Best of DLS: 15 Minutes of Miami Inventions (feat. Jim Rome)

We’re about to drop into a way‑back hour: Dan, Stu, and Hawk take calls on what Miami actually invented, then Dan plays 10 questions with a fake Jim Rome, and we close with Stan Van Gundy’s All‑Star stories and one squirmy confession.

Did Miami invent anything real, or are we just home to brands and bluster?

Phone lines are open, but no, cocaine lore and Pitbull merch don’t count, and we did not pour buildings out of white powder.

We kept tossing Burger King, Facebook cofounders, and Gatorade into the mix, then fought over sunscreen versus suntan lotion like a Marino versus Montana rerun.

A caller swore a Miami Beach pharmacist birthed sunscreen, and others claimed Spanglish and saying ‘dog’ are ours.

Here’s something real: a North Miami firm built cooling that dehumidifies air with salt brine to slash energy use, and Citrix developed GoToMeeting here.

Every so often, a caller drops actual knowledge and it feels like a rose growing out of the sewer.

If anything’s ours, it’s hurricane shutters, which we landed on after Googling mango salad and the wrong sunscreen history.

Fine, we probably perfected Medicare schemes and foreclosures, but the venom response unit for snakes is a legit Miami thing.

Let’s play 10 questions with Jim Rome, and yes, he wants Snoop behind him.

I’m not evil, I’m Anakin with a lightsaber made of verbiage, and I say “great” way too much.

Vermeil’s tears and your T.O. take?

Save crying for real poetry, and T.O. needs a time out from football to try something else.

Give us a bad take.

Lemon tart is cool, and I’ll mash words however I want because Rome can.

Drew Rosenhaus, and who negotiates for T.O., Ralph or Jesse Jackson?

Drew should try saving the game from the other side, and I’ll take Jesse because you may not parse it, but it lands.

Sings the Different Strokes theme in a thunderous Madden voice and dares Rome to top it.

I can’t top that; open the phones.

Do Bush and Pacino carpool to McDonald’s and order breakfast.

Bush mangles Egg McMuffin while Pacino barks for the deluxe, and the drive‑thru melts down.

Here’s my shame: I watched a presser and realized I didn’t know Bernie Bickerstaff is Black, which makes no sense next to me instantly recalling Tim Floyd.

I laughed, but owners blank on legends too; at our conference trophy presentation, our owner asked who the man next to him was, and it was Oscar Robertson.

Call it a senior moment if you want, but “Bernard Tyrone” wouldn’t have saved me.

The All‑Star Game feels like a penalty; you juggle minutes, nobody really wants it, and I’ve told coaches to drop a couple and skip the honor.

Pop should’ve done one token possession with Duncan and Parker, then let the Thunder run for the bit.

Beyond starting the starters there are no rules, guys often ask for light duty, and it’d be better if icons like Oscar and Bill coached while an assistant handled minutes.

Nobody tunes in for coaches, and the pageantry only adds to the cringe.

Try walking through smoke for that, then sitting in Dallas in chairs so comfy my assistant nearly ordered a hot dog on the bench, which sadly was my highlight.