I've never been able to apply the white crow theory to anything in my life. That is until I went to Miami for the VMA's.

Two Things
My first clear memory as a little girl is of being in the back seat of my family's Subaru station wagon while driving home from some barbeque. It was late and I had been dozing in and out of consciousness. When I was awake, I would lean my head against the back of my seat and stare at the moon, which was huge and scattered with craters that I could see but couldn't understand. I knew nothing of meteors, gravity, or lunar cycles.

I had started catechism a few weeks earlier, and whatever Catholic nonsense my nun had told me was ruminating in my oversized head. I kept staring and thinking, falling in and out of sleep, and likely tossing boogers at my poor sister.

I woke up in my father's arms, staring over his shoulder at my mother. I asked her, "Mommy?"
"Yes sweetie."
"God made this whole wide world right?"
As she is Uber-Irish-Catholic Fish-sticks and Church Mom, she was delighted.
"Yes, he did sweetie."
"And we just bought the furniture?"

The nuns had told me that God made 'this whole wide world' including the moon. It must have seemed like a bunch of bullshit to me. I must have thought, If God had made the world and the moon, hadn't he made the buildings, houses, dams, planes, etc? Weren't there God construction companies, and God furniture stores you could go to if you wanted something to sit on in your God house?

I kept asking questions like these, which annoyed my mother. She is the kind of woman who unquestionably does things a certain way because that is the way they have always been done. She said I would grow out of it, but as I got older, it only got worse. While other kids were passing notes in Sunday school, I was thinking, 'How in the bloody hell can God create all this crap and then back out when we need some assistance with the mideast peace crisis? What a fucking jackass. He can make the world, but he can't he keep the damn Jews from tunneling under sacred Palestinian land, or at least keep the Palestinians from driving truck bombs into Jewish buildings? Couldn't God have thrown a few road-blocks in front of Khadafi's 120-ton shipment of Lybian weaponry on it's way to Northern Ireland? Doesn't God love the Irish? Does ANYONE love the Irish?'

I probably needed some kiddie Xanax.

When I was twelve the nuns told me that I was a woman and therefore evil. This was because Eve tempted Adam with Satan's apple. I thought, 'well shit, if I were alone in the Holy Land and I had an apple I wouldn't have even offered the fucker a bite. She was just being gracious.'

Later, Sister Penelope told me that the pain of childbirth is God's punishment for the apple ordeal. I told her, "Childbirth hurts because you're squeezing something basketball-sized out of a dime-sized hole." It is speculated that I then said, "But you should know about that hole because you fool around with Father Tom," but I deny this ever happened. In an act of cruelty only a Catholic could force upon a youngster, Sister Penelope and Father Tom made me walk home through a tundra's worth of snow. A couple years later, they were relocated to separate parishes, two hetero members of the Pedophile Protection Program.

I did some reading and learned about the roots of modern Catholicism. I was only twelve, so it took me a few weeks to look up all the words and figure out what the theologians meant, but when I had finished I sat down to a plate full of burnt Vandekamps and ketchup and renounced my Catholicism. "Mom."
"Yes, sweetie?" She's so adorable. Like Cartman's mother in a deep bubble of denial if you replaced the whorishness with an Irish temper.
"I'm not Catholic anymore."
"WHAT!!!!!?????"
"I'm not going to be Catholic."
"WHY!!!!!!?????"
"Because Catholicism is propaganda set in place by Emperor Constantine to unite the two halves of Rome. It leaves out much of Christ's true teachings and is sexist."
"WHAT!!!!!?????"
"Its also a separating institution that doesn't abide by natural law."
[Whimpering, "Oh lord, my Grandmother is rolling in her grave... etc"]

This conversation is pretty much verbatim. I don't think I understood half of what I said, but I said it, meant it, and never went to church or Sunday school again.

No matter how disappointed my mother was, I never backed down. I was the Holden Caufield of local Catholicism. I called bullshit and wouldn't rescind.

In my sophomore year of art school I was invited to be in a juried show for Seniors and Alumni. It was a big honor. My mother burst into tears when she saw my piece. I had put a s tatue of the Virgin Mary into a shopping cart, rolled it around the parking lot of a church, and photographed it. I called the piece "Proud Mary Keep on Rollin."

Two things have made me the person I am: a willingness to keep considering the possibilities, and a refusal to accept the boundaries that others stop, set up camp, and happily exist upon. In layman's terms this means that mediocrity infuriates me.

Hollywood
When you are poor kid, fantasy is major part of your life. You can't have expensive clothing or jewels or rides in nice cars, but you can look at pictures of these things and imagine how wonderful they are. Hollywood may be corrupt, but it is something poor kids look upon in awe. Its also sadly untouchable.

I'm not going to get into a pissing contest with anyone about poverty, because I had everything I needed to have a healthy childhood. But let's just say that a People magazine was a big deal in my house, kept spotlessly crisp, and read for years. We were so poor we had to pretend that we hadn't already read our magazines hundreds of times.

Years later, I still find myself picking up the Star magazine at the gym, the one that debates which celebrities have the 'Worst Beach Cellulite,' and reading it first. I like to gossip about Paris Hilton and find out who she's fucking, and argue about the most beautiful woman in Hollywood (clearly Charlize Theron - no argument actually). I like it when these starlets divulge their ordinary beauty secrets, then I go and slather my hair in tapioca pudding with ill result. I love it when their publicists make them seem down to earth. I'm a sucker for that every time.

