It’s GIVE MIAMI DAY! This means you’re being pressured to donate your hard-earned money to a bunch of charities and non-profits who want to selfishly spend it on making the community you live in a better place. Those jerks. 

Last year, Give Miami Day raised over $14.4 million for local non-profits, and this year, the communists behind that plot expect to raise even more. To get to the bottom of this, the Plantain searched through the more than 900 nonprofits raising money through Give Miami Day to find the worst ways you can spend your money: 

1) Zapatos para pata sucios – Established in 2014, this non-profit shovels money to popular Miami nightclubs and less popular gas stations, and provides shoes to pata sucias. “This is like a super important issue,” said a bunion on the bottom of a very attractive redhead’s left foot as she stumbled across Alton Road at 1:30 AM. 

2) Tyler’s Herros – This organization goes into high-income areas of Miami and replaces old Lebron Heat Jerseys with bootlegged Jimmy Butler and Tyler Herro jerseys. “This is great, I really needed a new jersey,” said Insurance broker Xavier Alvarez from the Miller’s Ale House in Pinecrest. “Thank you so much, this really helps our family,” added his wife, Camilla, telling us privately that the Lebron jersey didn’t actually fit Xavier anymore on account of all of their trips to Miller’s Ale House.

3) Sweaters for South Florida – This nonprofit was established by your coworker who insists anything under 77 degrees is “sweater weather.” Founder Luca Johannson says that though SFSF will do absolutely nothing at all (so don’t even ask) to help reduce South Florida’s homelessness problem, they will make sure that all of the homeless people that line South Florida’s streets are balmy and never even the slightest bit cold.  

4) The Gloria Estefan Medical Fund – The Miami Icon and Stage-4 Conga survivor has set up a fund to help those diagnosed with the fire of desire turn the beat around and get back on their feet. 

Want to donate? Great! Head to the Give Miami Day Nonprofit Finder and find the one you’d like to donate to.

We promise the ones we mentioned are totally in there. You can’t find them? Keep looking. Actually – go make some coffee – there are over 900 nonprofits participating in Give Miami Day 2020, so this might take a while.


Abigail Braman woke up Monday morning at 7:45 AM and spent several minutes staring at the ceiling contemplating her life decisions before preparing herself for another day of work. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she reached over to grab her cell phone from her nightstand and deleted the seven to 40 pieces of junk mail (mostly from Williams Sonoma and the Democratic Party) that accumulates in her inbox every night. After doom-scrolling through the President’s latest effort to steal the election, she noticed something unusual. “Oh my god!” said Ms. Braman out loud to herself as she stared at her home screen. “It’s sweater weather!”

The 27-year-old paralegal jolted out of her bed and ran outside to see if it was true. As soon as stepped outside, the crisp air smacked her face. She took a deep breath before getting nervous and putting on her mask. Still, she enjoyed the sounds of birds chirping. Had they always sounded so beautiful? It was 71 degrees in Miami. Today was going to be a wonderful day.

Ms. Braman could hardly contain herself as she searched for the perfect outfit. As she reached toward the back of her closet to search for her winter clothing, she thought about how bad this year had been. The election and the pandemic was bad enough, but Miami also had six months of unbearable heat that brought a deluge of feminine dampness, hair frizz, and mosquito bites with it. But not today.

Abigail dressed in a sleek black long sleeve thermal from Banana Republic that she layered with an opened red flannel jacket from H&M and a green camouflage army jacket, also from Banana Republic. Before she left for work, she grabbed a gray checkered scarf a knitted American flag beanie she bought several years ago for a “girls trip” to New York. As she took one last look at herself in the mirror before she left, she smiled. “You look cute!” she said to herself before taking a selfie of her outfit and texting her mother in Virginia.

On her way to work, she stopped at a Starbucks for a celebratory Peppermint Hot Chocolate. It was 75 degrees. Abigail stood in line and admired the very expensive Canada Goose jacket worn by the woman in front of her. “Starbucks always tastes better in a red cup!” she posted to Twitter while she waited an unreasonably long time for her drink. They had forgotten to put peppermint in it. She considered asking them to remake it but didn’t want to be difficult.

