Yesterday, I forgot my phone cord for the car for the umpteenth time.
Managed to get to the ballpark, via Pedophile Beach International Airport.
What the hell is even happening there?
Had a lot of fun at the Pirates game.
Had literally the best seat at the stadium.
We were up 5-1 over the Astros before the skies opened up.
As they covered the field, they played “Purple Rain” and “November Rain.”
They said they’d make good on the tickets.
But I bought on StubHub and paid for parking on my own. So I doubt I’ll get anything.
But that’s fine. I had a half-smoke and a lot of vodka seltzer at Cacti Park.
Never heard of Cacti … but apparently it’s the preferred drink of the stadium.
Which will always be The Ballpark of the Palm Beaches to me.
Till the fat orange fuck who just BOMBED SCHOOLGIRLS IN IRAN buys the naming rights and forces the county to name it after him so he can collect royalties, as he’s done with Pedophile International.
In any event, drove my happy ass up to Jupiter to see if I could spot a Swift or a Kelce.
No luck but I did spot a peanut butter martini or two at The Woods.
It was happy hour, and I enjoyed the goat cheese and the tuna.
But my beef tenderloin was not delivered to me.
The nerve.
So I cashed out while I was sober enough to not have to rent a room at the Wyndham.
And my dessert of Subculture Coffee and a blueberry thyme scone was better than that delicious looking tenderloin.
I’m sure there’s more to say but I would take this kind of “imperfect” day over any other kind.