Thus, when KimChi invited me to work at the VMA Red Bull parties in Miami I was elated.

I was like a poor kid with brand-spanking new People magazine. I thought, "This is going to be SO. FUCKING. COOL."

In a way, I was right.

Thursday, September 16, 2004
Bunny Goes to the VMA's: Part I

The Perfect Bloody
People debate what goes into the perfect Bloody Mary all the time. This is like debating the perfect way to drink coffee. It makes no sense because it's subjective, a unique experience for each palate.

I believe there is such a thing as the Perfect Bloody Mary, a magical confluence of factors and ingredients; the right temperature of glass, the right amount of ice cubes, a smidgen of clam juice here, a little less horseradish there etc. etc. combine to form something special, a fleeting thing of perfection. And when the PBM hits the tip of your tongue, Oh what a feeling. Better than that first line of Cocaine because you don't spend hours bragging about yourself afterward. Better than scantily clad Lithuanian strippers. Why it's an orgasm in a pint glass.

I like to say that the PBM is a fully-formed entity, like your dead uncle Chas, who only pops in to say inconsequential hellos once or twice in your lifespan. It doesn't change your life, but it certainly makes you realize that the world is full of wondrous little experiences.

In attempt to recapture the magic of my first PBM, I order mine with Ketel One, no Tabasco, and extra salt, olives, pickles, limes, and Worsteschire sauce, which I always mispronounce. Bostonians are weird. I haven't been able to recreate the masterpiece yet, but I've come close a few times. The morning my flight was to leave O'hare, Miami-bound, was no exception.

I ordered my bloody and sucked it down in minutes. This is not because I am afraid to fly. Quite the contrary, I have an iron stomach and absolutely no fear of high altitude dismemberment. I fear staying in one place a lot more than riding in an airplane. I inhaled my bloody because it was just that good.

Now I'm not prone to drinking in the morning. When I do imbibe, I know I have a two-hour window of opportunity in which to enjoy the buzz before I lose consciousness, therefore I generally start at midnight so that I can arrange to be in a soft place by 2am to pass out. There are far fewer head injuries this way. But that Friday morning, I was feeling saucy about my trip. I was going to Miami to see celebrities and that, my friends, was certainly cause for celebration.

When I finished, I stumbled into a magazine shop, tripped over a baby stroller, bought a neon-colored neck pillow in the shape of a caterpiller (the CritterPiller, $19.99), and the latest copy of FHM. It was the one with the photo spread of all the hot female Olympic athletes, their oiled torsos, their firm bosoms, their milky thighs... Naturally I got really horny while reading it at the gate and had to go to the ladies handicapped stall to rub one out. I do this when I am sober too. Nothing better to do in airports than have orgasms I say.

My plane boarded. I was seated next to a very hot young specimen, aged 22 years, well-muscled, corn-fed Iowa beef. After take off, we started making out. I am aggressive when I'm drunk. I take a few sips, then rape a face; it's very alarming.

After our ascent, he whispered to me, "Are you a member of the mile high club?" I said, "No." I honestly thought he was talking about some Frequent Flyers' Mile Redemption program, like the one my dad uses to fly for free all the time. He said, "Get up and go into the bathroom. I'll meet you there in three minutes."
"Okey Dokey." It sounded a bit weird to me, but I had to pee anyway, so, whatever.

I stumbled to the privy, peed, and as I was pulling up my pants, a wave of panic flashed through my Adrenals. I was looking down at my newly shaved cooch when it hit me. Shit. The mile high club is the one that you have to fuck in an airplane bathroom to join. Oh shit. I HOPE my dad's not a member of that club.

I heard a knock at the door.

Oh double fucking shit. I don't want to have sex with that boy, how do I tell him this without hurting his feelings? Oh shit shit shit. What do I do?

Another knock. I did nothing. He will go away if I don't answer it.

A few more knocks. Oh holy shitballs! What do I do?

There was a bang. [Sheepishly] "Um, I can't let you in."

A voice outside the door: "That's fine sweetie, but I need you to take your seat because we're landing soon. There's no joining 'The Club' on my flight."

I opened the door to a flight attendant. He was smirking, and I could see he was pretty annoyed with my drunken cavorting. He was gracious enough to let me take my seat without teasing me. I was actually embarrassed, something that doesn't happen all that often. In hindsight, I missed an opportunity to say "Shut your pie whole and deliver me a hottie with a ten-inch cock." I always wanted to say that in an inappropriate setting. Damn.

Fun with Floozies
We landed in Houston. I had no layover so I rushed to my next plane cursing the damned platform sandals I had chosen to wear. I was leaving shreds of toe skin all over the Houston airport people-movers.

I barely made the second flight. When I reached the plane, everyone had boarded, and it took me ten shameful minutes of walking the aisle in search of an empty cubby to store my carry-on - during which time my purse, fuzzy plane sweater, crossword puzzles and CritterPiller ($19.99) kept bouncing off the heads of impatient passengers. I felt pretty bad.

I had taken my seat and belted in when a gaggle of loud Floozies rushed the plane and bombarded my amygdala with a four-stack of designer scent. It killed my buzz, woke me right the fuck up.

