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As we earlier bitched, our Thursday flight down to Miami for MTV's Video Music Awards was cancelled due to some biblical thunderstorm and the resulting shortage of in-flight alcohol. So we rescheduled our travel plans for Friday, determined to smell the Hennessey on Luda's breath. Just hours prior to the new departure time, however, we received word that flight number two had been cancelled and all remaining flights on Friday were booked. Our dream of playing poolside ping-pong with Kelly Clarkson was dying.

We will NOT give up, we proclaimed, defiantly booking a third flight down to Miami.

We would still splash in the celebrity-infested floodwaters, just in time for Saturday's night's parties. But you know where this is going: Our third attempt at a flight was cancelled. We couldn't find an empty seat on a later flight. Nor could we fork over $400 for a one-way ticket on a different airline (internet money isn't that good).

Everyone else had made it down. Even Daily News gossipina Jo Piazza arrived intact, despite her luggage ending up in the clutches of some Peruvian airline employee. (Don't worry; we re sure coworkers Chris Rovzar and Ben Widdicombe had some nice dresses for her to borrow.) At this point, it became clear that either God hated Gawker (very likely), or She was inexplicably protecting us from something in Miami (less likely).

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And then, late Saturday night, at Kanye West s bash at the Shore Club, frightening hip-hop heavy Suge Knight was shot in his monstrous thigh. Had we been present, we would have jumped in front of Knight, taken that bullet, and died. Unbelievable: God was inexplicably protecting us!

From what we heard, the Shore Club then became engulfed in the sort of absurd chaos only befitting of a C-list crowd. In their rush to find safety from the aftershocks of gangsta rap, Victoria's Secret models were falling down the stairs, crushing their contractually-mandated angel wings. Uni-monikered rappers bravely screamed at photographers. Paris Hilton, Nicky Hilton and Kevin Connolly sobered up enough to cry on their cell phones, desperate for their handlers to give them instructions. Word spread of an untapped keg in a penthouse at the Raleigh, and all the glittery freaks moved on with their evenings.

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Meanwhile, we tried to watch the actual awards, but holy shit with a side of unbearable. Diddy dancing. Eva Longoria s hair. R. Kelly acting out every single role from his music video saga. Ricky Martin being, well, Ricky Martin. All the men in eyeliner. Combined with the emotional travel saga, the brush with hip-hop death, and Tony Hawk s Underground 2 getting robbed of the award for Best Video Game Soundtrack, it was all too much. We wept. More importantly, we turned off the TV and listened to some actual music.