Stepped on a Pop Tart

By The Hillbilly Dude | Published October 4, 2025

Every fall, a nearby town has a "end of summer" gatherin' for the community. Music, picnic blankets, hot dogs. Summery stuff.

My young’uns seen there was a face paintin’ booth set up, and so they drug me over that to get their faces kittified. The live music had long packed up and left, but there was still music comin’ out of the speakers while we waited. We was the last ones in line, so it was a relief when they finally got to us. Mainly ‘cause I was ready to sit down.

‘Margaritavile’ came on as my hind end hit the chair. It’s not my favorite song, but it’s nostalgic.

Nostalgic for a reason.

As I sat in the face paintin' chair (I'll let you guess as to whether it was me or a young'un in my lap gettin' a kitty face), I recounted a story to the face artist.

My first job was at the movies. Best job I ever had. And not slightly better than my second favorite job. Heaps and heaps better. No comparison. It’s numero uno by leaps and bounds.

I was the projectionist at the theatre (that was when movies were on physical film), along with being the doorman. Other than gainin’ the ability to avoid bein’ entrusted with responsibilities beyond my skillset, I learned a real handy skill: opening exit doors - like the ones at the movies - with no handle on the outside.

Sometime back in the 1900s, Jimmy Buffet came to a nearby city for a singin’. He was never my favorite; but I really didn’t have nothin’ agin him, either. Now Beavis, a real good friend of mine - and one of my favorite people ever - was a huge fan. And after some convincin’, I talked him and Skinny Sumo, Monk into headin’ over to the venue.

Without tickets.

No, I had no plans of pickin’ up some tickets from all those "unofficial" resellers hangin’ around. I had a different idea. I instructed the bunch just to follow me, and I gave them one rule that I always give my co-conspirators: act like you’re supposed to be there.

We made our way past security.

Act like you’re supposed to be there.

Around the corner was the exit door. The door had no security - but no handles - and I opened it up like it wuttin nothin’.

Act like you’re supposed to be there.

I chose a door to the arena - and reminded them of my rule again - and then they followed me all the way down to the floor, right in front of the stage.

We could count the hairs on Jimmy’s head.

It could be my fault.