Before I describe the Floozies in full color, I must clarify that I do indeed like everyone I meet. I don't dislike people until they prove themselves to be Assholes, Floozies, Jackasses etc. Anyone who pushes around "the help" because making honest hard-working people run around makes them feel superior qualifies as one of these derogatory stereotypes.

The Floozies were as such:

Shy White Floozy
Loud, fake tits, coated in "product." Her hair is schizophrenic, brown, blonde, crimson, cocoa, purple, chocolate, mahogany, beige, and cinnamon. It breaks off in clumps and is the texture of straw. Handbag by: Louis Vuitton. Benign enough to ignore. Only speaks two words through the flight, "Me" and "too."

Obnoxious New Yorker Floozy
Loud, fake tits, wearing "opalescent" sparkly lotion "With real crushed opals. It's like super expensive lotion for astronauts." Handbag by: Chanel. Is the center of the universe because she was born, bred, and still lives in Manhattan. I went to college with a few of these girls, who quickly dropped out because they were too good for college. She is wearing a CBGB tank, but doesn't go there because, "It's sticky and gross." She berates the flight attendants for not chilling enough White Zinfandel.

Hispanic Floozy
Loud, fake tits, you can see her ass crack. Literally. She is like a hot plumber.Handbag by: Louis Vuitton. Is very insecure. She will spontaneously add to unrelated conversations, "Latina women are just hotter you know, its like something in their blood. Men just want Latinas more." She is wearing a bikini top with nothing over it. She complains about the temperature on the plane, and I notice she has a nice singing voice when she chirps, "If you're lookin for the goodies, keep on lookin cuz they stay in the drawers." I wanted to tell her that the goodies were clearly out of her drawers, but decided I enjoyed looking at the goodies too much.

Black Floozy
Loud, fake tits, wears bling on her cell phone which she won't turn off no matter how many times the flight attendants ask her to. They have to confiscate it. Handbag by: Louis Vuitton. Her outfit looks like an American version of Tokyo street fashion; flouncy white lace skirt you can see through, ripped chartreuse wife-beater, knotted clumps of chains, and Lucite platform heels so steep she walks like a four legged creature standing upright for the first time. She has amazing legs, but they are so bent I can't tell this until she sits down. Precariously balanced over pounds of weave is a trucker hat that is three sizes too big; a look that eerily mimics the time I turned my plastic Red Sox baseball helmet dish over and put it on a My Little Pony.

They make the plane wait an extra twenty minutes while they jockey passengers around so they can sit together in the row across from mine. They chat about "RockStar," the lead singer of some band that MTV has made famous. Obnoxious-New-Yorker-Floozy is heading to Miami to meet up with him, and as she put it, likely "become engaged." She and her Floozy friends are going to the VMA's and all the "exclusive parties that losers can't get into." I am not exaggerating this dialouge. I thought I had somehow woken up in the movie "Heathers."

The Floozies discuss the pros and cons of Princess-cut stones, and whether NY Floozy should go on tour with RockStar or stay in Manhattan. "If I go on tour with him I have to ride in the trailer behind the tour bus because the bus is only for the guys so they can write music." Someone lets out a snort of laughter from behind the confines of a neon-colored CritterPiller. It wasn't me I swear.

It is agreed upon by all that NY Floozy should definitely choose RockStar over her current fiancée, whose diamond she isn't wearing because it is pear-shaped and therefore tacky. I didn't know this, but only Jessica Simpson can make a pear-shaped diamond look chic.

None of the girls are congenial, naturally pretty, witty, classy, well behaved/intentioned, articulate, interesting, considerate, distinctive or intelligent. In fact, they are intolerable and have nothing to offer the world save for some olfactory and noise pollution. Aside from Shy White Floozy, none of them will cease being a cunt to the flight attendants until the pilot makes a special trip to their aisle.

And their aisle is in coach, people. COACH, not the designer handbag, the area of the plane that poor people like me sit in.

We land in Miami.

Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Bunny and the VMA's: Part II

Genius

"What good do your words do if they can't understand you?" - Erykah Badu

I have a Bachelor of Fine Arts, yet my favorite artist is Bob Ross. I would rather own a Bob Ross than a Renoir. This is because the man sucked every morsel of pretentiousness out of painting and made it accessible. Outside the craft industry, America didn't give a flying fuck about its own art until Bob Ross came along and made happy little trees.

Tucker has a genius IQ. This in and of itself doesn't mean shit, because I have one too and I can't remember my own phone number. The most compelling thing about the boy is his art.

Some people laugh when I say that Tucker is an artistic genius. They are small-minded. When I read my first Tucker Max story I was like the rest of his fans, a little transfixed and wanting more. But unlike the rest of his fans, it wasn't because he was so funny. It was because the boy is a raving god damned genius.

His friends joke about his stories being exaggerated, and to some extent they are, but Tucker Max is Tucker Max. What you read is what you get. He actually does the things he says he does in his stories, unflinchingly and without remorse; he lives as he writes, an almost non-existent quality in a writer these days. Is he even a writer? I don't think so. I think he's the first true literary performance artist. And people relate. That's called accessibility, and it's fucking exciting.

It took us a good twenty minutes to fall in love. And later, Tucker took me to Boca to meet his father. Now I'm not really a fan of pretentious places like Boca or the pretentious people that I meet there, but this pretentious person was his father, so out of respect for Tucker, I was on my best behavior.

