I’m writing this post while looking out at thirty feet of beach, ten-feet high waves and a perfect blue sky. Life doesn’t get much better than this, unless it’s basketball season and I’m somehow watching the Celtics smack the Lakers, drinking a Stella Artois, playing 18 holes, blogging, and chilling at this gorgeous beach, all at the same time. Which I’m pretty sure is impossible, so this is pretty much as good as it gets.
Anyway, in case you didn’t know already, there’s pretty much no point to this post. I basically wrote it so I could tell you Townies that a restaurant down here is named “Shacktacular,” and how I was thinking that “Shaqtacular” would be even worse as a Shaq nickname than it is as a restaurant name. And I wanted to alert everyone one more time that I won’t be able to respond to news immediately. You know, in case you didn’t read any of the 35 previous posts in which I mentioned that.
Alright, I’ll end this pointless post now. After all, it’s time to go swimming and drinking and body surfing.
P.S. – I’m one of the top five body surfers of all time. Easy. But my cousin John, who also happens to be the Michael Jordan of hairy chests, is the best. Ever. He rides waves even after they’ve already evaporated into the sea.