How my day isn't going

The sun was beating down like the heels of a first baseman as I walked down the boardwalk to return to my job as Postmaster General of Hazard County when I man I never met before handed me a pamphlet for the Biggs Tinker Company. “I have played billiards with Annie Lenox,” he said with a smile. I grinned back like a 52 Plymouth but avoided meeting his eyes and continued my promenade. The boardwalk gave way to asphalt and then to gravel and I found myself whistling songs John Foggerty never wrote. I passed a long since defunct department store now used by an underground extreme salsa dancing group called El Nariz Calliente! who were currently away ransacking the apartment of a former chess champion turned track star, who was in turn, away having a gallbladder operation and pedicure. The only sign in the window said Death to the Ford Ranchero: Unholy Amalgam. Across the street a woman nearly fell off her pedestal while her children cheered and squeezed lemon juice into their tumblers of Ginger Ale. So I turned around and sauntered back to my houseboat. The mail would wait until morning.