Florida 2013: Cracker Barrel

I added a wordpress app to my Smartphone and decided to test drive this bad boy at St. Augustine’s Cracker Barrel (I’m a rebel like that), seeing that my Mom and sisters are visiting the local outlets and the intermitent Floridian deluges are stoppering any attempt to sightsee the city’s copious forts and gator farms. Soooo … I’m posting tons of photos over the next several weeks in part because Disney saps the life out of you but mostly because I’m rather lazy writer. Thus, if you’ve developed a healthy lassitude to the written word, enjoy! If not, well read War and Peace or better yet my other blog posts – some are even longer than a Russian novel so go crazy you kooky sesquipedalian.

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Every visit to Cracker Barrel deja vu haunts you. We ate at three of these places and the wild assortment of candy, talking toy tucans, and 'I love Granny' t-shirts look the same regardless of zip code.

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Mischief Managed

Lacey undergarment

One of the benefits of writing articles like this one is all the research I’m forced to do on the subject.

So times were pleasant for the people there

until finally one, a fiend out of hell,

began to work his evil in the world (Beowulf, ln 99- 101).

Bree’s eyes flickered with mischief as she handed the list over to me.  I had asked the girls to engender a list for Kohl’s, where Kev and I had planned to spend our morning for new running shoes and socks . . . yes, and the nearby Barnes & Noble for iced tea and the latest issue of Batman  — two birds, one stone.  We planned to depart for Disney at 3 AM Saturday morning, and the plastic frame surrounding the heel of my shoes had exploded from its fabric skin like an alien parasite and dug into my tendon.  World War II veterans would tell that survival requires protecting your feet at all times, and Disney like any other battlefield is no different, just more expensive.  Thus, after tossing my old traitorous pair to the dog (she loves new chew toys), Kev and I set out to the department store.  But not before consulting my sisters . . .

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