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The Kermudgeon

Like I am going to trust those new fangle contraptions called a camera. They steal your soul.

Meet Wilbur “The Kermudgeon” Johnson, a writer who is too old to care about feelings, grammar, or spelling. Wilbur is a grumpy old man who’s been writing for decades and has seen it all. He’s at the point where he’ll write whatever he damn well pleases, and if it’s not grammatically correct or spelled correctly, tough luck. He’s not going to waste his time worrying about the little things. Wilbur’s motto is, “If it looks good to me, that’s all that matters.” He’s written everything from romance novels to science fiction to cookbooks, but they have yet to be published. He’s been known to use words that aren’t even in the dictionary, but who cares? Wilbur is a one-man army against the grammar police, and he’s not afraid to take on anyone who challenges him. So if you’re looking for a good laugh and don’t mind a few misspelled words, pick up one of Wilbur’s books if you can find one and prepare to be entertained.

The Kermudgeon on Webb City.

In the sweltering and insufferable summer of 1970, I was a morose and skeptical five-year-old, reluctantly accompanying my mother on a dreaded expedition to Webb’s City for back-to-school shopping. Webb’s City, the titanic department store that loomed over our town, was the obligatory destination for all our school-related miseries. As we trudged through the overcrowded streets of our sleepy town, I couldn’t help but dread what lay in store for us at Webb’s City.

Webb’s City was a labyrinthine colossus that seemed to sprawl endlessly. Its ostentatious signs and pulsating neon lights felt like an assault on my senses, promising to drain our wallets dry. My mom, poor soul, held my hand as we entered this climate-controlled purgatory, and the artificial chill that enveloped me offered only momentary relief from the oppressive Florida heat.

Our first torment on this ghastly journey led us to the shoe department. I had begrudgingly accepted that the only remotely interesting aspect of beginning a new school year was the possibility of acquiring a fresh pair of shoes. The blindingly white linoleum floor mirrored the offensive neon glow above, creating an environment that felt more like a surreal nightmare than a shopping excursion. My mom parked me on a stool while an overly cheerful saleswoman wielded a peculiar metal contraption that appeared to be borrowed from a sci-fi movie set, using it to measure my feet. She then presented an assortment of shoes for me to try on. I recall the sensation of the icy leather as I begrudgingly wiggled my toes into the first pair.

After enduring the endless parade of footwear options, I eventually settled on a pair of velcro sneakers adorned with aggressively bright blue stripes. Velcro, a novelty back in the day, seemed to be the height of convenience. I grudgingly presented my choice to my mom, who, to my great relief, begrudgingly agreed it was a tolerable selection. The saleswoman, with an exaggerated air of professionalism, deposited the shoes into a Webb’s City bag, which I clutched like a life preserver as we ventured deeper into the abyss.

The clothing section was an overwhelming barrage of racks and shelves bursting with garments of every conceivable size, style, and hue. My mom and I navigated this chaos for what felt like an eternity, selecting shirts, pants, and dresses for the impending school year. The 1970s fashion scene was a cacophony of psychedelic patterns and earthy colors, and I couldn’t help but feel repulsed by the garish patterns and bell-bottom trousers that had inexplicably become all the rage.

As I recall, I was coerced into trying on various outfits within the claustrophobic confines of a fitting room while my mom loitered outside, her patience wearing thin. The towering mirrors within seemed designed to make me appear as though I were a child lost in a sea of adult attire. These clothes, though, held the promise of a new chapter, a begrudging acceptance of the responsibilities the upcoming school year would bring.

One particular ensemble that remains etched in my memory was a pair of overalls. Overalls, apparently the epitome of coolness in the 1970s, were purchased only after relentless badgering on my part. With these garments adorning my disgruntled frame, I paraded through the store like a reluctant fashion model, convinced I was the most unwilling participant in this charade. My mom, always more practical, ensured we procured a stash of sensible clothes suitable for school.

As we inched our way to the checkout counter, our shopping cart groaned under the weight of school clothes, shoes, and a backpack embellished with the likeness of my favorite cartoon character. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of weary accomplishment, knowing that I was now equipped to face the impending school year’s trials and tribulations.

Leaving Webb’s City with our haul of new school clothes was a moment fraught with both resignation and nostalgia. On one hand, I braced myself for the inexorable march of the school year, with all its agonizing routines and dreary obligations. On the other hand, I knew I would miss the carefree days of summer, when I could roam the neighborhood with my friends, blissfully oblivious to the burdens of homework and playground politics.

Reflecting on that scorching day in the 1970s as a curmudgeonly 58-year-old, I can’t help but smirk at the memories of that torturous shopping expedition with my mom at Webb’s City. It was more than just a shopping trip; it was an ordeal, a coming-of-age experience where the innocence of childhood reluctantly gave way to the weight of growing up. The school clothes from that era may have long faded and disintegrated, but the memories of that peculiar day continue to stand as a testament to resilience. Webb’s City may have vanished into the annals of history, but the absurdity of that day remains a cherished relic of my past.

Kermudeon Toys From the Cereal Companies.

Ah, the 1970s – a glorious time when cheesy toys ruled the world, and saving up for one of these plastic marvels was the ultimate kid’s dream. Gather ’round, folks, and let me regale you with the epic tale of my relentless pursuit to acquire one of these treasures.

Picture this: It was the late ’70s, and I was a kid with a singular mission in life – to own one of those gloriously cheesy toys that seemed to define the era. You know the ones I’m talking about, right? Those outrageously kitschy plastic contraptions that were equal parts nostalgia and absurdity.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, I had to embark on the perilous journey of saving up enough money to make my dream a reality. It sounds easy, right? Just put away a few pennies here and there, and voila! You have yourself a gloriously cheesy toy. Well, prepare to be enlightened about the true saga of my endeavors.