BunnyDaddyism: A primer
Were it an actual religion, I would not only be a worshiper of BunnyDaddyism but also it's most enthusiastic evangelist. My father is simply the greatest man I've ever met.

This is how you would apply BunnyDaddyism to a common situation:
I meet Tucker's father in Boca, we shake hands, and I want to kick him in the nuts mid-shake for fathering such an incredible boy and then being insouciant about it for twenty eight years. I want to choke him, but I know my anger is rash.

BunnyDaddyism Rule #1: Don't be too quick to judge others. Understand where they have been and what they have been through, and you will know why the act the way they do. I'm still learning this one, and not very good at it. Tough to swallow.

I sit down to dinner at Max's Grille and do my best to be polite. Mr. Max has the posture of a cooked pickle and vacant blue eyes. He is surrounded by sycophants and only speaks in an animated tone when Tucker begins to talk about sports.

I chide myself, "Bunny, be understanding. Think about what Mr. Max has been through and you will know why he acts as he does." I come up with this: Some people are victims of their own self-indulgence. I try to ignore the check-writing approach to parenthood, the half-dozen divorces and the Russian whores. It works for a while.

When I leave, Mr. Max tells Tucker not to move in with me because I am "not hot enough." Tucker doesn't pay any attention to him.

What positive spin can you put on that? I can't think of a single BunnyDaddyism that falls under besides, "He meant well?"

Bienvenido A Miami
We land in Miami. I get to walk the jetway behind the Floozies, which is a nice treat. They have superbly gym-honed asses. They bounce before me in rainbow shades of purple, green, orange, and white, eight fleshy balls of gorgeousness. I want a Fanta real bad.

I make my way to baggage claim. The bilingual announcer lady pages Ashlee Simpson, and I stop and look around in high hopes. What I wouldn't do to touch those boobies.

KimChi
I head to the curb outside baggage claim and KimChi pulls up in a rented car. She is effervescent as usual.

KimChi is a friend of Tucker's who works for RedBull. She came to visit us in Chicago not too long ago and we hit it off. No, KimChi is not my new girlfriend. She is very heterosexual. This sucks because KimChi is smoking hot and has an awesome personality, but what can you do?

We hug and giggle like silly girls do, then chat about the parties. She immediately asks in an apologetic tone because she is saccharine-sweet, "BrianH invited himself. Is that okay?"
"Of course. I love Brian. He's my friend."
"Oh good. I do too. He's so nice."

We drive to the Hotel, get in bikinis, and head to the pool. Two mojitos later (between the TWO of us - she's Asian) we are hammered. Getting up to piss in the pool hammered. Talking loudly about penises around eight-year-olds hammered. KimChi admits she has a little crush on both Nick Sadler of hoo-ah.net, and Drunkasaurusrex of drunkrex.blogspot.com. Since Nick is somewhere fighting terrorists, we decide to call Drunkrex. KimChi is too shy to talk to her crush, so I make the call.
[perturbed] "Hello"
[far too loudly] "Hi Drunkashaurushrex, it's BUNNYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"
[perturbed but laughing] "Have you been drinking?"
"How could shu tell?"
[still perturbed] "Uh... you're slurring."
"Okay! Hee hee. Lishen. I'm in Miami with KimChi. And she wans to talk to you becaush'she has a crush on you, okay?"

KimChi chats him up till he gets busy with work. We drink two more mojitos then call him again, and finally pass out in our hotel room. During my slumber I hear KimChi flirting with Drunkasaurus Rex. She's a per sistent little minx.

Rocbox Party with Damon Dash at the Shore Club
"Bunny wake up! We have to go!"

I wake up ten minutes before we have to be at the first party. Luckily I am low maintenance, or I just don't give a shit. One or the other.

It is nearing 100 percent humidity. KimChi and I are soaked with sweat before the party even begins. It is on a deck out behind the Shore Club, and we, along with the help of a hot Columbian girl with fabulous tits who's cell is attached to her earlobe, have to arrange trays and ice buckets on cabana beds. The end result is quite magical, all convenient and sparkly with candles. KimChi does a good job.

I spy the Rocbox giveaway bags. There are hundreds of them, and likely MP3 players inside each one. Tucker would steal them, but me? Damn BunnyDaddyism! I walk away with morals intact.

Save for the four loud Floozies, I recognize no one at this party. Damon Dash isn't at the Damon Dash party. Damon Dash's rappers aren't at the Damon Dash party. In fact, the party is littered with a few dorky white people who look like extras from "A Night at the Roxbury" and are rude when I try to offer them drinks, not what I expected at all. KimChi and I are miserably wet, so we leave.

Me So Horny
On the way back to the Hotel to change, we pass Asian fetishists. They scream at KimChi from their cars "Ohhhh, me so horny, me sucky sucky!" and "Ching chang chong chow!" then they try to invite KimChi and I into their cars. This is the equivalent of yelling at me "Hey cousin fucker! Wanna suck some Genny Cream Ale off my cock?" then genuinely hitting on me.

We ignore them, go up to our room and change. Then the trip gets really interesting.

