By Michael E. Miller
By Ryan Yousefi
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
First, a special Loon Over Miami Mother's Day poem à la MIA:
Roses are red, violets are blue,
And sometimes, moms, you act slightly askew,
Causing us, your grown kids, to sniff Elmer's glue,
Do some morphine, drink some Jim Beam, give peyote a chew.
And sure, OK, it was half-baked
To drive your van into a lake.
But, ma, c'mon, that wasn't nearly as taboo
As when we came home with a facial tattoo.
Or when you left town and we threw a bash,
You came home to find nothing but ash.
Arson aside, a mom will always rise above,
Just like Queen says, it's that crazy little thing called love.
Now, time for your regularly scheduled Mother's Day column:
Steve, a thick-necked 34-year-old, wears an aqua Dolphins jersey and has a face that resembles a fleshy Abraham Lincoln. He sits at a large rectangular bar at Flanigan's Seafood Bar & Grill (2721 Bird Ave., Coconut Grove; 305-446-1114), sipping beer from a pint glass. The red and blue hues of neon beer signs reflect off of his glossy shaved head.
"Once, as a kid, I ran out of underwear," he says, looking up at me as the whites surrounding his blue irises turn pink. "So my mom sent me to school in a pair of her panties. Lacy, pink panties. I could feel the satin squeezing up against my junk all day... and really, I didn't like it."
Mother in this case was not a little helper.
Nor is Steve anymore, so I move on to Liz, a petite, severely tattooed brunette with a baby face. When she smiles, squinting her brown eyes tightly closed during a fit of laughter, faint crow's feet wrinkle her eyes to reveal she's in her late 20s.
"My mom had a good head on her shoulders, but she was kind of uptight. So I liked to fuck with her as often as possible. One day back in high school, while I was dissecting a sheep's eyeball in biology class, I got a brilliant idea for a Mother's Day gift."
Was it perfume? Perhaps a fragrance by L.A.M.B.?
"No, I stole the eye! I took it home and put it on a fancy piece of china. Then I garnished it with a leaf of lettuce and put it right in the middle of the refrigerator so when she opened the door, all she'd see was a giant, half-dissected eyeball staring back at her."
Did she freak when she found it?
"No, which sucked! She just opened the door, stared at it, sighed, and closed the door. Then she asked me if I wanted to order Chinese for dinner. I think I had burned her out at that point. Just a few days earlier, she had found out that I dyed our orange cat blue... in her bidet... so I think she was still mentally drained by that."
And like a soaked, newly tinted feline springing from an oversize ass-Waterpik, I make my way to the other end of the bar, past a wooden wall littered in framed pictures of men holding freshly caught fish.
As soon as I dodge an attempted butt-grab, I meet Richard, a handsome, clean-cut 27-year-old Cuban who's wearing a tad too much Armani Code. He insists he has always given his mother, whom he considers a "saint," a bouquet of lilies (her favorite flower) and a thoughtful card for Mother's Day. His face softens whenever he speaks about his mom, but another part of his anatomy stiffens as soon as he mentions a childhood MILF.
"It was my friend's mom; she had a really nice body and would wear cut-off jean shorts all the time. Whenever I came over, she'd just sit in her room — which, by the way, was covered in, like, ten mirrors — and smoke cigarettes half-naked with the door cracked just enough for me to see everything. And I did see everything. Well, at least I got an eyeful of her tits one day. And it was great. I was helping her fold a pizza box into the garbage can when she leaned over in a loose-fitting T-shirt, wearing no bra, and I saw them. They were beautiful. I feel like I became a man that day."
Richard's 25-year-old girlfriend, Suzette, who has a headful of corkscrew curls, claims she was even more wily when she was a little girl.
"My mom had a really hard time controlling me, especially when I'd throw a fit. So she took up the habit of throwing me in the pool whenever I'd get a little too crazy, like, to cool me down. And it didn't matter what I was wearing either. One day, she even threw me in while I was still wearing my nice church clothes. So I learned real quick after that to control my emotions."
Allison, a cute ponytailed blonde sporting sneakers, sits nearby in a tall wooden bar chair, munching on chicken wings. She overhears our conversation and pipes up. Apparently, Mom vastly improved Allison's vocabulary at a very young age.
"I must've been about 3 or 4, and I was sitting in the car with my dad when I pointed to the center of the wheel and asked him what that thing that made noise was. He told me it was called a horn, and I asked why he never used it. He was like, 'Well, I'm a good driver, and when you're a good driver, you don't need to use it that often.'