When she arrived at her downtown Miami office at 9:00 AM, it was 79 degrees. The lawyers in the office had been allowed to work from home since March, but since she was only a paralegal she was still required to come to the office.

“Can you believe this weather?” asked a lightly sweating Abigail to the office assistant Nancy Randazzo as she removed her scarf and beanie.

“This is why I live in Miami!” said Abigail through her mask before returning to her desk and pondering, as she often does, whether she should have moved to California with Heather and David after college. “What’s so great about San Francisco anyway?” she thought to herself before scrolling through Heather’s Instagram for 11 minutes. 

At noon, Abigail joined Nancy and Javier, one of her firm’s office service workers, for lunch at a nearby Greek restaurant across. They had agreed that the three of them would be a “pod” so they could eat together, but Javier didn’t seem to be taking his pod responsibilities seriously and had developed a sniffle. Still, Abigail didn’t want to be rude and say anything.

During lunch, Nancy gave Abigail and Javier a comprehensive update on the difficulty she was having homeschooling her son and Javier gave a detailed account of the latest infection rates before coughing for several seconds into a napkin and blaming it on his allergies.

The restaurant itself was decent, although more expensive than anticipated. They charged for soda refills, which Abigail felt should have really been mentioned at some point. As she, Nancy, and Javier walked back to their office, it was 84 degrees. “Still sweater weather,” she said to herself as she wiped away a few beads of sweat that developed on her upper lip.

For the next several hours, Abigail alternated between proofreading a long brief for one of her firm’s partners and scrolling through Pinterest for pictures of architecturally significant gingerbread houses. At 3:15 PM, she received a phone call from a lawyer named Steven who asked that she leave the office to pick up a docket of files from the Circuit Court. She redressed in her winter outfit and began to walk the six blocks to the Court. It was 88 degrees.

When she arrived at the courthouse steps, she was out of breath and could feel sweat dripping down her back. Entering the Clerk’s office, she removed her beanie to reveal a mess of oily hair that was half tamped to her head. By the time she left the Court for the return trip, it was 91 degrees. It started to rain down on her when she was a block away from her office. 

The rain had dampened the papers she had retrieved from the Court. When she returned to her office, she had a message from Steven: “Abi, it turns out the files were online so I didn’t actually need you to go,” said the message without a thank you or apology. As she settled back at her desk she noticed her own smell. Luckily, she kept a travel-size bottle of baby powder to combat groin sweat, a remedy she was worried may cause cervical cancer but willing to risk it today considering the odor that had developed.

At 5:00 PM she left her office. The temperature had dropped to 89 degrees. As Abigail sat in traffic, she started to once again thumb through Heather’s Instagram. “I can’t believe she didn’t ask me to be a bridesmaid,” said Abigail to herself as she turned her car’s air conditioning higher. “It’s so god damn hot,” she defeatedly admitted. 

After an hour and fifteen minutes, Abi arrived at her home. She removed the soaking thermal and flannel she had on all day and placed her jacket back into her closet. As she resigned herself to her couch for the night, she started watching a documentary about the murder of JonBenet Ramsey before deciding to see what The Walking Dead was all about. After two episodes, she didn’t see the big deal and put on a TBS marathon of a Friends re-runs. She fell asleep about halfway through “The One Where Joey and Rachel Kiss with a lollipop in her mouth.”

She woke up at 1:45 AM. aAfter washing a few dishes, she returned to her bed at 2:20 AM. She briefly considered showering but was too tired and decided she would just wash her armpits, neck, thighs, and knees with a wet terrycloth in the morning.

As Abigail Braman plugged in her phone for the night and laid back in her bed she checked the next morning’s weather report:

Low of 87 degrees/High of 92.


Freelance journalist Jason Ireland was killed in his home Tuesday for reportedly publishing an article that contained several comma splice errors, authorities confirmed.

