By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By David Villano
By Jose D. Duran
By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By Kyle Swenson
By Luther Campbell
The last year has been the same story for Mimi. Now that she had LeBron, she couldn't be associated with bums from the past. Forget going through her little black book with a Sharpie — Mimi plunged the whole thing into a Cuisinart. In the city of exiles, it was a bit of a double whammy: twelve months full of firings, exposés, and forced resignations.
Let's start with our two favorite ousters — the ones we caused. Not to blast our own foghorn, but New Times had a pretty good year in terms of ruining people's careers.
George Alan Rekers was on the founding board of the National Association for Research & Therapy of Homosexuality (NARTH), one of those creepy Christian organizations determined to "cure" gayness through Jesus, ice baths, and repeated viewings of Baywatch VHS tapes. Rekers was once paid $120,000 by Florida Attorney General Bill McCollum for expert testimony in defense of the state's gay adoption ban. The thing is, like 88 percent of right-wing homophobes (see: T. Haggard, M. Foley, L. Craig), Rekers is as gay as his rent-a-boy's member is long. Yep, this humble publication busted the junk scientist returning from a European vacation with a male prostitute who advertised his "perfectly built 8-inch cock (uncut)" on Rentboy.com. Rekers claimed he hired the "travel companion" only to "lift his luggage" — but responded to global backlash by resigning from NARTH.
Another person we're guessing now prefers the SunPost is Gerald Posner, a self-proclaimed investigative journalist who, it turns out, was actually investigating other writers' work and reproducing it wholesale under his byline. Upon Posner's resignation from the Daily Beast for plagiarizing from the Miami Herald, we revealed that nearly everything the guy wrote in the last five years — books, articles, his Publix shopping list — was stolen from others. That's when Posner, whose apparent infatuation with plastic surgery transformed his face into something like a Justin Bieber death mask, threatened to sue us. His odd pick for a lawyer: Mark Lane, noted JFK assassination conspiracy theorist and Jonestown massacre survivor. Posner, who now faces litigation from at least one author whose work he plagiarized, was last seen in Afghanistan doing public relations for despot president Hamid Karzai's brother, Mahmood. Really, we're not nearly creative enough to make this shit up.
If we had a billion dollars, we'd probably spend our days aqua-fitting Chevy Novas or feeding Cristal to camels. But Norman Braman, resident cantankerous rich guy, amuses himself by terrorizing inept politicians. This year, the auto magnate petitioned for a recall of Miami-Dade Mayor Carlos Alvarez, the luminary behind the aforementioned boondoggle of a Marlins stadium deal. Alvarez sued to halt the recall petition — not exactly a sign of confidence in his popularity — before realizing he had no legal case to stand on and dropping the suit just before Christmas. He then wailed incessantly until an aide stuffed a spoonful of mashed peas into his mouth.
And then there was the case of Sad Charlie, the little pol who couldn't. As a Republican, Charlie Crist was always a supreme political waffler, the type of guy who wouldn't tell you whether he prefers Aunt Jemima to real maple syrup without first gauging Jeb Bush's stance on the matter. With his term as governor expiring, Crist seemed a shoo-in for an open senator's seat — until he ran into the bland buzz saw that was Tea Party panderer (and mildly retarded man-child, but more on that later) Marco Rubio. So Crist jumped ship and became an independent in a three-way race against Rubio and never-had-a-chance Congressman Kendrick Meek. The thing is, voters weren't likely to vote outside their party for an empty cipher without an opinion, even if the cipher had the best tan this side of Snooki.
Crist handily lost to Rubio and now faces an uncertain future. Mimi wasn't too upset about that one: Word on the street is, despite supporting a ban on gay marriage, Crist isn't into chicks himself. Here's hoping he'll head off to some oiled-up, all-male beach resort — Mandals? — where Rekers is also holed up, and they'll bang that pesky homosexuality right out of each other.
But it wasn't just the figurative bums who fled when Mimi hurled her Christian Louboutins out the door. Real-life homeless people and our famous drifting perverts were displaced with more force than bath water in Rush Limbaugh's tub.
In 2007, New Times discovered the World's Worst Idea®: County and city officials were stashing sex offenders under the Julia Tuttle Causeway that connects Miami Beach and downtown. This year, the 60-plus molesters were finally banned from under the bridge, which raised the mysterious question of where they were going to end up. We got our answer when it was discovered that at least a quarter of the sex offenders were moved into a Homestead hotel by the Miami-Dade Homeless Trust. They turned the place into a Chateau de Molesters, eating tiny bagels in the morning, body-gazing by the pool, and catching up on late-night Cinemax programming. Once that little boner was exposed (sorry), the sex offenders were dispatched again. Nobody quite knows where they are now — whether they've been given corporate jobs at Chuck E. Cheese or turned into Soylent Green.