My journey began with an extravagant allowance of a few dollars per week. Oh, the generosity of my parents! I quickly realized that if I saved my entire allowance for a mere decade or so, I might be able to afford one of those marvelous contraptions. The anticipation was palpable.

Now, let me introduce you to the marvels of financial planning in the ’70s. There were no apps, no online banking, just an old-school piggy bank. But this wasn’t your average piggy bank; it was a transparent masterpiece that allowed me to witness the gradual accumulation of my fortune. Every time I dropped a coin in, I could almost hear Toucan Sam, the iconic cereal mascot, calling my name.

My heart raced as I contemplated the numerous options available. There was the iconic Toucan Sam Ring Toss, a timeless classic that challenged your dexterity as you tried to guide tiny rings onto his nose using nothing but the luck of the Froot Loops. Then, of course, there was the Super Elastic Bubble Plastic, a gooey concoction that promised to create bubbles of unimaginable proportions. The possibilities were endless, and I was ready to dive headfirst into the world of cheesy toys.

As I saved my hard-earned dollars, I couldn’t help but be swept up in the sheer absurdity of it all. I mean, here I was, scrimping and saving for something that was essentially a glorified piece of plastic. But oh, what plastic it was! It was plastic that promised hours of mindless entertainment, plastic that transported me to a simpler time when the height of technology was a View-Master and a lava lamp.

With each passing week, my piggy bank grew heavier, and my anticipation reached fever pitch. I imagined the triumphant moment when I would walk into the local toy store, clutching my precious dollars, and proudly declare, “One Toucan Sam Ring Toss, please!”

But as we all know, life has a way of throwing curveballs. Just when I thought my savings were sufficient, an unexpected expense would rear its ugly head – a school trip, a forgotten birthday, or a sudden craving for a slushie. My carefully nurtured nest egg would be plundered, leaving me back at square one.

And let’s not forget the agonizing process of counting and recounting my piggy bank’s contents. I would carefully pour out the coins onto my bedroom floor, creating a metallic mosaic that screamed potential. Then, armed with a calculator and a notebook, I would painstakingly tally each coin, recording my progress as I edged closer to my cheesy toy dream.

The weeks turned into months, and the months into years. But I persevered, fueled by a determination that could only be described as foolish. There were moments when I questioned the sanity of my quest. Why was I devoting so much time and energy to a piece of plastic that would inevitably gather dust in some forgotten corner of my room?

But then, one fateful day, it happened. My piggy bank reached critical mass. I had finally saved enough to make my cheesy toy dream come true. The excitement was overwhelming as I headed to the toy store, clutching my hard-earned dollars and a sense of accomplishment that only a true connoisseur of kitsch could appreciate.

And there it was, the Toucan Sam Ring Toss, gleaming on the box, beckoning to me with its promise of endless amusement. With trembling hands, I handed over my dollars and made the purchase of a lifetime. As I waited for the mail to give me my cheesy toy. I couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear. It was ridiculous, it was absurd, but it was my very own piece of ’70s nostalgia.

So, there you have it – the epic, sarcastic tale of how I saved up to buy one of those gloriously cheesy toys from the 1970s. Was it a wise investment? Absolutely not. But was it worth it? Without a doubt. Because sometimes, it’s the absurd,

When Hurricanes Were the Original Party Crashers: Tampa Bay’s Wild 80s Hurricane Shindigs

Ah, the 1980s – a decade known for neon colors, big hair, and, apparently, an undying determination to throw the wildest parties even in the face of impending natural disasters. As if Tampa Bay didn’t have enough excitement with its flamingos and alligators, residents of the Sunshine State decided to embrace hurricanes as the ultimate party crashers. It was the era of Hurricane Parties, where Floridians dared to take “making the best of a bad situation” to a whole new level.

Category What? Time to Celebrate!

You’d think that when a weatherman announced a hurricane heading your way, the logical response would be “Get outta dodge!” But Tampa Bay residents back in the 80s had a different game plan. When news broke that a hurricane was on the horizon, the streets buzzed with anticipation, and not just from the wind.

The sight of people boarding up windows and securing their homes was often accompanied by a “We’re Open!” sign on local bars and clubs. Who cared about flying debris and torrential rain when there was a chance to don Hawaiian shirts and party like it was 1999 – or at least until the power went out?

Chasing Storms, Chasing Fun

As if hurricane-themed cocktails and “Stormy Night” dance playlists weren’t enough, some Floridians decided to up the ante. Beachfront properties became prime real estate for hurricane-themed cookouts, complete with barbecue grills defiantly standing against the wind. And what’s a party without a game of hurricane-themed Bingo, where you’d mark off squares like “Flying Lawn Chair” and “Palm Tree Goes for a Swim”?

The most daring of revelers even boasted about “chasing” hurricanes. Instead of evacuating like responsible adults, they’d hop in their cars, load up on snacks, and set off on an adventure to experience Mother Nature’s fury up close. Who needed Disneyland when you had a swirling vortex of doom to keep you entertained?

Survival of the Partiest

As the wind howled and rain battered the coastline, Tampa Bay’s hurricane partiers would hunker down, stocked with enough chips and dip to last through the storm. And let’s not forget the omnipresent battery-operated boomboxes – because dancing to “Walking on Sunshine” in the midst of a hurricane was a rite of passage, right?

While the rest of the world marveled at Florida’s unique brand of party resilience, meteorologists and emergency responders were left scratching their heads. How do you tell people to evacuate when they’re busy drafting “Hurricane Survival Party” invitations?

