You gave the world Marilyn Manson and Spirit Airlines. Um, thanks?
You’re the sixth largest city in Florida, but account for 98% of its on-street shellfish sales and 100% of its on-freeway mayoral punch outs. Also, can we stop with the street grid now?
Broward’s little quirky beach town. If by “quirky” you mean “boardwalk full of transients.”
If Orlando and Hialeah had a congested, trashy, chain-filled, teenage offspring, it would be living at home, working at a cell phone store, and driving a leased Jetta somewhere on SW 167th Ave.
Somehow The Beach Boys failed to mention the beaches are about on par with Lake Erie and there are no entertainment options after sunset.
Florida’s version of Vegas. By day three you’ll just want a flight home and multiple showers.
You’re a city of 10,000 Paul Castronovos. Tommy Bahama has entire wings of its factories named after you.
Those condo towers are cute, but lest we forget that not long ago you were about an hour away from complete dissolution and are a Latin American market crash away from another one. Probably why you were named the Most Miserable City in America, an honor shared by such luminaries as Stockton and Detroit.