"Good. I like Cubans. They're more American than most Americans. What you need to do is have a picture of you and your Cuban family taken in front of Beach High. Then go stand outside of a Publix and shake hands, kiss babies, find other Cubans, and tell them that your Cuban parents made it here and that if they elect you, you will help their children become successful. Then when you're done, go to Whole Foods and do the same thing. That's where all the yuppie liberals who are too good to cook for themselves get their dinner. Choose your words carefully there. You want to say the right things in order to get everyone's vote."
In exchange for his excellent advice, Brandon is granted the right to create not just one, but two laws.
"I don't want to be involved with a monarchy," says the coot. "I still believe in democracy."
The dreaded D-word propels the royal to Club Madonna (1527 Washington Ave., Miami Beach; 305-534-2000), where two leather-bikini-clad wenches with a plethora of bruises on their legs occupy a throne. As they lounge, sexually slumped on top of one another, a bouncer is asked his proposal for a law.
"I'd just like to wash all of the filth off the street," he says.