Lessons from the 80s

Looking back, Tampa Bay’s hurricane parties of the 80s were a testament to the indomitable spirit of its residents. They faced adversity with a healthy dose of humor and a refusal to let nature’s wrath rain on their parade. But let’s be honest, folks – if you’re ever faced with a hurricane, maybe reconsider turning it into a dance floor. Let’s leave that particular legacy to the 80s and keep our partying indoors, where it’s not at the mercy of flying debris.

Growing Up Kermudgeon

Growing up as the youngest member of my family during the 1980s was not exactly a walk in the park. In those days, I held the esteemed title of the family’s designated “remote control.” This seemingly innocuous role meant that whenever my older brother and sister had the urge to change the channel on the TV, they would call out, “Hey, remote!” and I would obediently dash to their service.

However, my duties as the human remote control were just the beginning of my plight. My cunning siblings found numerous inventive ways to delegate their chores to me. I vividly recall one particular incident when they managed to convince me that it was my solemn duty to undertake a comprehensive house cleaning while they gallivanted outside to frolic with their friends. I dedicated an entire day to scrubbing floors and laundering clothes, convinced of my noble responsibility. Little did I know that they had sneakily returned home while I toiled away, comfortably ensconced in front of the television, enjoying their newfound freedom at my expense.

Being the youngest in my family was far from a privilege. I was perpetually the caboose in every endeavor, the one whose opinion counted the least, and the easiest target for blame whenever anything went awry. Yet, in hindsight, I recognize that this experience imparted several invaluable life lessons, including the significance of diligence and tenacity.

Intriguingly, the trials and tribulations of my youngest years bestowed upon me an unconventional skill that has found its way onto my resume – the ability to change TV channels with pliers in hand. This unexpected talent has often sparked curiosity during job interviews, leading to amusing anecdotes about my childhood.

Beyond this peculiar skill, being the youngest in the 1980s instilled in me a profound work ethic. The countless hours spent toiling away at household chores, whether under duress or not, cultivated a strong sense of responsibility and a willingness to tackle challenges head-on. I learned that hard work, even when seemingly unfair, could be a source of personal growth.

Additionally, I developed resilience as I navigated the complexities of being the youngest. The constant teasing, playful taunts, and enduring perceptions of ineptitude toughened my spirit. I discovered the art of bouncing back from setbacks and developed a thick skin that would serve me well in the future.

In conclusion, my childhood as the youngest in my family may have been fraught with trials and tribulations, but it sculpted me into a person with a unique blend of skills and qualities. I emerged from those years with a work ethic, resilience, and a remarkable ability to change TV channels with pliers – a testimony to the transformative power of adversity.

Growing up as the youngest member of my family during the 1980s was not exactly a walk in the park. In those days, I held the esteemed title of the family’s designated “remote control.” This seemingly innocuous role meant that whenever my older brother and sister had the urge to change the channel on the TV, they would call out, “Hey, remote!” and I would obediently dash to their service.

However, my duties as the human remote control were just the beginning of my plight. My cunning siblings found numerous inventive ways to delegate their chores to me. I vividly recall one particular incident when they managed to convince me that it was my solemn duty to undertake a comprehensive house cleaning while they gallivanted outside to frolic with their friends. I dedicated an entire day to scrubbing floors and laundering clothes, convinced of my noble responsibility. Little did I know that they had sneakily returned home while I toiled away, comfortably ensconced in front of the television, enjoying their newfound freedom at my expense.

Being the youngest in my family was far from a privilege. I was perpetually the caboose in every endeavor, the one whose opinion counted the least, and the easiest target for blame whenever anything went awry. Yet, in hindsight, I recognize that this experience imparted several invaluable life lessons, including the significance of diligence and tenacity.

Intriguingly, the trials and tribulations of my youngest years bestowed upon me an unconventional skill that has found its way onto my resume – the ability to change TV channels with pliers in hand. This unexpected talent has often sparked curiosity during job interviews, leading to amusing anecdotes about my childhood.

Beyond this peculiar skill, being the youngest in the 1980s instilled in me a profound work ethic. The countless hours spent toiling away at household chores, whether under duress or not, cultivated a strong sense of responsibility and a willingness to tackle challenges head-on. I learned that hard work, even when seemingly unfair, could be a source of personal growth.

Additionally, I developed resilience as I navigated the complexities of being the youngest. The constant teasing, playful taunts, and enduring perceptions of ineptitude toughened my spirit. I discovered the art of bouncing back from setbacks and developed a thick skin that would serve me well in the future.

In conclusion, my childhood as the youngest in my family may have been fraught with trials and tribulations, but it sculpted me into a person with a unique blend of skills and qualities. I emerged from those years with a work ethic, resilience, and a remarkable ability to change TV channels with pliers – a testimony to the transformative power of adversity.

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My First Kermudgeon Job

Once upon a time, in a land filled with sizzling patties and crispy fries, I embarked on my first job at the illustrious Burger Chef. Little did I know that this fast-food adventure would be a rollercoaster of laughter, fueled by the antics of my quirky co-workers.

First, there was Benny, the self-proclaimed fry guru. Armed with a spatula in one hand and a smile on his face, Benny would juggle french fries like a seasoned circus performer. He had a knack for flipping them perfectly, but his real talent lay in his ability to sneak a fry or two into his mouth without anyone noticing. We always suspected he had a secret stash hidden somewhere in the restaurant.

