Sir. Daniel Tannenbutton and Mr. Whiskers, two rats that live together beneath a drainage pipe in Miami’s Edgewater neighborhood, are eager to enjoy the abundance of rotting mangoes that will soon fall from the many mango trees that line the City’s residential neighborhoods.

“It’s my favorite time of year,” said Mr. Whiskers gleefully. “Normally I only eat trash like discarded Pollo Tropical leftovers or soiled diapers. But come the end of the summer I finally get some real food in my little rat tummy,” said the stay-at-home rat who has been in a long-term relationship with Sir. Daniel Tannenbutton for 2 years.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that Mr. Whiskers only eats trash,” interrupted Sir Daniel Tannenbutton. “I work very hard to provide him with the food he eats and I guess I stupidly thought he appreciated it until now. Remember the discarded orange peel I brought home for our anniversary, Mr. Whiskers? Maybe if he didn’t spend all day “working on his art” and watching telenovelas through Mrs. Perez-Santiago’s window we could afford a meal that was up to his sophisticated standards a little more often.”

“Don’t do this Daniel, you know that’s not what I meant,” said Mr. Whiskers to his partner in a whisper.

“Well that’s what you said, Mr. Whiskers. That’s what you said,” said Sir. Daniel Tannenbutton before pausing, taking a sigh, and saying “I’m sorry. I’ve just been working too hard. I’m excited about the rotting mangoes too.”

Bad Boys, Bad Boys, Whatcha gonna do?
Whatcha gonna do when there’s a murderer loose in South Beach and the MacArthur is completely backed up?

That’s the question audiences will be asking themselves when the long-awaited third installment to the Bad Boys series debuts in theaters later this year. In a portion of the script leaked to the Plantain by a grabby Club Madonna stripper, Detectives Mike Lowrey (Will Smith) and Marcus Burnett (Martin Lawrence) are in hot pursuit of notorious drug dealer and murderous bad guy hiding out at a South Point safe house. Unfortunately for our heroes, it’s 7 PM on a Saturday night so traffic on the MacArthur is just fucked and the duo has no choice but to spend the entire runtime of the movie inching their way across the Causeway while listening to Power 106.

Read the Leaked Script here:

Bad Boys III: Bad Boys Figh… by on Scribd

Local filmmakers David Cypkin and Alfred Spellman, the duo behind the classic South Florida documentary Square Grouper, are at it again with SCREWBALL, a Miami-focused baseball movie about fraud and dishonesty that somehow isn’t about the Marlins.As a supporter of local art, I watched the film last night, and cannot convey to the viewers my disappointment with the film. The story was, in my opinion, ill-conceived and not worth the $3.99 I spent on the title. Luckily for Mssrs. Cypkin and Spellman, I had inadvertently watched a movie called “Screwball: The Ted Whitfield Story”, which was the first thing that came up on my Video on Demand. Thanks, Xfinity.

“Screwball: The Ted Whitfield Story” is a comedy about a wiffleball player named Ted that overcomes the odds to remain a whiffleball player named Ted. It is the kind of movie that Brian Doyle Murray shows up in toward the end for some reason, causing the person sitting next to you to say, “Hey, you know that’s Bill Murray’s brother?” Fortunately for Mr. Doyle Murray, he wasn’t actually in this movie and the actor was just the “Jump to Conclusions Guy” from Office Space. A man who is definitely not related to Bill Murray, I think.

