Forget "Miami-Wade": Name the County After These True South Floridians
The Dwyane-Wade-please-stay groveling continues with the county commission voting to rename our municipality Miami-Wade County. Ho-hum.
It's like Miami officials have observed all of the crazy stunts Cleveland is pulling in trying to persuade LeBron James to stay a Cavalier, and now want to convince the nation that we, too, are a city full of unified and rabid sports fans.
Which of course is bullshit. Because in Cleveland, people actually really care whether LeBron leaves. But whether Wade leaves is concern #78 on your average Dade denizen's mind -- just below whether the grapefruit is ripe at Publix and just above whether Jersey Shore's Sammi will be charged with assault.
And Wade is about the least appropriate person to rename our county after. He's the anti-Miamian -- a winter visitor who clings like the Midwesterner he is to a squeaky-clean, golden-child image instead of letting his inner bad boy frolick publicly.
In his business pursuits, he gets run through the mud by local grifters like some Nebraskan investing his life savings in a stock enterprise run out of a Pembroke Pines boiler room. He has some skeletons in his closet, sure, but everybody knows that true South Floridians parade their skeletons, covered in diamonds, up and down Biscayne Boulevard for the whole world to see.
Let's not rename our county after just anybody. Here are four far more deserving possibilities. Why four and not the more traditional list standard of five? Because, as any local politician can tell you, it's the Miami-Dade way: Start out with a showy bang and leave the job unfinished. If you don't like it, go back to Chicago.
4. Canseco County
Now, Jose Canseco -- there's a true South Florida athlete. Cuban exile. An ego far exceeding his talent. Unnaturally buff and tan. Hair plugs. Drug-addled. A recorded affinity for platinum-blondes. And unlike Wade, who could very well leave despite billboards begging him to stay, Canseco will never stop haunting South Florida even as we tear down street signs named in his honor. You might notice there are a lot of gnats and parasites on this list.
3. Mermelstein-Dade County
Sports schmorts -- what really unifies true Miamians is reminiscing about the bad ol' days, when kilos of cocaine falling from the sky caused six-car pileups on I-95 and your dog showed up at the door with a dead Colombian's head in his mouth. It's far more fascinating stuff than you can find in any box score, and Max Mermelstein was the cocaine trade's all-varsity athlete. Motivated by greed. Wore a lot of gold chains. Changed his identity, and his religion, several times. And like any true Miamian, he was from New York.
2. Miami-Daoud County
Former Miami Beach Mayor Alex Daoud is flamboyant, charismatic, and 98 percent full of pure fecal matter. He served time in federal prison for taking scads of bribes; wrote a Ulysses-length, rambling tome about his life; and now has a sure-to-be-atrocious movie being made out of the book. Like we said -- you gotta get those skeletons out of your closet and wave them around your head like you're Petey Pablo. Fun fact: Daoud recently told New Times he would give us a comment for a story only if we gave his book a favorable user review on Amazon.com.
1. South Rothstein-orida
Can we just rename the entire region after a dude who really exemplifies what we're all about? Flashy. Megalomaniacal. Endlessly corrupt -- and yet indignantly self-righteous. Completely and utterly lacking in substance, financially and otherwise. Forget renaming something: Can city planners somewhere in South Florida erect a big Saddam-esque cubic zirconia statue of Scott Rothstein in the middle of a park so that our legions of white-collar shucksters can lay out prayer rugs in front of it?
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