“We’re all very sad to hear about Jason”, his editor, Nathanial Masserati, told the Plantain. “But he was always putting commas on the outside of quotation marks like a real twat and was also inconsistent with how he used commas to set off proper nouns, so he deserved it.”

Mr. Ireland is survived by his wife, Evangeline, and son Oscar. He enjoyed watching baseball which was his favorite sport and leaving commas out of sentences with non-restrictive elements.

Mr. Ireland was killed by a longtime fan of his writing who noticed several grammatical errors in his latest article as well as an incorrect factual statement that arguably undermined one of the article’s premises. When his killer, let’s call him Carl with a K, discovered these errors and learned he could not cancel any subscription because Mr. Ireland wrote for free he decided to murder him. “Your writing doesn’t always read like you think it sounds in your head”, were reportedly the last words Mr. Ireland heard before being killed.

“His writing could be sloppy”, Nathanial also noted, telling this Reporter, that he occasionally would also add unnecessary commas, too. “I would send him primers on basic comma usage but he kept saying he was too busy to read them on account of all the writing I needed him to do since he was our only writer.”

When asked how he thought Mr. Ireland wanted to be remembered Nathanial said as someone extremely passive-aggressive that was willing to write an entire article using pseudonyms just to prove a point even though he had a pile of more pressing work he should be doing.”

When my editor tapped me to find out why Miami Cubans overwhelmingly supported Donald Trump in the 2020 election, I was confident I already knew the answer. As a non-Latinx man living in Miami, I consider myself an expert on the Cuban community. Since graduating from Penn State in 2017 (Go Nittany Lions!) to take a job with The Plantain, I have come to truly understand the Cuban-American experience. I live in a condo on West Brickell (only a few minutes from Little Havana), love authentic Cuban cuisine (vaca frita, YUM!) and even took a salsa lesson at Ball & Chain before the pandemic. So, while it’s true I am technically not actually Cuban, I’ve kissed enough Yanelys and Usnavies on the cheek over the last three years that I now consider myself an honorary member of that community free to criticize and stereotype the entire group without self-reflection. And that’s why I know the reason Cubans overwhelmingly went for Trump is because of Castro or something.

You see, Castro was…a dictator (like Trump!) who was mean to his people after promising them healthcare, I think, so Cubans started to leave for Miami. To be honest, I don’t know all of the details about the Cuban Revolution but I do know for sure that because Castro was socialist, all of the Cubans who moved to Miami are very anti-Socialist and also not to tell anyone that I had a Che Guevara poster in my dorm room at Penn State because he’s sort of their Hitler. Oh, and Castro is also their Hitler, too. They have two Hitlers. Anyway, since Castro was really bad and also socialist, all Republicans have to say is that something is also socialist and every Cuban will start to hate it. It’s sort of like how if I hear a song in a TJ Maxx, I might like it until I Shazam it and find out it’s the Eagles. Socialism is basically the Eagles in Miami – once you find out it’s them, it makes it impossible to like it anymore.

After turning in the previous paragraph to my editor, I was surprised to find out that he was actually a pretty big fan of the Eagles and also felt my understanding of the Cuban-American experience was incomplete and lacked nuance. “C’mon, do you really think Miami’s entire Cuban population is so gullible that all you need to do is say something is socialist and they’re all going to automatically hate it?” he asked me over lunch at a Cuban restaurant near my home in West Brickell. I was caught off guard by the question and didn’t even have time to swallow the vaca frita (so good) before responding that yes, I did in fact believe Cubans in Miami would instinctively hate anything labeled socialist.

As our meal went on, my editor told me that my view of Miami’s Cuban population is rooted in a stereotype that does not represent the entire community and fails to appreciate why the socialistic scare tactics are effective against some Cuban-Americans. “I just don’t think you could ever really understand the trauma experienced by Cubans under Castro and how that still impacts how some of them react to U.S. politics,” he said. “I totally do understand, because my brother’s wife’s family was in the Holocaust,” I told him. “And that was way worse.” He gave me a frustrated look.

