Rule #1: Don't name your team "Balls Deep" or "Schweddy Balls" or "Blue Ballers" or "Huge Knockers" or "Rubber Balls and Lick Her." (Though, just for the record, these names are awesome.) Rule #2: Don't be the über-competitive guy who argues calls, starts fights, and pegs girls as hard as he can to turn that oh-so-crucial second-inning double-play. Rule #3: Don't be the guy who shows up drunk, keeps drinking, and pukes into the cooler. (Though, just for the record, that would be awesome.) Rule #4: Don't be the "funny guy" — hey, look at me! — who always wears Kurt Rambis-style protective eyewear, high socks, Chuck Taylors, and short-shorts. True, every team needs that guy; just don't be that guy. Rule #5: Don't start hitting on your teammates after the first game. Rule #6: Hit on the other team's teammates after the first game to make your teammates jealous. Rule #7: Don't be the guy who has the deal locked up and then does 11 Jäger-bombs at the Sandbar, passes out in a booth, and gets dicks drawn on his forehead. (Though, again, that would be awesome.) Rule #8: If you do end up dating that gorgeous art dealer with the English accent and absolutely no athletic ability (at least with a kickball), don't make a funny reference to your team name midcoitus, such as "Who's ball deep, now?" or "I guess I have to turn in my Blue Ballers shirt." Rule #10: Jog, don't run — no one likes Schweddy balls.

Look, don't try to figure this one out; it's a fucking mystery to us all. This town is just bursting with MILFS.

Compounding this mystery is the fact that an inordinate amount of them congregate in this particular produce section. This is evidenced by the slow-moving dolts who shuffle down the aisles at the rate of about three feet per minute. They stare, mystified, at the immaculate female forms, carting their one or two or three children around like magic tricks. It's as though they just pulled them all out of a top hat.

What goes on, man? What goes on?!?

Women like air, food, and shelter. Even though they live inside, they must have exercise to survive, in order to prepare for the coming weekend's intake of vermouth. This means a good spot to find them congregating is a jogging route. The three-mile asphalt oval that wraps around the Turnberry Isle golf course is a great spot to locate females. But just because you have found the perfect fishing hole does not always mean there are fish in it! Women spend the day in different places depending on occupation, income, and temperature. Try the early evening on a Thursday. As the light reflects off the condominium towers, they'll emerge. One or two at first, then four or five, and soon there's a river of reflective sneakers and spandex. Do not find a bench and wait quietly. It's also inadvisable to follow them in your car, for this behavior is closely associated with an undesirable type of male. The best method is to suit up in a similar outfit, substituting the spandex for something more loose-fitting, and join in. An ability to run the entire oval without puking or developing full-body sweat stains is recommended, though faking an ankle injury has also been proven effective. Don't lunge or pull up alongside right away. Start a routine. Get yourself known. Do the eyebrow-nod-as-you-pass thing for a few days, and then try timing your arrival so the two of you are stretching side-by-side. When all else fails, break out your BlackBerry and talk a little too loudly about how it's the second hundred feet of the yacht that makes all the difference.

Miami is flat as a pancake, a place where having a mountain bike is kind of like having snow skis. But the Grove Skate Park is proof that man can make mountains out of wood and steel. For $10 on weekdays and $13 on weekends, you can roll through 10,000 square feet of perfectly constructed transitions, including a 28-foot-wide miniramp, quarter pipes, a beginner's course, and other obstacles for the brave bike rider. The skate park is located in Coconut Grove's beautiful Peacock Park, where there are also less-dangerous nature trails to explore (as long as you don't ride over a sleeping homeless person). Because the skate park gets mobbed on weekends with young skateboarders, we recommend mountain-biking there during the week, when it is usually empty. After riding around the wooden ramps and obstacles, cruise through the Grove. There are trails that lead toward the bay or in the opposite direction, toward the bars.

Sweet creeping Jesus! How did you get home? There's no way to know. One thing's for sure: You need pancakes and coffee. And a newspaper. And a place where no one is going to ask you any hard questions. So call in sick, put on a pair of sunglasses, and drive (slowly) to this fine, cheap eatery. Get the banana pancakes or the corned beef hash. They're good for what ails you. Everything is going to be all right.

