international drug lord you are trying to assassinate.

Our first indication that this was not going to be a normal evening was the man in the all white suit standing just after the entrance. If you can imagine a mid-80's John Oates wearing Sonny Crockett's clothes, you have our greeter at Christopher's. I immediately told the Hag he should alert the owners of Planet Hollywood, as it appeared that the wardrobe they had been so proudly displaying at their South Beach location had obviously been stolen.

As we listened to a pounding techno remix of “If You Want my Body” (yes, the music was also as updated ’86 as the people) and waded through the sea of receding hairlines and drooping facelifts we began to notice a disturbing trend: women with stomachs that screamed “I’ve had multiple c-sections” wearing belly shirts. With pierced navels. And mini skirts. The ones not sporting the girl mullet had hair teased out so far it hit you in the face before you could say hello. It was dark, so it was tough to get a good wrinkle-count, but suffice to say the good people at Kiehl’s could have set up a booth and made a killing. I shuddered to think what would happen if I left with one of these beauties and saw her in the floodlights that illuminated the parking lot.

This dance club filled with shady old men and women in their sexual prime seemed the perfect opportunity to just sit back and let the older ladies get me liquored up in an attempt to take me back to whatever house they got in their first divorce. But not so fast, White Dade! Because the ratio at Christopher’s was roughly 8:1 male to female, and the ladies didn’t have to work for anything. Apparently middle aged men are even more desperate than middle aged women. So everyone in the place with a clitoris was drinking for free. So much for turning the tables.

More white suits. Even more tight black t-shirts with protruding guts form the tucked-in waistline. Memo to middle aged men: Tight black t-shirts are designed for people who can see their feet. And even then, they went out about four years ago. Although I suppose if you are already wearing a white suit, this is somewhat irrelevant to you, isn’t it?

I about reached the end of my rope when I spotted a tall man sporting, and I swear to God this is true, a CRIMPED MULLET. Now, first off, do people with mullets know that their hairstyle has, in fact, been a running joke amongst everybody in the country for, oh, about the last five years? And even if you didn't know, why are you crimping it?! Was he getting ready back at his apartment in Davie and thought to himself, “Yeah, this three foot mullet is pretty rockin’, but you know what would make this thing really fucking rock? Some little artificial waves that make it look like I got my hair caught in a waffle iron! Yes! I am definitely getting laid tonight!” Where on earth did you even find a hair crimper?! Did you pull it out of that box marked “1987” in your attic when you were looking for those Kim Wilde tapes?

There are some upsides to Christopher’s though. I only saw two guys wearing striped shirts and jeans, a welcomed change form the sea of “Uniforms” that I see at every club in Miami. And the drink prices were definitely aimed at the fixed-income set. I suppose when you are spending your alimony payment/social security check at a fully-mirrored nightclub, it would be tough to shell out more than four and a quarter for an Albertson’s Charcoal Filtered, plastic bottle vodka tonic. But $17 for four drinks ain’t bad no matter how much they may taste like fingernail polish remover. And while the Hag and I had a lot of good laughs at the expense of the crowd at Christopher’s, who says old people shouldn’t be allowed to drink and drug it up like the pretty twentysomethings in South Beach? It was just watching them make out and dry hump on the dance floor that was rather disturbing.

A Good Blog is Hard To Find

Good lord. There are roughly 500 million people with blogs on the internet to date, and I have managed to find about eight that I can read on a regular basis. Now, I realize that most people who have interesting things to say probably say them in a forum for which they are paid. Or where people do not have to dig though link after link after link to find them. I see a few links that pop up on a lot of blogrolls of blogs I read, so I figure they must be pretty good. But upon visiting said blogs, and desperately searching through their archives, I am crushed when I find nothing but celebrity gossip. Really, does celebrity gossip need to be your only topic? Okay, perhaps that is your niche, but I’m not really learning anything I haven’t seen at the checkout line at Publix.

Others recount nothing but personal stories about absolutely nothing. So you went out and got drunk in New York for the 98th consecutive weekend with a bunch of your i-banker/real estate buddies, huh? Wow! Let me guess, you guys don’t drink domestic beer or sleep with anything under a 7, do you? And I’m sure your group of friends parties like no other group of friends in the City, and that is why you get 1500 hits a day to your blog. Right? You know, while Jerry Seinfeld managed to make nothing entertaining, not too many other people have managed to do it. Yourself included. Nice striped shit/sport coat and jeans combination by the way.

Then there are the intellectual blogs that take themselves way too seriously. If I read another 25-year old discussing the various aspects of the pending social security crisis using words that I’ve only seen in Scrabble I am going to wretch. Try and write so that the general public can understand what you’re talking about. Because right now you are coming off like someone who thinks they know more than the general public. And my guess is you don’t.