Then there was Maria, the queen of customer service. With a dazzling smile and a voice as sweet as a milkshake, she could diffuse even the most irate customers with her charm. Maria had a habit of singing orders to the kitchen crew, turning mundane tasks into a musical extravaganza. It wasn’t uncommon to hear her belting out, “Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions—on a sesame seed bun!” Her melodious voice brought joy to the entire restaurant.

And who could forget Jerry, the eternal joker? Jerry was the master of pranks and loved to keep us on our toes. One day, he decided to fill the ketchup bottles with colored water, resulting in a rainbow of unexpected condiments on unsuspecting burgers. We couldn’t help but burst into laughter as confused customers stared at their multi-hued masterpieces. Jerry’s laughter was contagious, and we couldn’t stay mad at him for long.

As for me, I was the self-proclaimed “Burger Whisperer.” I took pride in my ability to construct the perfect burger tower, ensuring each layer was stacked with precision. Customers marveled at my burger-building finesse, and I reveled in my burger-sculpting glory. I even perfected the art of flipping patties with flair, earning the title of “Flip Master Supreme” amongst my colleagues.

Our days at Burger Chef were filled with laughter, ridiculous challenges, and an unbreakable bond of camaraderie. We faced the wrath of disgruntled customers, navigated the chaotic lunch rushes, and managed to keep our sanity intact.

However, like all good things, our time at Burger Chef eventually came to an end. The restaurant that had been our stage for laughter and camaraderie, closed its doors for good. The announcement of its closure hit us all like a shockwave, and it was a bittersweet moment as we bid farewell to the place where we had shared so many unforgettable moments.

Looking back, my first job at Burger Chef was more than just a paycheck. It was a symphony of silliness, a sitcom in fast-food form, and a reminder that life’s treasures often hide in the most unexpected places. I learned the importance of teamwork, the value of a good laugh, and the art of finding joy in the simplest of moments.

So, if you ever find yourself craving a juicy burger and a side of laughter, I regret to inform you that Burger Chef is no more. But the memories of Benny’s fry juggling, Maria’s melodious orders, and Jerry’s mischievous pranks still bring a smile to my face. Burger Chef may have closed its doors, but its legacy lives on in our hearts—a place where burgers were made with love and laughter, and where the laughter endures even after the last patty has been flipped.

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Florida Kermudgeon Man

On a bright and cheerful afternoon, I found myself savoring a delicious sandwich at the local Jersey Mike’s subs in Trinity. Little did I know that this seemingly ordinary lunch would soon transform into a delightful spectacle of human kindness and humor.

As I enjoyed my meal, my attention was drawn to an unusual sight outside the restaurant’s window. There, standing on the sidewalk, was a man with a brown paper bag covering his head. My initial reaction was one of disbelief, as I couldn’t quite fathom why someone would choose to obscure their identity in such a manner. Yet, what unfolded before my eyes was a heartwarming and comical scene that would leave a lasting impression.

The man with the paper bag on his head had halted in front of the restaurant, not out of distress but to assist a stranded cyclist. It was a true testament to the adage that appearances can be deceiving. At first, I wondered if my eyes were playing tricks on me, but as I continued to observe, it became evident that this peculiar individual was extending genuine help to the cyclist in need.

He approached the disheartened cyclist, who had suffered a breakdown on the side of the road. The man with the paper bag began his good Samaritan act by inspecting the bicycle’s tires, offering tools from his backpack, and even providing a refreshing bottle of water to the stranded traveler. It was a sight that defied expectations and highlighted the innate kindness within us all, regardless of how we choose to present ourselves to the world.

As the cyclist glanced upward and took in the sight of the man with the paper bag over his head, he found himself unable to contain his laughter. The sheer absurdity of the situation struck him as both bewildering and immensely amusing. However, what warmed the heart even more was the fact that the mysterious bag-headed helper remained unperturbed by the laughter and continued his assistance with unwavering dedication.

Despite the continuous peals of laughter, the man with the paper bag showed incredible patience and empathy. He seemed to understand that his unconventional appearance was the source of the cyclist’s amusement and took it all in stride. With a smile hidden beneath his makeshift mask, he offered the stranded cyclist the comfort of his presence and assistance.

As their interaction unfolded, the cyclist’s bike was repaired, and his spirits were lifted. The unexpected camaraderie that blossomed between the two was a testament to the power of human connection and the ability to find humor even in the most unexpected circumstances. The cyclist, once in distress, now had not only a fixed bicycle but also a newfound friend with a paper bag on his head.

Eventually, the cyclist was ready to hit the road again, and as he pedaled away, he couldn’t help but glance back at the man with the paper bag. Still adorned with his unusual headwear, the mysterious helper waved cheerfully, his laughter blending with the joyous chortles of the cyclist. It was a scene that left an indelible mark on all who witnessed it, a reminder that in our quest for assistance or connection, we should never judge a book by its cover.

As I savored the last bites of my sandwich, I couldn’t help but reflect on the unexpected entertainment that had unfolded before me. This chance encounter was a poignant reminder that life is full of surprises, and sometimes, the most ordinary moments can turn out to be the most extraordinary. In the midst of laughter, kindness, and a paper bag-covered head, I found myself appreciating the simple joys that life can bring, leaving me with a smile and a heartwarming tale to share.

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Kermudgeon Garage Sales

Ah, the enchanting realm of garage sales, a veritable haven for the treasure-hunting connoisseur. Picture this: It’s an early Saturday morning, and you’re armed with a pocketful of jingling coins and an ambitious game plan to unearth hidden gems among a labyrinth of dusty relics.

As your car approaches the first destination of the day, an intriguing blend of excitement and curiosity courses through your veins. Could this be the day you stumble upon a vintage record player, a rare comic book, or perhaps even a mystical lamp capable of granting three wishes? Okay, maybe that last one is a whimsical stretch, but a little daydreaming never hurt anyone!