Maybe they don’t look like each other. Is one of these guys the diabetes guy from China Syndrome? Anyway…
After watching Screwball: The Ted Whitfield Story for an hour and a half, I realized this wasn’t the movie I intended to watch, which isn’t even on Xfinity anyway. After spending another 30 minutes fiddling with my Roku and having to sign up for an account on something called Redbox Online, I finally was able to watch the actual “Screwball” movie. Brian Doyle Murray isn’t in it either.
Screwball tells the real tale of Pedro Bosch, a man with a Belizian medical degree who injected athletes and children with steroids for money. He is all of the Cuban guys that grew up in Miami in the 80’s and the type that has gotten into several arguments at a Pollo Tropical while his kid, who he only has for the weekend, shout whispers at him “can we just go?”. To make a long story short, Bosch scammed $4,000 from a guy named Porter Fisher, the kid that was bullied at your high school but now works out too much and tries to sell you something called Shakeology through Facebook messenger once a year (I’m still not interested, Jeremy!).
The conflict between Porter and Bosch eventually “took down” numerous steroid pumping baseball stars including Alex Rodriguez and other famous athletes I definitely heard of before the movie. And by “took down,” I mean it didn’t, because A-rod is doing just fine. He does seem like a weirdo though and, although this wasn’t mentioned in the movie, is definitely is the type of guy that has jerked off to videos of himself hitting homers.
Screwball has gotten a lot of attention for its use of children during the film’s reenactments, an effective and entertaining storytelling device that is unfortunately ethically undercut by a scene during the credits in which the child actors are shown actually playing baseball among themselves. During the film’s parting moments, there is a shot of the child that plays Porter Fisher throwing a ball with just absurdly poor form. Like, the worst throw ever filmed on camera. That the filmmakers would put such an embarrassing shot of this young man in the movie is shocking and we have heard that CPS has opened an investigation on the filmmakers.
Screwball is an entertaining movie that is more about the folks you see driving rented BMWs on the Rickenbacker than Major League Baseball. It deserves to be seen now that it is on Netflix.
Screwball: A
Screwball: The Tim Whitfield Story: C-
The Kid that Plays Porter’s Throwing Arm: F
Child Tim Elfrink’s Demon Red Beard: B+
Redbox Online’s Sign Up Process: F
This Article’s Photoshop: A+

When Portland vegetarian Alyssa Milano-Milano ordered the “House Salad” from Yasvanny’s Cuban Restaurant in West Kendall last week, she expected more than tomato slices atop shredded lettuce.

The 33-year-old ordered the disappointing salad while in town for an interactive sexual dynamics workshop hosted in a Doral apartment by a guy she follows on Instagram named Emanuel.

“I wanted an authentic Cuban meal, even though I literally cannot eat any authentic Cuban dishes,” explained Ms. Milano-Milano, who even called the restaurant to make sure they could accommodate an animal-free diet. “I was definitely told: “Salad, yes. Yes, salad. Bye” by whoever answers the phone. In retrospect, I’m thinking maybe whoever I spoke with didn’t speak English.”

When Ms. Milano-Milano arrived at the restaurant to meet Emanuel, she was shocked both that no one in the restaurant seemed to have any vegetables on their plate and that Emanuel was a lot heavier than his Instagram pictures.

“Every person in the restaurant had meat on their plate. And Emanuel had titties,” said Ms. Milano-Milano who immediately regretted the comment and insisted that she was body positive and didn’t mean to make fun of Emanuel’s big titties.

After twenty minutes of engaging in awkward conversation with Emanuel, who it turns out still lives with his Abuela and only does workshops as a means of tricking women into paying him to have sex, Alyssa’s salad finally arrived.

“That’s not a salad!,” said a famished Ms. Milano-Milano, who insisted that a salad has to have, at a minimum, at least a few peppers, maybe some onions, and croutons. “Also, you can’t just hold a “workshop” without credentials,” she noted of Emanuel’s shady curriculum, which consisted of him massaging Alyssa with Royal Violets while his grandma watched La Reina del Sur in the other room.

The Plantain reached out to Yasvanny’s Cuban Restaurant about the minimal ingredients found in their house salad and was told that it contains more than just lettuce and tomato.

“We put a drizzle of canola oil as dressing,” said an assistant manager who noted she thought that salad was just “rabbit food” and encouraged vegetarians like Alyssa to stick with the chicken croquettes.

When we explained that vegetarians do not eat meat, the restaurant’s manager informed us that “Chicken isn’t meat.”

Newlyweds Desmond and Molly Jones were dismayed to arrive at the beachfront vacation rental they booked on Airbnb to discover it was really just a discarded mattress abutting the shore.

“The amenities aren’t what we expected, but you really can’t beat this view,” said Desmond to his wife, desperately trying to put a positive spin on the situation. “Don’t you dare, Des!” said Molly, who begged her husband to spend the extra money on the honeymoon suite at the Setai. As she began to loudly cry she woke the homeless man already sleeping on the mattress. “Get the fuck out of my home!” yelled the man at the couple before falling back asleep.

Desperate to find alternative accommodations, the Columbus, Ohio couple ordered an Uber but were similarly disappointed to find that the 2015 Toyota Camry that they had expected to show up was actually an old white Econoline mini-van driven by an elderly Cuban man listening to Justin Bieber too loudly.

“Can you turn it down!” yelled Desmond to the driver who just ignored him. “I don’t think he speaks English,” he told his wife, who couldn’t even anymore.

