Only in Miami Stories from The Miami Creation Myth

Forget whatever bullshit frat boy version of hazing you have in your head. West Point hazing circa 2005 was a creature completely apart.

“You’re not starving to death,” explained the 22-year-old medic gripping my ankle. “You’re just starving.”

When a Cuban immigrant was kidnapped and separated from her nursing child, her community rose in righteous anger to do absolutely nothing.

When they go low, we satirists must wantonly slam our heads into the ground until we tunnel to the other side of the planet. 

I made it, everyone! The Dirty Thirty. The Double Quinceañera. 30,000 pounds of trash.

Even when injured, dehydrated, moments from heat stroke, one wish kept me from collapsing into the mud forever: selling shirts to papi chulos.

“I’m the Secretary of State!” yelled a short, tubby man with a Miami accent. He shook his bars as the dozen other people in his cell grinned.

A comprehensive guide of the many types of Miami bros one is liable to encounter in da clurb.

Two years ago, when I self-published a silly little book titled The Miami Creation Myth, I set the goal of selling 1,000 copies.

Many elements contributed to Cuban Americans’ recent rightward shift but I want to focus on two particularly salient factors: trauma and anger.