Stepping out of your trusty vehicle, your determination to unearth fantastic deals surges. The prospect of finding extraordinary treasures at an affordable price ignites your spirit. However, it doesn’t take long for irony to tap you on the shoulder. Here you stand, engaging in a quest for unique finds at garage sales, all while planning your very own garage sale. It’s the captivating circle of garage sale life, a cycle of commerce that beckons you forward.

You saunter along the garage sale’s offerings, picking up items with a practiced air and pretending to inspect them meticulously. But in the recesses of your mind, you’re performing mental acrobatics, calculating potential resale prices for your own garage sale. It’s the ultimate hustle, a garage sale nestled within a garage sale, a symphony of commerce hidden in plain sight.

You strike up conversations with the sellers, engaging them in discussions about the history and provenance of their items. Your queries dance on the edge of anticipation, secretly wishing that they might inadvertently undervalue something—a hidden treasure within their trove. Every dollar spared is a victory, and every negotiation is a strategic dance.

At times, you find yourself standing at a crossroads, torn between acquiring an item that genuinely tugs at your heartstrings and staying true to your mission of unearthing merchandise for your upcoming garage sale. It’s a moral quandary known only to those who have ventured down the winding paths of garage sale pursuits.

As the sun arcs across the sky, your haul grows steadily—a kaleidoscope of trinkets, vintage books, whimsical decorations, and curated apparel. Your car’s trunk, once spacious, now teems with these newfound treasures. You can’t help but ponder whether your neighbors might mistake your garage for a hoarder’s paradise, a sanctuary of forgotten curiosities.

But fret not, for your grand scheme is to transform your own garage sale into an irresistible emporium of bargains—a haven where neighbors and strangers alike will flock to discover their hidden gems. And if you happen to turn a tidy profit along the way, well, consider it a serendipitous bonus.

So, the next time you find yourself amidst the delightful chaos of a garage sale, procuring items with the intention of stocking your own sale, remember that you are not alone in this quirky and intricate pursuit. Embrace the irony, relish the thrill of the hunt, and allow the whims of the garage sale gods to guide you toward the ultimate deal. Happy bargain hunting, fellow treasure-seekers!

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The Dukes of Hazzard

The soft crackle of Everclear’s “AM Radio” filled the air as it played through my trusty 9-volt transistor radio. Its nostalgic melody acted as a time machine, whisking me back to a cherished era of my youth. I couldn’t help but reminisce about those days when banana-seat bikes were our preferred mode of transportation, cereal boxes held coveted toy surprises, and “The Dukes of Hazzard” was the highlight of our TV viewing. These memories, rekindled by the song, flooded my mind with a warm wave of nostalgia, evoking a simpler and carefree time.

Shifting gears, let’s rewind to the late 1970s, where being a teenager meant a deep dive into the world of television. One show had a grip on our hearts and had us eagerly glued to the screen—the “Dukes of Hazzard.”

Picture this: the year is 1979, and we’re living in a world where Saturday nights are synonymous with heart-pounding excitement. It’s the night when we join Bo and Luke Duke, two charismatic cousins, in their relentless pursuit of justice as they race through the back roads of Hazzard County in their trusty steed—the General Lee.

And who could ever forget that iconic horn sound, affectionately known as “Dixie”? We’d mimic it on our bikes, an attempt to channel the spirit of the General Lee wherever we rode.

But let’s be real—the true superstar of the show was Daisy Duke, portrayed by the stunning Catherine Bach. Every young lad at school had a crush on her, and who could blame us? With her short shorts and charming pigtails, Daisy Duke was the embodiment of teenage infatuation. We all harbored dreams of being rescued by her from the clutches of the hapless Sheriff Rosco P. Coltrane and his endearingly goofy deputy, Enos.

Speaking of Rosco, he was the quintessential TV villain, constantly chasing after the Duke boys, employing absurd schemes in his relentless pursuit. But, truth be told, we cherished his failures just as much as his pursuits. His wild eyes and preposterous strategies made him the perfect source of comic relief.

And then there was Boss Hogg, the crafty county commissioner, always hatching some new and dubious plan. He might have been a morally questionable character, but we couldn’t help but laugh at his comically audacious antics.

Now, looking back through the lens of time, it’s almost surreal to reflect on how obsessed we were with “The Dukes of Hazzard.” We’d dedicate hours to reenacting scenes from the show, pretending to be Bo and Luke as we raced around on our bicycles. And secretly, deep down, each of us yearned for our very own General Lee, complete with that iconic Confederate flag on the roof.

Yet, we were just 14-year-olds, full of dreams and youthful crushes. “The Dukes of Hazzard” was our escape from the mundane, a place where the improbable felt possible and where justice triumphed, no matter how outlandish the circumstances. Some might have called it cheesy, but to us, it was nothing short of pure magic.

So here’s a heartfelt homage to “The Dukes of Hazzard”—a show that not only captured our hearts but also fired up our imaginations. And if you’ll pardon me, I’m off on a quest to track down some old episodes on DVD. Yee-haw!

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Dear Skinny Girl Products

Dear Skinny Girl Products,

I hope this letter finds you well. I’m writing to you today to express my deep concern and confusion about your brand name. As someone who doesn’t quite fit the skinny mold, I can’t help but wonder why you’ve chosen such an exclusive name for your products.

I mean, really, why is it called Skinny Girl? Why not Skinny Boy? Or how about Skinny Kid, for those of us who never quite outgrew our childhood nicknames? It just seems a little unfair that you’re only catering to one specific demographic.