“My point is that sure, there is a small, overwhelming majority of the Cuban population in Miami that is triggered by the socialist label, and politicians love to exploit that group. But to say all Cubans reflexively oppose all things labeled “socialist” is undermined by the fact that Cubans in Miami support the Affordable Care Act, derided as socialist.

“So why did they vote for Trump then? Are they just prone to supporting dictators…because of Castro?” I asked, lowering my voice so no one else in the restaurant heard me use the C-word.

“No!” he chortled, spitting a bit of mojo pork across the table and into my mouth. “Cubans in Miami hate Castro! You see, it’s these lazy arguments that Cubans are somehow predisposed to support autocrats that allow the Democratic party to throw their hands up and not reflect on why they lose elections down here that they should be winning. Maybe the Democratic party is just not offering Cuban-Americans a platform that addresses the needs of their community? Did you ever think of that?”

“Then what does Miami’s Cuban-American community want?” I asked, eagerly anticipating the insight that my editor was about to reveal but also starting to worry that the mojo pork he accidentally spat in my mouth was going to give me Covid.

“There isn’t one answer! Cubans in Miami are not a monolith. But every four years, a plane full of consultants fly down here from D.C. and treat them like they are. So, every four years the left comes down here and puts on events featuring some old white guy dancing in a guayabera and handing out free cafecitos while talking about how strong of a capitalist he is, while on the right they host events featuring some old white guy dancing in a guayabera and handing out free cafecitos while talking about how much of a communist the guy on the left is. The result is Democrats hoping to court Cuban voters are too afraid to be labeled a socialist to present an economic platform that addresses the inequality and low-standard of life that plagues the vast majority of Miamians regardless of origin, while the Republicans play to the stereotype that Cubans will vote against anything they call socialistic. But doesn’t the fact that many Cuban-Americans voted for Obama and support Obamacare contradict that narrative?”

“I thought Cubans hated Obama though. Because they’re all racist, right? That’s why they like Trump so much,” I asked. “No! All of them are racist?” he responded. “There are white Cubans that are racist and white Cubans that aren’t. There are also black Cubans that have a completely different experience. To say that all Cubans are racist is like saying that all Americans are racist: It fits a narrative and there are too many that are, but it doesn’t tell the whole story. So, while yeah, sure, there is a problem of colorism and white supremacy within Cuban culture, as there is within any colonized culture, to say all Cubans are racist and therefore voted for Trump because he is also racist is just lazy and an attempt to explain away why Democrats keep losing winnable races in Miami.”

As I thought about everything my editor told me over lunch, I felt embarrassed about how little I understood about the majority culture that surrounded me in Miami and how vocally critical I was about their role in last week’s election. This instinct to blame Cubans generally for Biden’s failure to win the state undermines the efforts of progressive organizers like Cubanos Con Biden that tried to reach out to Miami’s Cubans but who, from an outsider’s perspective at least, seemed to suffer from a lack of support and long-term voter engagement movement that should have been a priority of the Democratic Party long before the 2020 election.

I thanked my editor for lunch and apologized for lumping all Cubans together. “Don’t mention it. I remember when I first came to Miami from Dartmouth in 2012 and thought the same thing. But after eight years here, you really start to understand the Cuban-American experience and how nuanced it can be,” said my editor, Wyatt J. Wellingsworth-Corduroy-Smithfash III. “At this point, I now consider myself an honorary member of the Cuban community,” he said before telling me that I really should try the mojo pork next time since only white people order vaca frita.

“¡Dale!” I told him. “I’ll definitely get it next time, Wyatt.”

The name “Dixie Highway” has long angered members of the African American community who view it as celebrating America’s slave-owning confederate history. But that may now be changing following a proposal to rename the highway after self-described black man Javier Ortiz.

“Racism proliferates through symbols, so as a black man I’m happy to see this symbol of Miami’s racist past upended,” said Javier Ortiz, a man who is not actually black and who is himself a symbol of Miami’s racist present.

As I stood in front of Officer Ortiz and listened as he touted his ethnicity and said “negro” an uncomfortable amount of times, I interrupted and asked him to clarify: “I’m sorry, you are suggesting that you are a black man?” I asked.

