Growing up in the eighties. For real.

I love reading the nostalgic poems about growing up in the eighties.  It’s funny how our brains tend to recall the good more than the bad after some time has passed.  Let’s be realistic.  We played outside till the streetlights came on because mom said “Go outside and play, and don’t come home till dinner.”  Remember waking up early on Saturday mornings to watch cartoons?  Me too.  It sucked.  We got two days to sleep in and had to get up at the ass crack just to see some t.v. that appealed to us.  And I wasn’t allowed to get into the fridge before my parents got up.  Do you know what Cocoa Pebbles tastes like with water instead of milk?  Not good.  What about all the hand-me-down 1970s polyester crap from siblings, cousins and garage sales?  Those clothes were like a bad tattoo-unappealing and lasted forever.  And who said Buster Browns looked good with knee-high socks and shorts?  My mom.  And probably your mom.  Remember hot summer nights in a house without air conditioning?  You were on the verge of a heat stroke and your sweat-soaked sheets were stuck to you.  How about getting hit with switches, belts, spatulas and telephone cords-basically anything within mom's reach.  We’d get our mouths washed out with soap, spanked at school and told, “You better knock it off or I’ll give you something to cry about.” And you shut up because you knew she wasn’t kidding and would take off her shoe and beat you with it in a second.  It’s amazing we survived with toys like lawn darts, sit-n-puke, pogo ball and click clacks.  We had mullets, big hair, Boy George, Wham and the glory days of Richard Simmons.  Somehow we survived, and live to tell the youngsters about life before the internets. 
Sit Ubu, sit.  Good dog.