Don’t get me wrong, I love your products. I mean, who doesn’t love a good low-cal cocktail or snack? But every time I see the name Skinny Girl, I can’t help but feel a little left out. It’s like you’re saying, “Sorry, only skinny girls allowed.”

So, can we talk about rebranding? Maybe you could consider something more inclusive, like Slim Person or Lean Human Being. Or, if you really want to get creative, how about Just Plain Healthy?

I’m not trying to tell you how to run your business, but I think it’s worth considering the impact that your brand name has on people. Let’s make sure everyone feels welcome and included, regardless of their size or gender.

Sincerely, The Kermudgeon

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Pants & Sundays Off

Have you ever wondered why the infamous columnist known as The Kurmudgeon doesn’t publish on Sundays? Well, let me tell you, it’s not because he’s at church or taking a day off to rest. Oh no, it’s because he’s out there living his best life, causing chaos and mayhem wherever he goes.

You see, The Kurmudgeon is not your average columnist. He’s not content with just sitting behind a desk and writing about his opinions. No, he likes to get out there and experience life to the fullest. And what better day to do that than on Sundays, when the world is his oyster?

So, what does The Kurmudgeon do on Sundays, you ask? Well, for starters, he likes to go to the local farmer’s market and loudly complain about the prices of organic produce. He’ll wander around, grumbling to anyone who will listen about how back in his day, you could get a whole bag of apples for a nickel.

After that, he might head over to the park and yell at children for playing too loudly. He’ll sit on a bench, scowling at anyone who comes near, muttering about how kids these days have no respect.

But that’s not all. The Kurmudgeon might also take a trip to the mall, where he’ll loudly criticize anyone he sees wearing skinny jeans or using a selfie stick. He’ll wander around, shaking his head and sighing deeply, lamenting the state of fashion and technology.

So, you see, The Kurmudgeon is not just a columnist. He’s a man on a mission, a man who refuses to let the world pass him by. And if that means taking Sundays off to go out and spread his curmudgeonly ways, then so be it. The world could use a little more grumpiness, after all.

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My First Kermudgeon Date

As I cautiously entered CK’s revolving restaurant on the picturesque St. Pete Beach, a whirlwind of emotions stirred within me. It was a pivotal moment – my very first date with a girl. Excitement and apprehension swirled in equal measure, leaving me in a state of delightful uncertainty. But the moment my gaze met hers at our reserved table, all my fears melted away. She was an enchanting sight, with cascading locks of blonde hair and a radiant smile that seemed to illuminate the entire room.

Our conversation flowed effortlessly, a mesmerizing dance of words and laughter. We chatted and joked as if we were old friends, the nervousness of the first date dissipating with every passing minute. It wasn’t long before the attentive waiter arrived, presenting us with tantalizing dishes. We savored the delectable cuisine while the restaurant’s panoramic views slowly unveiled the stunning beachscape below, a sight that seemed to mirror the beauty of the evening.

Yet, as the night wore on, the idyllic date began to take an unforeseen turn. We had relished our meals and were basking in each other’s company when a sudden, ominous rumble emanated from my stomach. Initially, I tried to dismiss it as mere indigestion, but it soon became evident that I was engaged in an unexpected battle with my own digestive system. I excused myself, my steps hurried as I sought refuge in the restroom, hoping to find relief.

Sitting within the stall, I quickly realized that this was no ordinary stomachache. I was entangled in a desperate struggle with my body, and the outcome was far from certain. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as I grappled with the relentless discomfort. Finally, pale and drenched in perspiration, I emerged from the restroom.

To her credit, my date displayed remarkable empathy and understanding, her eyes filled with genuine concern as she observed my evident discomfort. I tried my best to hide the pain etched across my face, but I was acutely aware that this unexpected twist had disrupted the otherwise magical evening. Still, she remained by my side, a reassuring presence amidst the turbulence.

Yet, just as I thought the night couldn’t possibly present more challenges, calamity struck. As we descended the restaurant’s grand staircase, my ill-fated shoe lost traction on a wet spot, propelling me into an ungraceful tumble down the steps. In a domino effect, she was drawn into the fall with me, and we found ourselves entangled in a heap at the bottom of the staircase.

Amidst the clatter of the unexpected descent, I couldn’t help but think that this might be shaping up to be the worst date in history. My embarrassment knew no bounds, but to my astonishment, she responded not with frustration or irritation, but with uproarious laughter. Her infectious mirth filled the air, and I soon joined in, the absurdity of the situation slowly overtaking the humiliation.

With her help, we untangled ourselves from the heap at the foot of the stairs, both of us sporting disheveled appearances but still wearing our smiles. The evening, which had begun with a mixture of excitement and terror, had now ventured into the realm of the unforgettable.

As we said our goodbyes at the end of the night, I couldn’t help but reflect on the date’s twists and turns. It hadn’t been perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but it had been genuine, filled with laughter, empathy, and unexpected challenges. It was a date that would forever remain etched in my memory, a testament to the unpredictability of life and the power of shared laughter.

And who knows? Perhaps, in the future, we’ll gather the courage to revisit CK’s revolving restaurant, armed with a sense of adventure and a shared history of laughter and resilience. For now, it was a date like no other, a remarkable chapter in the story of our lives, and a testament to the beauty of embracing imperfections and finding joy in unexpected places.

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My First Day of High School in 1979

Throughout the day, my vibrant yellow pantsuit became a conversation starter, drawing curious glances and amused smiles from my classmates. While some couldn’t help but chuckle at my flamboyant choice of attire, others seemed intrigued by my boldness. It was as if my outfit had granted me a peculiar kind of celebrity status on my very first day at Jefferson High School.