“Yes, I identify as a black man. I am a negro, my brotha,” said Javier Ortiz before pulling out a pack of Kools to emphasize the point.

“But aren’t you also the same Javier Ortiz who has for years been accused of racist and anti-black behavior and who is also widely known to have a very small penis? If you are black then why are you so racist and how come your dick is so small?” I asked. Mr. Ortiz responded that he was offended by my stereotype and noted that some black men, like himself, have very tiny micro-penises and also that it was not my place to criticize his years of attacks against African Americans which he now views as “black-on-black” crime that should be dealt with from within the black community.

The Plantain spoke to the head of Miami PD’s internal affairs about Mr. Ortiz’s comments but they just laughed and said they weren’t fuckin’ snitches and don’t investigate their own. As I disappointedly left the internal affairs office I was stopped by an officer who politely told me to “stop resisting” before knocking me in the head with a billyclub. “Blue Lives Matter, MAGA 2020, my father never loved me,” said the assaulting officer before leaving me to bleed out.

The Wynwood Walls attraction, a long-time focal point of Miami’s art district that features murals by some of the world’s, but not Miami’s, biggest artist will close next month and be replaced by a mixed-use condominium that features a Walgreens and Capital One Cafe as its anchor tenants.”Wynwood has finally gotten to the point where developers don’t need to maintain the independent, artistic elements of the community that originally attracted attention to the neighborhood,” said the property’s new owner Whocares Fakename who plans to develop six luxury condominiums around the neighborhood in the next year. “Sure, people like art, but they will love our terrace views of Panther Coffee, custom granite counter tops, and doorman who used to live two blocks away but now has to live in Miami Gardens and commutes.”

Urban planning specialists refer to this stage of municipal development as the “deculturalization” stage.

“Independent theaters and gathering places are great and all, but people really want to live in luxury condos in Wynwood. What am I supposed to do? Not build them and make lots of money?” said Mr. Fakename. “All these new residents are going to need a corner store, and that’s why I’m so excited about our partnership with Walgreens.”

The Wynwood Walgreens will feature a pharmacy and be open 24-hours. “We want to honor the neighborhood’s history, so the inside of our Walgreens will feature a custom graffiti of those same goddamn aholsniffsglu eyeballs he’s been putting on everything for a decade. People love those eyeballs. It’s hip and anti-corporate,” said Walgreens corporate manager Melissa Howard.

Reed Paulson, the CEO of an as-yet-to-be-developed Blockchain business who has lived in Wynwood for two years said that while he was sad to see Wynwood institutions like O-Cinema close, he is excited for what it means for his community.

“Independent theaters are great and all. I mean, Garden State is so deep, but if we get 10 highrises along NW 2nd they’re legally required to build a Whole Foods. That would be huge for property values.”

A group of food rights activists have filed a complaint to the State’s food safety board panning the practice of many Miami-based bakeries and delicatessens of pressing their sandwiches as firmly as possible, claiming the act disrespects the integrity of the bread.

Holding signs with slogans like “Free Gluten!” and “Not all Sandwiches!”, a crowd of baked goods gathered outside of Little Haiti’s Versailles Restaurant to protest the practice. “We don’t want special treatment. We just want to be treated like every other menu item. Don’t put extra pressure on us just because we’re bread,” said organizer Juan Cuban Sandwich, a recently constructed mojo-flavored roasted pork butt and smoked ham Cubano with Swiss and mustard oozing from its side. “Just treat us equally. It’s the yeast you could do,” he added before being attacked by hungry onlookers.

The activists say their protest is necessary given the increasing amount of pressure placed on all bread items throughout Miami. “This is no longer just a problem for the Cuban Sandwich community,” said Adele Bagely, a Garlic and Chive bagel pressed so hard that cream cheese covered the parchment she was then wrapped in, creating an uneatable mess. “This impacts us all.”

The protest is reportedly funded by bearded James Beard award nominee Zak the Baker, whose Kosher delicatessen has a strict “no press” rule. The Plantain asked to speak to the bucher, but were told by a spokesperson that the new Kosher delicatessen has a strict “no press” rule.