After being turned away from several luxury hotels without vacancies on South Beach, the couple was told by Xavier Hernandes, a valet at the Fontainebleau who overheard their fight, that his parents in Hialeah rented their place on Airbnb and could accommodate. “Hialeah is beautiful, you’ll love it,” said the valet. “See honey, things are going to work out,” smiled Desmond to his wife who at this point just wanted to go home and rethink some things.

After waiting for Xavier to get off of his shift, the 20-year-old drove the couple to his parent’s rental property, which unbeknownst to the Midwestern couple was actually just several discarded couches lining a street of row houses.

“What the fuck, Desmond! This isn’t the honeymoon I imagined!” said Molly, breaking down. “I’m not sleeping out here, it isn’t safe! And these couches are covered with chickens!”

“Look, do you think this is what I wanted? I am trying my hardest to make this work.”

“Well, maybe this just isn’t…supposed to work.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I just…maybe this is a sign, Des. If we can’t even do a honeymoon right, maybe it’s stupid for us to think we can actually build a life together.”

“Are you serious?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe we rushed into this.”

“Babe, it’s just, it’s just a mix-up. We’ll laugh about this one day,” said Desmond, tears forming in his eyes.

“I hope so, but I need to get back to Ohio to think about it,” said Molly as she ordered another Uber to take her back to the airport.

“Don’t do this, Molly,” said Desmond to his new wife as she got into what she was told would be a 2016 Prius but was actually a wooden rickshaw driven by a worldly Rastafarian type.

As Desmond watched his wife ride away Xavier returned from inside his house. “Hey man, your room is ready.”

“What do you mean? You said we had to sleep on these discarded couches,” said Desmond.

“Bro, I was just fuckin’ with you. We got a queen bed for you inside and in the morning my Abuela will make you breakfast. Hey, where’d your girl go?”

By Milo

Sick of corporate “Best Of” lists telling you to eat at the worst pizza place in Miami? Us too!

Welcome to your 2019 guide to the very worst that Miami has to offer. This is the definitive list of all of the shit you hate to deal with every day that makes you want to just pack up and move to Oakland or Seattle or wherever all of your friends keep moving. 

So, without further adieu…


There is a cynical way of looking at all of the men and womyn that represent our community and coming to the conclusion that they all suck. And with very few exceptions (like Daniella Levine Cava, who is a saint) that isn’t far off. But even with all of the glad-handers that believe soccer stadiums are more important than affordable housing and public transit, and all the politicians from our northern communities that keep getting indicted, it isn’t hard to conclude Joe Carollo is the worst politician in Miami.

Putting aside the fact that he was arrested for domestic violence (god knows the voters have), dude seems to be straight up insane and more than willing to use his position of power as a way of seeking retribution from his political enemies. Honestly, the guy scares us and if the Plantain is suddenly investigated for running an illegal nightclub out of Villain Theater you should know that we’re innocent. Plus, we hear he might be a secret communist. 


What else could it be? The 836 is the biggest clusterfuck of all time and literally the worst place anyone can spend two hours a day checking their Insta in traffic as some jerk tries to inch into your lane. That’s your lane! Don’t let them in.

The 836 has been under construction forever and there is no end in sight. Fuck you, Dolphin. We hate you, you have no chill. 


Hey, you know what would be fun? Let’s take 60,000 people high on club drugs and force them onto an island with only one road that gets mired with traffic when there isn’t anything special going on. 

No thank you. EDM died with Aviici. 


Frankie’s pizza is that memory of your childhood you try not to think too much about or you run the risk of realizing that maybe your childhood wasn’t that great after all.

File this in the same category as Santa’s Enchanted Forrest and the Seaquarium. 


Like, what are they smoking at the New Times to pick Frankie’s Pizza as the best slice in Miami? Show me one person that would take Frankie’s over Anthony’s or Harry’s or Miami’s Best or Big Cheese or Andiamos and I’ll show you a damn liar. 

This is particularly upsetting because I usually love The New Times and their surprising commitment to outing private citizens that complain about their local Dunkin Donuts closing early


Don’t get too cocky, Miami Lakes. We’re lumping you in this too. 

Hialeah is the weirdest place in Florida, and that is saying a lot because this is Florida. I literally once saw a man carry a chicken into a plastic surgery center located in a strip mall. It made me question everything I know and utterly broke me.


I know, I know, I know, Britto is the worst, right? But I think we as a community need to just accept the fact that those eyeballs are as much of a commodity as anything Britto does. At least Britto puts his shit on Disney figurines your grandma can buy at Bed Bath & Beyond. Ahol puts his on vape pens.