As I navigated the bustling hallways, I couldn’t help but overhear snippets of conversations about the new kid in the eye-catching yellow ensemble. Laughter and bemusement filled the air, but I remained steadfast in my resolve to own my unique style. When a group of football players broke into raucous laughter behind me, I decided to play along, flashing them a peace sign and offering a theatrical twirl. Their amusement, though initially directed at my expense, slowly transformed into a mixture of surprise and admiration. It seemed my eccentricity had earned me a few unexpected fans.

The encounter with Mr. T, my first-period teacher, had been nothing short of surreal. His booming voice and dramatic demeanor were reminiscent of his iconic role in “The A-Team.” I watched in bemusement as he dramatically exclaimed, “I pity the fool who can’t solve this equation!” before slamming a hefty textbook onto my desk. My classmates, seemingly unfazed by this unexpected turn of events, took it all in stride. It became evident that Jefferson High School was a place where unconventional teaching methods were not only accepted but encouraged.

During lunchtime, I ventured into the school cafeteria with a sense of trepidation. The culinary offerings on display were unlike anything I had ever seen. A pizza topped with marshmallows, Jell-O adorned with floating carrot chunks—each item on the menu seemed more perplexing than the last. As I carefully perused my options, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had inadvertently stepped into a parallel universe of gastronomy.

Opting for what appeared to be a safe choice—a classic PB&J sandwich—I seated myself at an empty table. However, as I took my first bite, my taste buds were met not with the comforting sweetness of jelly but with an unexpected burst of fiery hot sauce. My eyes watered, and I reached for my water bottle to quell the sudden heat. It was a culinary adventure like no other, a testament to the eccentricity of Jefferson High School’s dining experience.

As the final bell of the day rang, signaling the end of my inaugural journey through Jefferson High School, a sense of exhaustion mingled with exhilaration washed over me. It had been an extraordinary day, one filled with unexpected encounters, laughter, and a resolute determination to embrace the unconventional. As I boarded the bus for the journey home, I couldn’t help but reflect on the remarkable rollercoaster ride that my high school experience promised to be.

The reflections continued as I gazed out the window during the bus ride. I pondered the eccentricities of Jefferson High School and how it had challenged my perceptions of what a typical high school should be. This was a place where individuality was celebrated, where the unexpected was welcomed with open arms, and where the ordinary was anything but. It was, in every sense, an adventure waiting to unfold.

Stepping off the bus and heading toward my home, I couldn’t suppress a contented smile. My first day at Jefferson High School had been a whirlwind of eccentricity and surprises, but it had also been a lesson in resilience and embracing the unexpected. As I looked ahead to the days and years that lay before me, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement and anticipation. This was just the beginning of a remarkable journey through a school unlike any other, where every day promised new adventures and a celebration of the extraordinary.

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Seeing The Eagles in 1980 Tampa Stadium AKA the Sombrero

The Eagles concert at Tampa Stadium in 1980 was more than just a musical event; it was a rite of passage for a wide-eyed 14-year-old with a dream and a roll of quarters jingling in his pocket.

Convincing my parents that attending a rock concert was a good idea was my initial challenge. After countless pleas and a promise to take on extra chores, they finally relented, allowing me to chase my musical dream. The excitement I felt was palpable, and I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm.

Next came the daunting task of saving enough money for a ticket. As an adolescent without a regular job, this was no easy feat. However, my determination knew no bounds, and I diligently scrounged and squirreled away every penny that came my way. Finally, with sheer perseverance, I managed to amass enough money to purchase a ticket, albeit in the nosebleed section.

The day of the concert dawned with sweltering heat and suffocating humidity, the type of Florida weather where it’s nearly impossible to distinguish between sweat and raindrops on your face. Undeterred by the scorching sun, I arrived at the stadium hours ahead of schedule, my excitement bubbling over.

Taking my seat in the stands, I couldn’t help but be awestruck by the sprawling sea of humanity that stretched out before me. The concertgoers were a diverse mix – hippies, yuppies, and metalheads – all united by a shared passion for the Eagles’ music. It was a testament to the universal appeal of the band’s timeless melodies.

As the sun began its descent and the opening act graced the stage, an electrifying energy surged through the stadium. I joined the jubilant crowd in song, swaying to the music, and felt like an integral part of a momentous collective experience.

And then, the moment I had eagerly anticipated arrived. The Eagles took the stage amidst a cacophony of cheers and applause. They began to play their chart-toppers – “Hotel California,” “Take it Easy,” “Desperado” – and I sang my heart out along with the ecstatic crowd. The music washed over me, carrying me away on a tide of nostalgia and pure euphoria.

As the night wore on and the concert reached its conclusion, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of contentment. I had not only managed to save the money and secure my parents’ approval but had also realized my dream of attending an Eagles concert. The fatigue, the sweat, and the hoarse voice were minor inconveniences in comparison to the enduring memory I had created.

Reflecting on that unforgettable night now, I can’t help but smile. It was a simpler time, an era when all you needed was a roll of quarters and a dream to make something extraordinary happen. Although I have since grown older and ostensibly wiser, I still look back on that determined 14-year-old with a sense of pride and admiration. He possessed an unwavering vision, and he boldly pursued it, leaving behind a cherished memory that continues to resonate in my heart.

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Ginger Or Maryanne Who Would Win?

It’s a classic question that has stumped men for decades: Ginger or Maryann? The two lovely ladies from Gilligan’s Island have been the topic of many debates among groups of friends, and it’s time to settle the score once and for all.