Friday, October 01, 2004
Bunny Goes to the VMA's: Part III

By now you know why this story is in sections, and late to the party. But bear with me and we'll get through this in one piece. This is what you should remember from the Foreward, and Parts I&II:

1. "It only takes one white crow to know that not all crows are black."
2. Bunny hates mediocrity, pretentiousness and bullshit
3. Tucker is a genius.
4. BunnyDaddyism is an overly moral system of wisdoms that can be applied to almost any situation to make sense of things.
5. In my experience, rich people tend to be classless.
6. BrianH is coming to Miami.

RocBox Party, Not so Great
On our way back to our Hotel, we stop at a drug store to buy something alcoholic in nature. Though it would only take a tiny vial of liquor to incapacitate both of us, Florida has decided to be mean to us and not sell alcohol in drug stores. What the fuck is this shit? It's bad enough that you can't buy "drugs" in "drug stores." No alcohol as well?

KimChi heads to the counter with a box of donut holes and a Sobe Tea while I grimace that I have to work out two hours a day and eat cauliflower and still don't have a kickass body like she does. I discuss Tony Montana with a large black man wearing a Scarface t-shirt and ten carats in each ear. He is being much nicer than the dorky white people at the Shore Club. He keeps commenting on how "thick" I am, and in my white-addled brain it takes me a little time to realize he is commenting on my physical appearance. I first thought he was calling me stupid.

KimChi pays and heads for the exit. I turn and say goodbye, and he responds with "Daaaaaaamn Girl." I do not understand why. I tell KimChi, "I think that nice black man likes me."

We get to our room, change into jammies and I vomit half-chewed donut holes because the remaining Mexican Zoloft in my synapses likes to rear its ugly head at this hour. BrianH calls. He is on his way to the hotel with "four smoking hot friends." We put our clothes back on and head downstairs to meet him.

I give Brian a massive hug, because I really like him. He is very intelligent and funny, has great stories and pretty brown eyes. His friends aren't very attractive, but that's okay. I'm sure they're fun.

They are:

"Q" aka "MarQ" aka "Marquon": Spike Lee's cousin
"Two Ryans": One is a rapper, the other is very nice and pays for everyone.
"Kelly": Big shot music producer

We decide to walk back to the party at the Shore Club, which has ended by the time we get there. Its as if the building is shitting hotness. Gorgeous sculpted floozies cut from one mould spill out the door in various metallic or brightly colored scraps of designer scanties. Kimmy has something to do for Red Bull, dedicated professional that she is, and tells us to head on to another party and call her when we get there. So we hop into a cab, which I have to pay for because only the rich guy has money on him.

We never get to another party. We wait in a whole lot of lines, and "Q" argues with a whole lot of bouncers and managers, but we never set foot in a club. I think, "Hmm, can't he just call Spike Lee?"

In between parties I notice that "Q" looks like a lizard, acts like a Boca elitist, and has as much charm as a wet swiffer pad. He continuously mentions women's shoes instead of their obviously more interesting assets; some of the most stunning asses ever displayed are bouncing before him and he can only see shoes. He tells me that my pedicure is "busted," and that my shoes are unattractive. I tell him that I am a dyke and can "wear whatever fucking shoes I want." I decide he is a pretentious jackass and ignore him, which becomes difficult later when he begins misquoting people and making vast generalizations about our current political climate.

I tire of the waiting in lines for no benefit. I tell Brian I am leaving and he says, "I'll come with you." We hop in a cab and he tells me everyone hates Tucker, and that his behavior is childish and as deplorable as he has ever seen. He tells me that Kimmy hates Tucker too, and later she tells me this is totally untrue.

BunnyDaddyism: I can't hate him for this because he doesn't understand. Besides, he is just trying to make me feel better, which is actually very sweet.

When we arrive at the hotel, Kimmy is out front talking to two bellhops and a an average looking guy lounging on a luggage rack and drinking beer with them. Like every man we meet, he has developed a little crush on Kimmy, and invites us to his hotel room to raid the mini bar. I can tell by the way he does it that his intentions are completely innocent, and I know it for sure when we get to his room and he immediately shows us pictures of his beautiful wife whom he is very proud of.

We lounge around his room discussing musicians, tits, asian women, and porpoises, as well as his run in with the Gotti boys at 5am at the pool, during which they threatened his life for suggesting that they shut the fuck up. I ask him if they wore swim caps so as not to mess up their coifs. Apparently not, but considering the absurdities the Floozies and others have been wearing (pulling/yanking at/adjusting) throughout my visit, swim caps on men is not so bizarre a suggestion. Everyone looks as if a Mt. Dew can is going to slam into their hand at any minute.

I bookmark the Bunny Blog into his favorites in his web browser, and he promises to read "The rise and fall of the Bun-quila." We watch an infomercial for "Girls Gone Wild" and debate the hotness of each girl.

Brian begins discussing sound technology with our host and Senor Zoloft has a problem with it. My head begins spinning like a basketball on a fucking finger. I excuse myself, violently puke, then pass out.

Saturday: Big Party Night
The next day, Kimmy and I head to the pool, drink Mojitos and call Drunkasaurus Rex more times than is appropriate.

I go to the gym for my daily two-hour workout while skinny-ass Kimmy takes a fucking nap.

BrianH arrives at our room with Rich White Ryan, and both of them are high as kites and soaked in sweat. While Kimmy is showering, Brian H. tells me he came to Miami just to see me because he is in love with me. While I am showering he tells Kimmy that he came to Miami just to see her because he is in love with her.

