Boobs, tunes, and soul food: Bubba Clinton's guide to Miami
Ah, the life of an ex-president. When the wife isn't unleashing you like an aging attack froodle on this or that Junior Senator in pursuit of her master plan, it's actually pretty serene. Flying to and fro in private jets; staying in the world's finest hotels in every locale; getting paid $100,000 to resurrect that thumb-jutting fist shake as you speechify some college kids about how you're still a down-to-earth chitlins-loving Arkansan; dining with Gorbachev, Murdoch, Mandela, and Jay-Z- all at once.
Tommorow, the thirty-year Bill Clinton twilight tour makes a stop in Miami. He's here to collect some more hardware for his museum- something about Humanitarianism and Martin Luther King- at the Fontainebleu, which is fine, because he doesn't mind slumming it every once in a while.
As we near the eighth anniversary of the world not being able to do half as many Bill Clinton jokes as it did for the eight years before that, Riptide presents Bubba with his own personalized tour of Miami:
NPC Southern States Bodybuilding Championships vs. NPC Southern States Fitness & Figure Championships
TicketsSat., Jul. 8, 6:00pm
Florida Launch vs. Chesapeake Bayhawks
TicketsSat., Jul. 15, 7:00pm
Florida Launch vs. Charlotte Hounds
TicketsSat., Jul. 22, 7:00pm
Intl. Champions Cup pres. by Heineken: Paris Saint-Germain v Juventus
TicketsWed., Jul. 26, 8:30pm
You went on the South Beach Diet a few years back- which surprisingly does not consist of cocaine, Botox and California rolls- but then you were forced to undergo heart surgery anyway, so you said, "Well, fuck that shit then," which is how we would've played it too. We hear you're now back in the fat, and while Miami sort of lacks in the soul food category, we got one spot that can accommodate your native tastes. People's Bar-B-Que in Overtown- one-time winner of New Times' Best of Miami Barbecue award- is a perfect fit for the former so-called People's President. Surrounded by your beloved plebeians, you can stuff your face with enough dripping oxtail and ribs to widower a secretary of state, coating your refined belly with People's famous tart sauce, delicious enough to rival even those little tubs of McDonald's barbecue sauce you used to suck down like Gatorade after your Capitol Hill jogs.
No UV-eradicating world-leader accessory this side of Kim Jong Il's stunna shades has been pulled off with such hip aplomb as Barack Obama's Ray-Ban's. But when it comes to measuring presidential coolness, you playing the sax on the Arsenio Hall show- this isn't the clip, but it's close enough- beats Barry's cheesy jig on the Ellen Degeneres show anyday.
For the purposes of national security, we're not going to recommend Churchill's- the last time we went there, we left with a syringe embedded in our ass- so you're is looking to get back in touch with your musical side, better go to the far less hepatitis-y Van Dyke Cafe, our Best Jazz Club. For a President, every night is open mic night, so feel free to push aside whatever blind blues singer is playing when you visit and bring America another shipment of your unique puffy-eye-bagged, perfectly-round-nosed soul music.
Hillary's too busy to come with you- thank God for the Gaza strip- so a weekend in the Magic City is a perfect opportunity for you to finally squeeze in some Bubba time. Miami has plenty of establishments that will allow the Future First Husband to become re-acquainted with women whose work attire consists of knee-high boots instead of a pants suit, and nipple tassles rather than a flag pin.
But let's be smart about this: a trip to a high-profile club like Diamonds or Solid Gold will have your sheepish mug in the National Enquirer before you can say "sexual relations". So we're going to sneak you in the back of a spot so discreet it might be illegal- Little Haiti's Take One Cocktail Lounge. At the winner of our Best Strip Club, lap dances only cost ten dollars, so we're guessing you won't need to withdraw much of your book advance to relive the Lewinsky Experience. Sure, there are classier joints- where perhaps none of the strippers have "100% Beef" tattooed on their ass cheeks- but you are being stalked by a Secret Service legion for the rest of your days. This club, where gunshots regularly compete with the sweet sound of booty clappin', might finally give those agents some excitement.
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