I remember when the eyes started popping up, I thought they were amazingly cool. But after more than a decade of seeing them on the side of every hipster restaurant without any real variation, I don’t think anyone but the most basic corporate designer is excited by them anymore. Did he run out of ideas?

It doesn’t feel good to call someone doing their thing out because Ahol is making a living doing his dream and I genuinely wish him success. I really hope he is making a ton of money putting his once inspired design on vape pens and junk. But if we as a community are going to replace Britto’s tired aesthetic as the default for art in Miami maybe we should try to find something more inspired. I mean, would it kill him to draw a nose every once in a while? 


Okay, I’ll be the first to admit it, I’m kind of over us too. When this started in 2016 these articles were a fun thing for me to do on the toilet. But 500 articles later this is feeling played out. I mean, how many times can I make a joke about people not using their blinkers? It’s 2019, nothing is funny.

Plus, I just had a kid and I think this may be too much for me. I don’t even know what my goal is with this website. Ideally, I would hire someone to run it because I don’t have the time to monetize it, but literally every person who has offered to help over the last year has been illiterate or flakey. One dude even called me up asking to take it over and as soon as I agreed he got off the phone and never called me back. I can’t give the Plantain away. And I can’t get a grant because the Knight Foundation won’t return my messages. 


Miami is a sports disaster. While the Marlins really should win the all time awful award for trading every superstar they ever had and stealing taxpayer money to build the lowest attended stadium in MLB history, the impending soccer team is somehow worse. 

Now the team isn’t necessarily bad, per se, but who cares about that. The team is the worst because it represents everything wrong about Miami. We have precious little green space in Miami, the City is going to be destroyed by climate change, and we aren’t using public funds on important infrastructures like transit and affordable housing, but we are getting a new soccer stadium because every politician in Miami has a boner for David Beckham. 


I don’t get it! Sunset Place has a Dave and Busters, the only reasonably priced movie theater left in Miami-Dade County, a big-box bookstore that doesn’t make me feel bad for not buying books of Cuban poetry like Books & Books does, and that store “Believers” that literally has a hodgepodge of crap from every religion and also cheap pipes. But it cannot sustain a restaurant that isn’t Buffalo Wild Wings? 


In the last year, I have had friends relocate to Oakland, Los Angeles, Boston, Seattle, New York, Chicago, Ashville, Denver, Orlando, Austin, and Washington D.C.

D.C. is a hellhole and is clearly the worst city on that list, but the fact that someone would move to D.C. from Miami demonstrates how bad things have gotten. 

There aren’t good paying jobs here unless you are a realtor or lawyer, so it’s too expensive to live here anymore. And if you can afford to live here because you do have one of those good jobs, it means you probably have even better options somewhere else. And even if you want to stay, you know you have to leave at some point because the seas are rising. Plus, you still can’t get to the beach via the metro rail, so what’s the point anyway? 

Miami lacks the leadership needed to address these issues. There is a reason we will have built a baseball stadium, a soccer stadium, and renovated a football stadium all before we have expanded public transit options in a meaningful way: Miami doesn’t care about you unless you’re already rich. Until this place enacts fundamental changes all of your friends will continue to leave. 


I love the environment, but paper straws are not the answer! First, a paper straw is not a straw, it is a tube. Second, paper disintegrates in liquid so they don’t serve their purpose. Third, and this is maybe the most important, it is a solution that doesn’t solve the underlying reasons our planet is dying. This obsession with paper straws is merely a way of annoying everyone enough into feeling like they are saving the planet so they don’t pay attention to all of the real issues that are destroying the planet. Have you tried to drink a Jamba Juice with a paper straw? Thank you, next. 

Move over Fontainebleau, the pool at the University of Miami, and the two blocks in the design district they no longer allow black people to visit, Miami’s hottest new spot for independently wealthy people to spend a weekday afternoon is Brickell City Centre.

Initially unwilling to spend the $40 to park at the mall, I was eventually tempted to visit by the promise of stores with unpronounceable names and an abundance of Patek Phillip watches for sale that for some reason no store would let me try on. Like, how did they know that I’m poor? I bet it was my shoes.

Unlike most malls which at least has a GAP you can go into to purchase a cheap sweater or take a nap in the dressing room, Brickell City Centre has no clothing stores that you can afford. The conciliation, of course, being that those clothes wouldn’t look good on your body type anyway, so there’s that. There is, however, a welcoming Bath and Bodyworks which you can escape to in order to momentarily pretend that you are back at Dadeland where trash like you belongs.