Some people write long, long posts that pull off that most dubious of combinations, being wordy and dull. Like reading a legal brief, except it’s about why the MTA strike made them late for work. Then there are those that manage to put together a really, really great paragraph and then stop. Like the Guns N’ Roses of blogging. It keeps me coming back, but I still want more. For the love of God, we of the “Bored at Work” set need something to do. And solitaire is getting really old.

The comments sections are often entertaining, but far too many people seem to comment just for the sake of commenting. Like “Wow, this was really funny.” Listen, your stroking of some blogger’s ego does not make for interesting reading. I don’t ask that you write brilliant, witty retorts, or that I even agree with you, but like Jim Rome says, “Have a take, don’t suck.” That should be the commenter’s creed. Leave your compliments for emails.

Am I referring to your blog? Well, if I have ever left a comment on your blog or sent you a personal email, then the answer is no. Although some of the ones I read regularly I just wish they wrote more, so I am sort of talking to you. There is also a good chance I have not read yours yet, so, again, the answer is probably no. But to the vast majority: Good God. Can you give me something to do at work? If anybody knows any good personal blogs that update regularly and are entertaining, please let me know. And don’t plug your own. Because even though your mother has told you you should write a book doesn’t mean I will agree. And are there any other English language blogs out of Miami? Why do I even ask? Of course there aren’t. Nothing that comes out of Miami is in English. Silly, silly me.

You Say I Have Low Standards, I Say it's a Bell Curve

In order to have a statistically valid sample, you must draw from a representation of the population in general. Your sample, should it be statistically accurate, will represent something like the bell curve to my right. And so it was that I discovered my sexual history is, as far as appearance is concerned, a valid statistical sample for study. Some background: Since I have about as much to do at work these days as the Iraqi board of Tourism, I can spend hours upon hours on pointless endeavors. This particular pointless endeavor was a complex excel spreadsheet of my sexual history including categories such as age, ability, appearance, ethnicity, location, age differential, # of encounters and a comments section. I learned a lot of things that I would not have had I not put all this down on paper. Or whatever it is they make computer screens out of. Thanks to an advanced Excel class I took compliments of my previous employer, I was able to do some complex statistical analysis on mine, and discovered some very interesting things. First, some numbers:

This highly unscientific study was done over a 63 month period from August 1999 until October 2005. I will not divulge the exact number of participants, but it is enough to garner a valid statistical sample. But it’s not THAT high. Only girls who engaged in intercourse were considered. They ranged in age from 16-46 and were taken primarily from California, Florida and Washington State.


Average Age: 24
Average Appearance: 5.42
Average Ability: 5.75
Ethnic Breakdown:
White: 69.5%
Cuban: 10.8%
Asian: 4.3%*
Jewish: 4.3%*
Other: 13%
*1 Was both Asain and Jewish, and therefore was counted twice.
11% of girls will do anal
28% used protection 100% of the time
61% were one encounter only

Now, my findings via these statistics

1. When rated by appearance, my history resembles an almost perfect bell curve. The median is 5, there are as many 1.5’s as there are 8.5’s (my lowest and highest ratings, respectively).

2. Nearly all fit between two standard deviations of the median. So you can say I have low standards, I say I just hook up with a valid representation of the population in general.

3. Once the bar is lowered, pretty much anything can jump over. Before I had my first experience with a fat girl, the average appearance was 6.65. After it was 4.48. Similarly, 46% of those I’ve been with since have rated the term “fat.”

4. There is not really a correlation between appearance and ability. Nor is there a correlation between age and ability. Some would argue that uglier/older girls are better in bed due to a need to compensate and vice versa, but I have not found this to be true.

5. While I am occasionally chided for hooking up with the occasional fatty, those that have rated four or more encounters average about a 6.8.

6. Northern California girls rate highest in appearance and ability.

7. Asians rate highest in appearance, Jews highest in ability. Which is odd because I really don’t like either one. I guess if I was going to make an exception, it had to be worth it

8. Cuban girls rated lowest in ability. Big surprise. Misc. international rated lowest in appearance.

9. Median age differential was 2 years younger. AVERAGE age differential was .8 years older. I blame this on statistical outliers.

10. Only one girl rated in the top 5 of appearance and ability. She was also the youngest.

11. Less than 25% were on more than 2 occasions

12. A typical girl would be a white girl from Miami that was 22 years old when I was 24, looked about a 5 and a half, was a 6 in bed and rated only 2 encounters.

I highly encourage all of you to make a spreadsheet of your own. You will find its creation and analysis both entertaining and fascinating. My friends, male and female, who have done it have all enjoyed it, even if their sexual histories could fit on a post it note. I have come to the conclusion that I really should become a sex statistician, collecting sexual statistical data from various people and performing its analysis. I think I could do stuff like that for the rest of my life.

