Miami's top news stories of 2011

Dude, where's my city? Miami wakes up with a pounding headache.

The race to replace Alvarez in the mayor's seat included our own esteemed columnist Luther "Uncle Luke" Campbell, who touted his "trickle-down booty sweat" economic theory. (If those at the top of the socioeconomic period get so horny, those at the bottom will become at least slightly aroused.)

Alas, voters passed on Luke and voted in Carlos Gimenez, a county veteran who, chaw-gnawing scouts tell us, doesn't have Alvarez's powerful graft-collecting arm but still has the potential to be a big-league cretin.

That's the South Floridian circle of life: You bounce two sticky-fingered nincompoops and invite in four new friends for mojitos. While you're muddling the mint, they're sizing up your silverware collection and wondering where you keep the jewelry.

Courtesy State Attorney's Office

Pity Chris Bosh, who — as you've been reading this — has straggled to Miami Beach, past the neon and nipple piercings of Ocean Drive, and collapsed onto the sand. He doesn't know he's being used as a not-at-all-contrived literary device by a Skittles-addled alt-weekly writer. All he knows is he's disoriented, tired, and lonely.

A crowd gathers around the beached giant, whose face is smashed into some kid's sandcastle.

"Hey, isn't that the guy from the Heat? The third guy?" somebody asks.

"Who?" replies another voice. "Zydrunas Ilgauskas? Mike Miller? Bimbo Coles?"

"No, you know, the Jurassic Park-looking dude. Oh, forget it."

As darkness falls, Chris Bosh fades out of consciousness. He dreams of Gryffindor.

Our marooned basketball player suddenly awakens to huge knobbed tires pummeling his chest. He looks up to see an ATV — driven by what appears to be a police officer in uniform — careening down the beach. "MBPD rules!" the cop yells. A svelte blonde clutching his waist hoots with him.

Chris Bosh rubs his eyes. Great, he thinks. Now even my sight is failing.

Chaos reigned across the globe in 2011. Bin Laden and Gadhafi got Biggie'd and Tupac'ed. The U.S. credit rating got MC Hammered. A deadly tsunami hit Japan. Joe Paterno got shitcanned. Police nationwide became gourmands when it came to properly peppering hippies. A Kardashian marriage was shorter than a house fly's pupal stage. Herman Cain existed.

But in Miami, our personal bender was of especially epic proportions. We saw the University of Miami football program devastated by the claims of a Napoleonic grifter named Nevin, the fabled Miami Herald building peddled to a Malaysian casino ring, an invasion of giant African land snails, and a transgender doctor arrested for inflating female patients' rumps with Fix-A-Flat. It was a year of inexplicable behavior that we wouldn't believe until we saw the Facebook photos the morning after, a cock and balls still scrawled in Sharpie ink on our forehead.

Most indicative of the mayhem that struck Miami in 2011 were the Jell-O-shot-tossing antics of our local police officers, who, on the scale of integrity, have always seemed closer to Sergeant Tackleberry than Serpico.

For starters, Miami Police Chief Miguel Exposito's department came under investigation by the feds after seven fatal shootings. The chief was caught on tape boasting that his officers were "predators" and apparently unable to avoid being photographed with assault weapons at news conferences. ("We rescued a cat today. Check out this new AK!") So he was sumo-bumped out of a job by nemesis Miami Mayor Tomás Regalado.

Not helping downplay the image of our police as trigger-happy Halo fiends — or our streets as a postapocalyptic, booty-shaking wasteland — was the Urban Beach Week fiasco. At Miami Beach's annual Trick Daddy Awareness Summit, police were caught on cell-phone video riddling a stopped car with bullets — killing its driver — and pointing a gun at an unarmed man. Seriously, Dirty Harry wouldn't have lasted three months on the force if there was back then.

On a more sensual note, other Miami Beach law enforcement types treated their professional posts like an audition for a Reality Kings epic called Copulatin' Cops 17: Rock Hard Justice. Officers Derick Kuilan and Rolando Gutierrez were in full uniform when they decided to hammer some shots and bump and grind on a bachelorette party at the Clevelander on Ocean Drive. A photo later filed as evidence shows them posing, like fist-bumping bros at a Kings of Leon concert, with a gaggle of women they almost certainly referred to as "hardbodies." Afterward, Kuilan — whose blood alcohol content was roughly the equivalent of Emilio Bonifacio's batting average — invited one of the ladies onto his police ATV. He steered it toward the beach, where he promptly ran over two people, breaking their legs.

Really, we don't need jokes for this one. A court stenographer could relay an account of this story that would read like the work of the world's greatest stoner-flick screenwriter.

Which brings us to our next installment of real-life Miami cops emulating Super Troopers. This particular saga began when an awesome Florida Highway Patrol trooper pulled over, arrested, and berated a Miami policeman who was speeding down I-95 at 120 mph without his siren on. Naturally, Miami police — or their Ex-Lax-chugging supporters — responded by smearing diarrhea all over an FHP cruiser. Then a Miami cop pulled over an FHP cruiser for no apparent reason.

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