On one hand, you have Ginger, the stunning red-headed movie star with a sultry voice and curves in all the right places. She’s the epitome of Hollywood glamour and sophistication, with a wardrobe to match. Men swoon at the sight of her and dream of being the one to sweep her off her feet.

On the other hand, you have Maryann, the sweet, girl-next-door type with a heart of gold and a down-to-earth personality. She’s cute, bubbly, and always up for an adventure. Her simple, wholesome charm has won over many a man’s heart, and she’s the kind of girl you could bring home to meet your parents.

So, who would you choose? It’s a tough call, but here are some things to consider:

If you’re looking for a glamorous night out on the town, then Ginger is your girl. She’ll make sure you’re dressed to the nines and ready to turn heads. But if you’re more interested in a casual day at the beach or a picnic in the park, then Maryann is the better choice. She’ll bring the sandwiches and lemonade, and you can relax and enjoy each other’s company.

If you’re looking for a conversation partner, Ginger is your girl, with her knowledge of the latest Hollywood gossip and her sophisticated wit. But if you want someone who’s easy to talk to and down-to-earth, then Maryann is the one for you. She’ll listen attentively and share her own stories with you.

And let’s not forget about the practicalities. Ginger might be high maintenance, with her designer clothes and constant need for attention. and dating a red head is like riding on the most dangerous roller coaster in the world, by the time it is all over–never again. One year later, you are back on that same rollercoaster.  while Maryann is low-key and easy to please. Ginger might break your heart with her fickle ways, while Maryann is loyal and committed.

So, who would you choose? Ultimately, it comes down to personal preference. Some of your friends might be drawn to Ginger’s glamour, while others might prefer Maryann’s simplicity. But one thing is for sure – this debate will continue to rage on for years to come, with no clear winner in sight.

I Wish They All Could be 1980’s Girls

Ah, the 1980s. A time of neon clothes, big hair, and some of the greatest girls to ever grace the planet. If you didn’t grow up in the 80s, you missed out on a time when girls were truly rad.

First of all, let’s talk about the hair. You know what they say – the higher the hair, the closer to heaven. And boy, did the girls of the 80s take that to heart. Aqua Net was their weapon of choice, and they wielded it with precision. Their hair was teased and sprayed into gravity-defying styles that could make a man weak in the knees. And let’s not forget about the scrunchies. Oh, the scrunchies. These girls knew how to accessorize, and a neon scrunchie was the perfect way to complete any outfit.

Speaking of outfits, the 80s girls were fashion icons. They rocked acid-washed jeans, leg warmers, and oversized sweatshirts like nobody’s business. And let’s not forget about the neon spandex. Who else could make neon spandex look so good? These girls were the queens of layering, too. They could wear a miniskirt over leggings, with a denim jacket on top, and still look cool.

But it wasn’t just about the clothes and the hair. The 80s girls had attitude. They were tough, independent, and didn’t take crap from anyone. They knew how to handle themselves, whether it was in a dance-off or a street fight. They were the ultimate badasses, and every guy wanted to be with them and every girl wanted to be them.

And let’s not forget about the music. The 80s girls had the best music to dance to. They could groove to Michael Jackson, sing along to Madonna, and headbang to Guns N’ Roses. And when they slow danced to a power ballad, it was pure magic.

In short, the 1980s girls were the bomb. They were fierce, fashionable, and just plain fun. They knew how to have a good time, and they did it in style. If you didn’t have a crush on an 80s girl back then, you missed out on one of life’s greatest pleasures. Here’s to you, 80s girls. You were truly something special.

5/5

Ah, to be 5 years old in 1970.

It was a time of bell-bottoms, platform shoes, and some truly questionable fashion choices. But for me, a 5-year-old kid living in small-town America, life was pretty simple. Here are some of the highlights of being a 5-year-old in 1970:

Playing with toys that would now be considered dangerous weapons

Back then, toys were made to last. And I don’t just mean they were durable – I mean they were built like tanks. Take the metal Tonka trucks, for example. These things were practically indestructible, and they had the weight to back it up. I remember using my Tonka dump truck to haul rocks around the yard, and I’m pretty sure I could have used it to knock down a wall if I’d wanted to.

And let’s not forget about lawn darts. Yes, you read that right – lawn darts. These were basically giant metal spikes that you threw at a target. Sounds safe, right? Well, let’s just say that they were eventually banned for a reason.

Watching TV shows that would now be considered wildly inappropriate

Remember the show “The Dukes of Hazzard”? Of course you do – who could forget the General Lee and those epic car chases? But if you watch it now, you’ll probably be surprised at how many racist and sexist undertones there were. And let’s not forget about shows like “The Brady Bunch” and “Gilligan’s Island”, which were full of outdated gender stereotypes.

But back in 1970, we didn’t really think about any of that. We just wanted to see some cool cars and watch Gilligan mess things up (again).

Eating food that would now be considered a health hazard

If you grew up in the 70s, you probably remember eating things like Tang, Kool-Aid, and Twinkies. And while we thought these were the height of culinary sophistication, we now know that they’re basically just sugar in various forms.

But hey, at least we got some vitamins from the Tang, right?

Having no idea what the future would hold

Back in 1970, we had no concept of things like smartphones, the internet, or social media. We couldn’t even imagine the technology that would be available to us today.

But you know what? That was kind of nice. We didn’t have to worry about cyberbullying, online privacy, or any of the other challenges that come with living in a hyper-connected world. We just played with our Tonka trucks, watched our favorite TV shows, and ate our Twinkies.

All in all, being 5 in 1970 was a pretty great time. Sure, there were some questionable toys, TV shows, and foods, but we didn’t know any better. And looking back on it now, I wouldn’t trade those simpler times for anything.

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