Located at the nexus of the Coconut Grove universe, where Main Highway, Grand Avenue, and McFarlane Road intersect, this pizza joint comes with a front-row view of the Grove's sidewalk drama. There are sure to be high heels, high tempers, and high blood-alcohol ratios every day of the week. Pull up a chair outside around 2 a.m. on a Sunday and watch as attractive young people devolve into belligerent street performers smelling faintly of puke.

There's really no better feeling than lifting a 12-gauge cannon toward the heavens and blowing a flying object to smithereens.

Hemingway knew it.

And when he lived in Cuba, he shot trap and skeet with a little club called the Club Cazadores del Cerro in Rancho Boyeros.

The club came to Miami in 1968 and continues to provide good, clean fun for people with enough scratch to compete at shooting clay discs a couple of times a week.

These guys are nice. They like newcomers and pass the time between rounds of shooting by playing dominoes and bullshitting in Spanish. Food is served. For $75 a year, you can be a cazadore too.

They can laugh at our politics, they can laugh at our culture, they can laugh at our driving. But one thing visitors from more-established cities can't laugh about is our weather, especially when they're experiencing it over a tiki-torch-lit alfresco dinner consisting perhaps of cream-centered fresh burrata cheese with truffle vinaigrette-dressed haricots verts ($12), followed by seared local tuna with almond-spiked Catalan romesco sauce and herb salad ($18) at this sleek, breeze-cooled hotspot. Chef Mark Zeitouni's menu, featuring seasonal and organic ingredients, is divided roughly 50-50: half comprising simply grilled meats and seafood with mix-and-match sauces and sides, the other half consisting of the kitchen's mostly Mediterranean-inspired creations. These range from a vegan fritto misto of baby artichokes, shiitakes, and chickpea fries with egg-free garlic aioli ($10), to saffron-scented bouillabaisse ($26) or a fun trio of mini cheeseburgers ($16). Although dishes are mostly health-minded, anything one orders should be accompanied by a cone of the one purely sinful offering: thyme-and-sea-salt-sprinkled shoestring fries that could beat Belgium's best. There's also a pleasant indoor room with the same menu. But the spectacular waterfront outdoor setting is what takes this dining experience over-the-top, in only-in-Miami style.

Calle Ocho closes it off to the north, and Miracle Mile seals it to the south. Ponce de Leon Boulevard makes up its western wall, and Douglas Road binds it to the east. There's food, beer, and ice cream to be had along Giralda Avenue.

But make your way north and you'll feel like you've popped into the early-Nineties computer game Myst. The Gables suddenly becomes a collection of fountains, cadaverlike condo projects, and fake old architecture. The wide streets lay empty. Banyan trees and climbing vines loom in the bright streetlights. There are reflecting pools too. And pretty courtyards.

So go find 'em. Just you and your lady.

We hate to break it to you, but your tired old back yard isn't cutting it anymore. It's cramped, it's cluttered, and it's just not bringing the sexy for the kind of balls-to-the-wall bash you aspire to have. You want this to be the best party it can be, right? Then let's rent out the craziest, kookiest, most fun and fanciful venue in the city. Bro, we're talking about Wherehouse 2016. Yeah, we said Wherehouse. What do you mean you've never heard of it?

Okay, dude, imagine this: It's a warehouse that's, like, totally hidden away in the North Miami Beach business district. It's, like, covered in art — we're talking wall-to-wall murals, huge paintings, and furniture brushed in superbright colors. This artist guy named Bruce Grayson painted everything, and whoa — he must've been on acid when he came up with this shit. It's frickin' awesome. Big dance floor, lots of comfortable couches where we can mack it to the ladies, and the place can handle it all — from catering to the DJ. No more use for your shitty iPod party playlist, dude! No offense, all right? Your taste in music is cool and all, but not for this bash. We're gonna do this old-school rave style. Trust me, dude, it's gonna be epic. You with me? Dude?