Undeterred, this reporter went to the Zak the Baker’s new Wynwood deli to speak with him directly, but upon arrival was corralled into a 45-minute long line to purchase an $18 Tongue Sandwich which, although very good, required me to press down on the sandwich in order to fit it into my mouth, an act that drew critical side glances from the restaurant’s other diners and an irate Mr. The Baker.

Darnell and Lisa Morales decided to divorce Tuesday evening after spending more than 72 hours together without the air conditioning, internet, or television needed for their marriage, and society in general, to remain civil. The Morales’ 11-year marriage is the latest wreckage caused by the [WHATEVER HURRICANE THIS IS I LOST TRACK], which has reportedly already caused upwards of 250 breakups, 180 called-off-engagements, and 110 divorces, numbers that are expected to rise dramatically after your spouse finds out how much it will cost to remove that fallen tree. You know, the one they asked you to trim months ago!

As for the Moraleseseses, the tension began to build between the normally blissful couple the Wednesday before the storm hit. Darnell insisted the couple “ride out the storm” at their South Miami home, while Lisa wanted to leave and “not just willingly stay in the path of a huge fucking storm coming right for us.” Ultimately, however, Lisa capitulated to her husband and agreed to “wait here and just needlessly suffer, Darnell, even though we don’t have to, if that’s what you really want.”

“It will be an adventure,” Darnell told his wife after she passively agreed. “We’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

After spending several days nervously watching local news reports about the storm in their shuttered and darkened home and failing to pick up literally any useful emergency provisions from crowded stores, the couple fell asleep in each other’s arms Saturday evening only to be awoken by the sound of a large tree falling in their backyard.

“I guess the powers out…” said Darnell as he turned on the one flashlight he found buried in his kitchen’s junk door. “Let’s go back to sleep,” he said to his wife, who obliged but was quietly freaking the fuck out inside about how loud the winds were. It was really scary.

By the next afternoon, the couple’s cell phones had run out of juice so they spent the day quietly staring off into the inactive TV, flipping through but not really reading magazines, and eating literally every snack they had in the house.

“I feel so disgusting,” Lisa told her husband as she ate a fourth bag of Entenmann’s chocolate chip cookies. When the winds began to calm Sunday evening, the couple went outside to survey the damage.
“It’s not as bad as it could have been,” Darnell said as he looked over their yard which contained several down trees. “We might not get power back for a while,” Darnell said as his wife just took it all in.

Without the Internet, television, or junk food to distract them from each other’s faults, the couple, who was also wildly uncomfortable from more than 24 hours without AC, began to slowly resent each other. “When do you think the power will turn on?” Lisa asked Darnell for the thousandth time.

“I don’t know, babe! Not for a while. Can we just try to relax? I have a headache.”

“So do I! It’s because we’re dehydrated and it’s like 100 degrees in here.”

“Yeah, I know. What do you want me to do about it? I’m suffering too.”

“I don’t see why we couldn’t have just left like I wanted to. We could be in a hotel in Ashville right now.”

“Can you stop bringing that up? We’re here. I wanted to be here in case our house got damaged.”

“Why would you want us to stay in a house you were worried would be damaged? It makes no sense, we may not get power back for a month!”

“Lisa, I can’t right now. Can you just fucking stop!”

For the next several hours, the couple took turns sucking on the already melting ice from their freezer and putting wet towels on their head.

By Monday evening, they finally left the house to just sit in their car’s AC, where they were able to charge their phones briefly.

Without cell phone service or internet, however, the two just sort of scrolled through pictures and ignored each other as they looked into their devices; Lisa angry she was forced to stay in these conditions by Darnell, Darnell angry his wife was making him feel so badly about what he knew was a stupid decision.

“Let’s just sleep in the car tonight with the AC!” said Darnell.

“We can’t sleep in the car, we’ll die of suffocation.”

“What do you mean? Not if we’re not parked in a garage, right?”

“No, I think it’s dangerous even if you are parked outside.”