BunnyDaddyism: He is twenty-two, so this is normal behavior.

P Diddy/Stuff Magazine Party at Star Island Mansion
We get ready, and I do my best to mask the sunburn quickly developing all over my Irish ass. I am an animated bisexual tomato in pigtails and second hand jeans.

Kimmy and I head downstairs, and Kyle from RedBull, a huge, bald, cool as fuck guy picks us up. I notice he is wearing the "Qray" ionized bracelet, and ask him if it works. He says, "I don't fucking know."

He regales us with stories about his childhood, growning up Irish Catholic in Philadelphia, and how he may look like Stone Cold Steve Austin, but his tiny Sicilian wife could kick his ass if properly motivated. He drives us by Shaq's new mansion, which isn't so much a mansion as it is a Papacy. I can't wait for that episode of "Cribs."

We pull up to the Stuff party and valet. The mansion is ridiculous. It sprawls a quarter mile to the Ocean in two and three story villas, pool houses, plazas, exotic trees, and verandas. Cornice is perched at the top of everything. Around the pool are patios with gauzy curtains like something out of "The Great Gatsby." There are statues of bulls, gorillas, alligators, turtles, and other animals, and a few old people on benches that are so life-like I pass and wave to them many times before realizing they are just statues.

While Kimmy and Kyle set up, I wander around looking for a bathroom. I ask a few people and they are extremely nice and don't speak English. So this doesn't help my bladder. It seems that everyone in a service position is Florida is from South America.

In desperation, I begin opening doors and walking into any room I can find. This is how I run into six naked Hispanic models being body painted and glittered, and I have to stop writing this story right now so that I can masturbate.

Okay, so anyway, I compliment them on their nakedness and search some more. This is when I hear, "Oh my God, it's the Bunny!" and meet my very first fan who is working for one of the liquor company sponsors. He has a friend take our picture, then asks me if I've made up withTequila yet, or if I have clogged any of the toilets. I am famous for big shits. Great. I tell him that I haven't been able to find a bathroom. He points me in the right direction.

The DJ begins to play music, and he has a taste for the classics: Al Green, Earth Wind and Fire, Marvin Gaye, etc. The hot women are beginning to spill in and naked models sprayed with glitter are walking around to "Let's Get it On." I am unrepentantly horny. I decide to add liquor to this mix.

Kimmy and I go to the bar for some Mojitos. She recognizes a few musicians she knows and says hello to them. I ask them what they do, and musicians do not like it when you A) do not know who they are, and B) ask them what they do for a living. Pauly Shore walks by. He is much more attractive than I thought and only four feet tall.

I run into Collin from the Real World Hawaii, the only season I faithfully watched for its gratuitous nudity. I try to talk to him about Ruthie and he scoffs and walks away as if he is not Collin from the Real World, but someone who is actually famous.

BunnyDaddyism: Don't kick the crippled. He has to wake up tomorrow a nd be Collin from The Real World.

Brian arrives with Rich White Ryan and Big Shot Music Producer Kelly. They have two cute girls with them who immediately disappear into thin air as soon as they are in the door because they are whorish cunts who use people to get into parties. We chat with the boys for a bit while they glance over our shoulders for someone better to talk to.

Michelle Branch walks in with her girlfriend, a tough looking chick in leather pants with a blonde Mohawk. Michelle is beautiful in that all-american way that I can't get enough of. She has a real body and gorgeous skin, and her mouth is this amazing glistening thing you can't take your eyes off of. I talk to her about her music for a little bit and find out that she is definitely bisexual when her girlfriend gives me a look of death. I glance at these spindly things I call arm muscles and decide to back off. I am sad.

Brian tells me that Kelly produced Nelly Furtado's "Whoa Nelly," an album I heard then rushed to the store and bought because the production was so good. I decide I have to seek out Kelly and tell him what a huge fan of his work I am.

Mary J. Blige walks by. She is smoking hot and I can't move or speak. KimChi tells me I am silly, but I almost can't breathe I love that woman so much.

I find Kelly. He is high on some form of Ecstasy, or just likes to sweat, smile weirdly and wear his shirt open like Michael Jackson in the Dirty Diana video. I ask him about "Whoa Nelly." He says nothing of particular instruments or equipment used, but does tell me that Nelly liked to get high a lot. I ask him what his full name is so that I can see it in the liner notes and he tells me that he is not credited because it is not his best work and he didn't want to put his name on something he isn't totally proud of, but that Nelly thanks him in her notes. He tells me "cute boy" is him.

I walk away, trip over a statue of an alligator and nearly fall into the pool. Then I look back and curse the alligator because I am embarrassed, and that's what people do when they trip over things.

I find Kimmy hanging out at the giant cooling fan with Kyle. We decide to go get another drink. On our way to the bar, Paris Hilton walks by. I almost didn't recognize her she is so beautiful, and I think She must be the only model in the world who looks better in person than she does in pictures. I go to clog a toilet, then hunt her down, and tell her I am a fan of "The Real Life" when I've never watched an episode (because I am an asshole with no control over my faculties). She is intensely beautiful. She is also in no way bisexual, but very sweet to me as she blows me off.

