Miami Nights

Ever since I started working for MiamiNights there has been a large amount of unnecessary stalking and harassment of the sexual and social kind that has occurred to myself and to members of my extended entourage of beautiful and high class society women and men, who I have hand selected and humanely harvested from the best families of the Tri-County area. The recent arrival of these flaxen-haired, toned, literate, learned, socially conscious and jewel-bedezzalled individuals in the upper echelons of the Miami party circuit, to say nothing of their contributions to the plethora philanthropic organizations that MiamiNights associates itself with, has not gone entirely unnoticed by various esteemed publications, periodicals, scientific journals, advertising circulars, and, let's be honest with one another, muck-raking, yellow, bird-cage lining, all-out shitty and wholly unreadable rags.

During our morning Victorian-style tea party (which, due to no fault of my own, often veers far to the left, from a delightful society dames' social event concerned only with topics such as doilies and pubic waxing, into a "V for Vendetta"-style nightclub-destruction/anarchocapitalist strategy pow-wow, featuring surprisingly strong homoerotic and magickal overtones) it has been brought to my attention, with troublingly-frequent regularity, the undeniable fact (whose statistical underpinnings can be scientifically tracked and measured by rambunctious college freshmen most easily by analyzing the data and behavioral patterns of MySpace and Facebook users) that, through association with this well-respected nightlife blog, they have drawn themselves into a tsunami of unwanted, and in most cases professionally unethical, attention, heaped upon them by grease-trap slurping, pockmarked, uneducated, irresponsibly-unmotivated, unflappable douchebags (the likes of which have never been assembled in one place, short of a record industry convention, dental school graduation ceremony, paintball tournament, or open bar at Pawn Shop).

So, it is with heavy heart, and iron, disciplined hand (yes, predictably, wearing one of those forward-thinking fingerless glove designs that I am known to fancy while strolling the fashionable promenades of the most erudite European provinces, often in the company of my dear friends Pip and Angeline, who, coincidentally, are the heir and heiress of a famous eye model's vast estate and considerable fortune, though mostly tied up in peasant land holdings across the French countryside, whose steely-blue gaze could at once weaken the heart of even the most closeted sartorial critic, and also put the fear of death in the mind of a Vespa-riding mob-affiliated steroid-injecting madman, though, truthfully, her position in society has irrefutably weakened after her untimely demise, as she lies only in a pine box at the foot of the towering Cliffs of Dover with nary a mourner nor heavy-lided teary eye in sight), that I plead, with my savagely-beating heart pinned to my woolen sleeve, for the cessation of grievous misallocations of attention, the recipients being primarily myself and rest of the Miami Nights travelling brigadiers, that have occured of late. Frankly, it's killing my buzz, and I already have enough shit to deal with not having a real job.

Peace, and Lackner, where's my check?