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Sunday, 26 October 2008

image for Drunken Man Awakens on South Beach
Awakening Breeford wipes drool from chin

The sun's rays began to beat down on Miami's South Beach around twelve noon today, awaking Chad Breeford from his still-drunken stupor gained from a Friday night of club hopping and tikki-bar desecrating.

As family beach-goers jockeyed for that perfect umbrella on the strand in front of the Playalita Hotel, Breeford awoke to the wreck his life had become. A hammer thumped on his skull with each wave breaking on the beach and every damned time some overprotective parent shouted "Chelsea, Zachary" stay away from the water!" three feet from his lounge chair, itself a vinyl island with a tide-line of cigarette butts and cracked 8-ounce plastic margarita cups with the Playalita smiling dolphin on the side.

Bartender Selma Gonzalez-Johnson, coming back to the beach for an extra dayshift at the "Maverick Mackerel" tikki bar just off the boardwalk, noticed the slumped, drooling form of Breeford in his teal recliner. "Yeah, he was out here about 12:30 last night," she intoned, "ordering margaritas for himself and this group of plastic surgeons here for a convention". "Oh, and these two women from Nevada".

Gonzalez-Johnson, when pressed for more info about Breeford, waved her hand derisively in the direction of the half-filled hotel pool and muttered something about the filter not being able to handle that big a mess, as she ambled across the sand to the faux-wood bar where she has worked for two-and-a-half years.

Breeford, as if sensing our conversation, lifted his lolling head and swiveled it vaguely in our direction, taking the opportunity to wipe a slug-trail of drool from his lip before his chin returned to its base on his right shoulder.

Passing beachgoers regarded Breeford as something indeterminate washed upon the shore, so much flotsam of old line bobbers, seaweed and decimated fish and crab parts, taking wide berth around his recliner and reigning in small children.

For his part, Chad Breeford remained ignorant of the small hullabaloo caused by his lack of comportment, managing merely a strained groan, efforted by all his being and causing a ripple of nausea to encircle his belly with each exhalation. Yes, Chad Breeford wanted to die. Right there on Miami Beach in front of the Playalita hotel off 47th Street and Pelican Court. Damn the tequila. Damn the passion fruit margarita swirls! Waves contined to break on the beach.

"Madison! Quit hitting your brother!" "Dylan, put your trunks back on right this minute!"

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The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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