If you would like a copy of mine as a template, it is available upon request via the email link in my profile. I may deny your request if you are someone I know. Similarly, if you would like to send me yours, I would be more than happy to perform a statistical analysis on it and present you the findings.

You've All Heard The One About Fat Girls and Mopeds

THE QUESTION IS: WOULD YOU RATHER BE SEEN ON A DATE WITH THIS GIRL IN THE BLUE, OR WAKE UP NEXT TO HER IN THE MORNING?



My friend, he is one of those high standards guys. He is, in fact, the guy who sent the picture that inspired yesterday’s rant. Though not condescending towards those of us that choose to indulge in the pleasures of somewhat fleshy females form time to time, he certainly considers himself above it. So when his barber set him up on a blind date (and, really your barber? I mean, maybe your gay hair stylist, but your barber?) with a girl that was first described to my friend as, “Maybe, like thirty-ish,” I knew he was in for an unusual ride. Upon his mentioning that his last girlfriend had been 37 (he is 25) it was immediately disclosed that she was around 35. Or so. “Or so,” loosely translated, means “add 1-3 years.” She was also described as thick but not fat, with red hair, a large chest and a big ass. So, upon my misguided advice (“Dude, she’s in her thirties and has red hair. She’s gotta be good in bed”), my boy took the proverbial plunge and agreed to meet this apparently well marbled, aged to perfection lady for drinks at the Kendall Ale House.

The Ale House is a perennial hangout for all of the West Dade All-Stars on any given Wednesday-Sunday. Why this Florida chain restaurant featuring mediocre food and dirty bar lines is so massively popular among the young-and-Cuban set is beyond me, but suffice to say when my friend arrived it was wall to wall people. He sauntered up to the bar, ordered himself a Guinness, and waited. He briefly considered leaving when a large, red-haired girl stepped up right next to him at the bar. He was disgusted, but as he saw her pull out her cell phone, he knew immediately who she was going to call. “Is your name Beth?” he asked her, hopefully, When she replied in the affirmative his heart sank. Not that he hadn’t been expecting this, given the description, but his worst fears had now been realized. He was on a date with a fat chick.

Now, in his defense, he did not know that she would be hideous. So taking her to a popular local hangout did not seem like such a bad idea. But after exchanging a few pleasantries with this red-headed behemoth, my friend looked across the bar and saw just about the last thing anybody on a date with a fat girl wants to see. It was his friend Frenchy’s neighbor, flanked by said neighbor’s girlfriend, flanked by Fenchy. All staring, eyes agape, at my friend and his metabolically challenged escort. They all looked over at him and smiled that “Man, we are gonna give you so much shit for this later” kind of smile that you fear when being caught in the amorous presence of an oversized female.

Were this not bad enough, as my friend sat down at a table another familiar face approached him. “Hey, what’s up, bro? Remember me? I’m H-Law’s roommate! She’s around here somewhere if you want to say hello.” H-Law is a co-worker of my friend’s that he had sex with on occasion just because he could, though he found her to be one of the single most annoying people he had ever met and eventually cut things off. And while her opinion is about as relevant to him as that of your average third grader, he certainly was not looking forward to a girl that he had rejected seeing that he was, in fact, out with a girl roughly twice her size. “Oh, I get it now. I was too SKINNY for you. Well, I’m sorry, I like you but you’re definitely not worth putting on a hundred pounds for.” It would only serve to inflate her already overpuffed ego. Although I suppose an overpuffed ego is still preferable to an overpuffed ass.

Were the presence of two good friends and an ex-fuck buddy not enough, as he continued to draw out this super-sized fiasco he felt a brush against his left shoulder. He turned around he saw yet another one of his friends, known as Brain, walking past his table. Brain turned his head slightly over his shoulder, gave him the smile of shit, then turned back around and joined Frenchy at the bar. The friends left shortly afterward, making sure to scream goodbye at the top of their lungs to him as they walked out the door. Just so he knew that they knew that he would be getting chided for this as soon as he dared to pick up his cell phone.

Now, I have made no secret of the fact that I have had some thoroughly unattractive women in my time. But I have never been on a date with any of them. That is to say the only people who saw me with my great white whales were whatever random bar patrons happened to be frequenting the Tavern on that particular evening. And I take a small amount of ironic pride in being able to stomach such nastiness. So, I would like to pose the question: Which is more embarrassing? Sleeping with a fat girl and admitting it or being spotted by half of your known acquaintances on a date with a girl who could play Leonardo DiCaprio’s mother, but not touching her?

Please offer your opinions freely. I will relay the results to my friend.