“Do you want to risk it?”

“Fuck!” screamed Darnell, as he typed in “Will I die if I sleep in my car” into Google but couldn’t get any service to find out whether he would or not.

“Fuck!!!!” he screamed again at the thought of spending another night sweating in his dark and humid house.

“This is why I wanted to leave!”

“Lisa, enough! I get it. Can you just stop telling me this every 10 minutes and making me feel bad.”

“You’re scaring me. I’m going inside,” said Lisa as she left her husband to contemplate whether he should sleep in his car, and potentially die, or return to the wretchedly hot home and sweat through another night. He briefly cried to himself before deciding to go back inside.

The next day, the couple barely said a word to each other. They took a drive around the neighborhood to awe at the many down trees but found most of the roadways around their house blocked or flooded and no stores open to provide air condition or cold drinks.

“I know this isn’t ideal, but I’m sure we’ll get power back soon,” said Darnell as his wife looked off in the distance and quietly cried to herself.

“Why did you make me go through this? I hate this!” Lisa said to her husband.

“We’re in an air-conditioned car! What more do you want right now?”

“I want to not be in the middle of this fucking disaster area! God, I hate you so much right now!”

It was the first time she ever said that to him, and it hurt him to hear and her to say. “You don’t mean that,” he said and quietly drove back to the house.

For the next 24 hours, the couple alternated between rehashing this argument and several other dormant arguments from throughout their years together that both had thought were resolved but apparently weren’t. By Tuesday late afternoon Darnell finally said:

“So if I’m so awful and don’t listen to your feelings then why are we even together? You don’t have to be with me, Lisa.”

“Maybe I won’t then.”

As the words left Lisa’s mouth the couple stared at each other, both surprised at what the other was saying and how easy it was to say it. Was it possible this is what they really wanted? Would they be better off separated? At least for a while? They had been together for so long, maybe this was for the best.”

“What are you saying?” Darnell asked his wife, his heart racing.

“I don’t know. I think I may want a…” an electrical buzz stopped Lisa mid-sentence.

“What was that?”

“I don’t know. What were you going to say?”

“I was saying that I think I may want a…” suddenly another loud electrical buzz sounded, followed by the lights turning on and the sound of the air conditioner kicking in.

Darnell and Lisa stared at each other silently in a moment of elation before running toward each other in a loving, but disgustingly sweaty, embrace.

“WE HAVE POWER!” the couple screamed in unison as they danced around the house. After a few more moments of unadulterated joy, Darnell stopped his wife.

“Wait, what were you going to say? Do you want to get a divorce?”

“No! Of course not, I was just hot. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Thousands of fans have gathered outside of Jackson Memorial Hospital to show their love and support for Gloria Estefan. The 63-year-old singer was admitted Tuesday morning for treatment for what has been confirmed to be advanced-stage conga. Reports suggest the Cuban-American superstar can not control herself any longer.

Mrs. Estefan reportedly started to feel overheated and began to shake uncontrollably Sunday afternoon as she danced to a particularly explosive reggaeton track during a party at her Star Island home. Doctors were initially concerned that Mrs. Estefan had experienced a seizure, but have since determined that her uncontrollable shaking was rhythm-induced and that the warmth she felt was indeed the fire of desire.

A distraught Emilio Estefan, Mrs. Estefan’s husband of 42 years, told the Plantain that a Miami ultrasound machine had confirmed what they all feared; Mrs. Estefan was suffering from stage-4 conga.

The Plantain has learned that doctors were forced to tie the music icon to her bed to stop her gyrations and prevent her from beginning a conga line. “Mrs. Estefan will begin an aggressive treatment plan that will include inducing an arrhythmia, which we hope will disrupt the dangerous rhythm and beat the beat,” said Dr. Norman Babo.

An Estefan family spokesperson released the following statement:

“Mrs. Estefan is in serious but stable condition. Her family and friends are gathered round now, waiting and praying by her side. Gloria has always been a fighter and we are confident that the doctors will be able to turn the beat around and are excited for Gloria to get back on her feet.”