As for food options, standouts include Tacology and that place that people who have never been to Eataly say that it’s exactly like Eataly. Buyer beware: Tacology requires you to order on an iPad but still somehow adds an 18% service fee onto the bill without telling you they did it and then still has a TIP line on the receipt. The Nopali tacos are, however, delicious.

But it isn’t all fun. For those of you that come from family money and like the idea of saying you are an “entrepreneur”, WeWork offers a great place to both run your made up business and waste parts of your vast inheritance at the same time.

“It seems like you are just bitter because you are less wealthy and attractive than you want to be,” I said to myself in a moment of self-reflection. “Maybe those people aren’t so bad and you should just focus more on your own happiness instead of criticizing others for just living their life. You’re doing pretty good for yourself, why can’t you appreciate it?”

“I’m right,” said I, to me, “Brickell City Center isn’t so bad. It’s just not for me.”

“It’s spelled ‘Centre’ not ‘Center’, I reminded myself. “Oh, fuck this place,” I said, also now wondering if I’m schizophrenic.

Higher Wages Now!, a 501(c)(3) registered non-profit is hiring an experienced executive director to oversee a diverse team of unpaid volunteers fighting for higher wages. The job pays $32,000 a year and has no benefits.

“We’re looking for the type of person that is dedicated to improving the rights and wages of workers,” said the group’s billionaire founder Kenneth T. Streicher, who started the organization in 2017 as a way of raising his profile. “It’s going to be a lot of hard work and a lot of long nights, but I know the right person is out there.”

Wait, didn’t Florida voters just pass a constitutional amendment raising the minimum wage to $15/hr? They sure did! Unfortunately, it’s a six year (under-construction) on-ramp until 2026 to get there, meaning Floridians can blissfully enjoy the next six years of screwed out of fair wages before getting paid way less than what it costs to actually live there.

Mr. Streicher says that the job provides lots of “invaluable experience” that may help his employee secure a livable wage in the future. He also notes that although they do not offer healthcare, the position does come with several coupons for 1/2 off a deep cleaning for Mr. Streicher’s brother-in-law’s dental practice. “We are looking for someone dedicated to the cause of obtaining higher wages, not someone who is only interested in the money.”

Duties include overseeing a large team of unpaid interns in formulating an executive strategy and multimedia communication campaign, organizing a national outreach effort to ensure that every worker has access to a living wage and healthcare, and spending all of your time reaching out to your own personal network trying to fundraise for the organization. “The way our country’s workers are treated is disgusting,” said Mr. Streicher, noting that pay and benefit disparity is especially egregious for young, female, or minority workers.

Higher Wage Now! is an equal opportunity employer and will give special consideration to young, female, and minority candidates. “We think it’s so important for this movement to be led by those most impacted by systemic disparity,” said Mr. Streicher without irony.

When Jenny Basques walked in on her husband of six-years in tears Wednesday evening, she feared for the worst. “Baby, what’s the matter?” she said as she ran over. “Did your mother get the test results?””No, said Hernando, 33, as he stared misty-eyed at the television. “It’s Dwyane Wade’s last game and Budweiser put out a really sad commercial.”

“Are you fucking kidding?” Jenny responded to her husband, who she had never seen cry before and whose emotional unavailability had been a source of contention between the two for years.
“It’s just so sad, Wade has done so much for Miami since joining the league in 2003, except for that time he left for Cleveland and Chicago, which we don’t talk about. I’m gonna miss him a lot,” wept Hernando, who had only last month mocked his six-year-old son for crying after he fell off his bike.
“He told our son he was ‘being a pussy’ for crying after he fell, and it turned out he had fractured his elbow!” said Jenny as she blocked the couple’s son from entering the living room at the request of her husband. “It’s not good for a boy to see his father cry,” said Hernando as he blew his nose on his Wade jersey.
“Dad,” the man’s son called from the other room. “I know you’re sad and I just want you to know that I don’t think you’re a pussy and I love you very much.”
Touched by his son’s emotional maturity, Hernando took a breath, wiped the tears from his face, and met his son in the hall.
“I love you, daddy,” said his boy, widening his arms for a hug. “Thanks, son,” said Hernando, grabbing his sons hand and giving it a vigorous shake. Hernando’s refusal to tell his son that he loved him or to hug the young boy caused the child to well up, to which Hernando told his son to stop or “he would give him something to cry about.”