I get very drunk and chat with Owen Wilson about The Royal Tennenbaums, and then sober up some and realize that it is not Owen Wilson, but a guy pretending to be, and that his hand is on my left tit. Or maybe it is him, I still don't know.

I wander some more, intermitantly chatting with Kyle, Kimmy, and a few of the people working the party. Everyone and everything else is obscured into Charlie Brown "Waa Waa" language.

A Dominican Cigar Roller is rolling blunts. The patios around the pool smell of good weed, and this is when I see a whole bunch of rappers so that's kind of funny.

I spy Kimmy sitting alone by a set of stairs in the middle of the party. She seems depressed and I know why. I always thought her job was the greatest, going to swanky parties, meeting celebrities, being in glamourous atmospheres all the time. But to be honest, these parties suck. The people at them have done their best to not be themselves. Like the Four Loud Floozies, no one is intelligent, witty, well-intentioned, real, or congenial. I might rather spend a night surrounded by Trixies than at a party with Hollywood celebrities and hanger-oners. At least I wouldn't feel as if I'm walking through a glass tube while some alternative reality happens independently from my existence, as if I had become the unknowing protagonist of a Tom Stoppard novel.

I sit down next to her and pat her on the leg. Omarosa walks by, and Pauly Shore does "The Weasel" into the DJ's microphone. You know you're a party that none of the "losers can get into" when Pauly Shore does the Weasel and Omarosa walks past.

I spy Brian again and he begins to tell me all about the projects he and his boys are pitching to Spike Lee. One is a "piggyback" of Tucker's Hoo-ah project. Another is Tucker's show. He tells me, "We're going to steal Tucker's site material right out from under him."

Me: "Wha... What?" My Tucker?

Brian: "PLAGERIZE."

Me: "What?" I nod in disbelief and try to play it cool. I feel like bursting into tears because I am childish and too sensitive.

I ask, "What did Tucker do to you, Brian?" He doesn't answer.

Kimmy and I decide to leave. We try to share cabs back to South Beach, but none of the "waa waa" people will let us into their cabs, which is rather fitting. We have to walk a mile before we can find an empty one, and as we do we pass expensive rented cars that look like space machines. Walking along with us is the lead singer of "Hoobastank" and his "reason for me, to change who I used to be." She is tall and brunette, one of those ambient girls whose smile makes you shit your pants. I would start over new for her without a second thought.

I go back to the hotel and call Tucker, cry a lot, and puke. He tells me that everything is fine and that I shouldn't let Brian know that I told him anything.

He asks me how the party went, and I tell him that P Diddy didn't even bother to go to the P Diddy party.

Sunday: Video Music Awards
Kimmy wakes me and we head out for some sushi. She tells me that she has tickets to the Video Music Awards, but neither of us wants to go. In fact, I would have had to be taken down with a da rt gun and dragged there. I don't know if Kimmy's aversion was that severe.

In the elevator, we stop at a floor and a guy with black spiky hair joins us. He has lots of tattoos, and Kimmy says "Oh my gosh, you're that guy frommmmm. Ummmm. Good Charlotte?"

Spiky guy: "No, New Found Glory." He smiles

Kimmy: "OH I GIVE YOU RED BULL!" He smiles even more, and I ask, "Now why the hell can't I get away with this?"

Kimmy may have no internal monologue, but she is fucking adorable. Honestly, the girl is pure sunshine.

Brian calls while we are at the Sushi restaurant and tells us he will meet us there. He arrives with Rich White Ryan and Kelly and they are dressed as they were the night before. They order plate after plate of sashimi, at nine dollars a slice, then do nothing as the check comes to the table. They expect Kimmy to expense it. I pull out money and suggest that we should split the check, and Brian tells Kimmy to "tell RedBull you took New Found Glory to lunch." Rich White Guy pulls out his card and asks "Do I have to pay for this too?"

Eminem D-12 party at the Delano
The set up is much the same as the one at the Shore club, except Kimmy's stress is tripled because none of the cases of product she shipped to the hotel have arrived yet. She works everything out quite smoothly while I flirt with the hot Colombian girl in the picture I posted. Her name is Diana, and she doesn't even flinch when Kimmy asks if she can inspect her new tits. We head into the bathroom and I watch and nearly pass out while Kimmy squeezes Diana's breasts. She asks me, "Dyu wan to touch?" and I say, "Oh I definitely want to touch, but its not a good idea." Later Kimmy tells me she admires my self-control. This is the first time anyone has ever said this to me.

The "waa waa's" are out and about once again. Kimmy and I bring RedBulls to the overheated security guys who thank us for our kindness. We get a few more mojitos, lounge on the beds and look at the stars as the VMA-goers make entrances in couture dresses that cost more than my car.

A lot of Eminem and D-12 music is being played, but there is no sign of Eminem nor any member of D-12 at the Eminem/D-12 party. I go to the bathroom and while waiting in line I can't help eavesdropping on a conversation between two girls snorting and pulling on their noses. They have black cat eye makeup and white permed hair. They drop their hand towels on the floor when they walk out, and a very nice Nicaraguan lady picks them up and says nothing. It was so cliche I wanted to kick them in their overused crotches.

Outside, the party is packed with "waa waa's." I pass two of the Floozies and see the cateye girls by the bar fighting over who will get to fuck Eminem.

