Flugtag is German for "Sweaty Fail."

This post may be a little disjointed. I may be suffering from heatstroke after going to Redbull's Miami Flugtag.

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept of Flugtag... Redbull (the best thing to mix with Vodka and chug when you're out and having a terrible time...) sponsors an event in multiple U.S. cities, wherein jackasses construct papier mache objects, get inside them (or on top of them) and then push them off a raised ramp, into a body of water, in front of tens of thousands of spectators, who presumably should be cheering, but...as it turns out, can't see what's happening. So, there's not much cheering.

It's kind of the stupidest thing ever, and therefore, I figured it'd be a rollicking good time. In all years past, I haven't managed to make it there, because I've been too hungover from the night before.

Not this year, I wasn't! Not even after a deafening dinner at Opa! (Note to Opa: Turn down the GODDAMN music - your food is delicious, but it's not so great that I'm willing to sacrifice my hearing for it) and some time at the Florida Room, to where we retired after manwhores (the first ones I've ever seen!) tried to entice some of the fine Greek ladies with whom I was hanging last night into their beds for a mere $150.00 per night.

But I'm way off topic. Flugtag.

I suckered Liza into coming to Flugtag with me, expecting there would be...some sort of organization to the madness going on at Bayfront Park. There was none. There was no raked seating, there wasn't much shade, there wasn't much of anything except SUN and HEAT and SWEAT-STAINED PEOPLE.

Everyone was miserable. There was no free Redbull. There was no free water. We stood on a bench by the center fountain (best seats in the house, I'd wager) and watched a couple rafts take the plunge, each time exclaiming, "OhhhhhhHHHHHHHH...awwww."

I saw something I'd never seen before - the moment when beads of sweat erupted on my knees and my ankles, and then rolled down my legs. I've felt it plenty; before today, I'd just never seen it. My friend Ashley met up with us at around the time Liza announced she was going to faint, and scrambled off to sit down in one of the two patches of steamy shade.

I watched another raft go before throwing in the towel and giving up. I found Liza, and we got a restorative margarita at the Intercontinental, where I was relieved to see that I actually completely sweat through two shirts. Sweat win!

The feedback I got from other friends who were there (into whom I did not run, because I couldn't see for the sweat dripping into my eyes) was that everyone thought it was a dangerously hot shitshow, and why isn't it held in like...April, when the weather's nice? Everyone noted the dearth of water, and my friend Ashley raised an interesting point - we did not see one. single. person. in a crowd of 80,000, drinking a Redbull.

Curious, no?