A large black man compliments me on my Levis and I thank him. He says I have style, which is odd because I put effort into an outfit once or twice a year and this is not one of those occasions. I say, "Well thanks hon, 501's from a thrift store," then tell Kimmy "I think that nice black man likes me."

I wander around some then spy Kimmy sitting by the pool with that same depressed look. She is sitting next to a "waa waa" couple, the male counterpart of which has red marks beneath his eyebrows from a fresh wax job.

At this point in the weekend I am filled to the brim with despondance. I'm old enough to know the difference between fantasy and reality - that real versions of fantasies are never as potent or enticing - but I didn't know that fantasies could be based upon such nothingness. These people were boring. They bored me, and as I watched them line up around the pool with expressionless demeanor not from over-Botoxing, I realize they bored themselves too. No one looked happy, and this was a party that everyone was dying to get into. I hadn't felt so pent up and angry since the five BonJovi-filled minutes I endured in the fall of 1991 before I heard the opening riff to Smells Like Teen Spirit for the first time.

But it wasn't teen spirit I smelled. It was bullshit. Pure fucking bullshit. I needed to be over-dramatic, to find the machine so that I could rage against it's mediocrity. I stepped into the infinity pool and looked at Kimmy. She sort of nodded back and said, "go for it." Then I dove head first into the pool at the Delano.

When I resurfaced there was mayhem. Kimmy was half laughing and half comforting the irate "waa waa's" next to her. Apparently I had let off a tsunami that had ruined thousand dollar couture outfits for the remainder of the evening. I swam over to the "waa waa's" and apologized because I sincerely felt bad. But that only lasted until Fresh Wax glared at me, said "This is Prada," flicked me off and walked away.

Then I was so proud of myself.

Fresh Wax sent security over to kick me out, but as Kimmy and I had been handing the security guys cold beverages all night, they only laughed and told me not to do it again.

Kimmy: "I need to get the fuck out of here. My IQ is dropping."Kimmy is funny.

On our way out we spotted Brian at the door trying to get in. Kimmy finangled them in somehow and he gave us a quick hug and then disappeared like the two whorish cunts who had used him the night before.

Kimmy and I went back to the Hotel, got into our jammies, and passed out.

Monday: Time to Leave
I awaken. Its 11:45, and my flight is leaving in fifteen minutes. DAMN DAMN DAMN! I throw my wet things into my suitcase, pull out my tickets and have a great sigh of relief when I realize that my flight doesn't leave until 5pm. I decide to check out and go to the pool.

At the pool, I sip a mojito and miss Kimmy. A very large black man with pret ty muscles sits next to me and says, "I like your pigtails."

Without thought I reply, "thanks hon. [faux whisper] They mean I'm gay." Oh I'm so uncool.

He looks like a more attractive version of the retarded healer from "The Green Mile" with the deep voice and everything. He introduces himself as "Cliff," and plays the "you really don't know who I am?" game with me. I drunkenly say, "Are you a road-biker?"
"No!"
"Are you a figure skater?"
"No."
"A butcher?"
"No."
"A baker? A candlestick maker?"
"Nope. You're crazy."
"Are you a rapper?"
"Hmmm. Maybe."
[white girl accent] "Do you have bling and baby momma drama?"
[laughs] "You're one crazy white girl."
"Hee hee. I know."

We chat for hours. He is very intelligent and knows much about art, has beautiful lips (face raping is a problem I have to work on) and I want to fuck him very much. I give thought to glancing at his joystick when he says, "I'll be right back."

He is gone for twenty minutes or so, and I assume that he is like the rest of the "waa waa's" and has found a better target. But he comes back with a little box from a jewelry store, inside of which are two sparkly hair ornaments for my pigtails. Then he gives me his phone number.

I didn't really know what to think. I'm a modest person in that it embarrasses me when people spend money on me. I didn't understand why this hot, witty, and intelligent man had bought me something expensive so that I would call him. Was this normal?

He could tell I was weirded out, but looking back, I'm sure he thought I didn't like his gift enough, so he TOOK OFF HIS WATCH, a very expensive watch, and put it on my wrist before he left for the airport saying "every time you glance at it, you'll think of me and know to call me." I haven't called him, but I've thought about it a lot and it always depresses me.

Sadly, this is the end of my Miami exploits.

I hitched a ride to the airport, got on my plane, landed in Chicago, kissed my dog and shoved the Critterpiller ($19.99) in her mouth. By the next morning it was in shreds on my living room floor.

The White Crow
"So what's the damn White Crow?" you may be wondering.

Remember the cool DVD guy that was drinking beer with the bellhops? He isn't just a DVD guy. He owns part or all of a major concert DVD production company. He is the most wealthy man I've ever met.

So there I was in a modest hotel room raiding the mini bar and discussing the "Girls Gone Wild" with someone who could very easily buy and sell Boca. I was the closest I had ever been to real money, and a world away from pretentious stench of it. DVD guy was my first white crow. I can never again say that all rich people suck.

And you could ask yourself what came first? The Crow or the egg? Is it the money that corrupts the man, or the man that corrupts the money? You could say that people are inherently good. That they become victims of their own self-indulgence, or that they get carried away with the fantasy and make poor decisions. You could say that they mean well.

But then there's my favorite BunnyDaddyism:
In the end, good people just shut the fuck up and do good things.