Mosqui...NO! (you see what I did there)

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What Else Do You Want From Me…..Blood?

Forget flamingos. Forget egrets. The real state bird of Florida? The mosquito. And in Southshore, they don’t take vacations, respect daylight hours, or care that you just bought the “good” bug spray from Publix.

They’re out when it’s hot. They’re out when it’s raining. They’re out when it’s 62 degrees and overcast on a Tuesday in February. It never ends. You could wear a parka and still get bit through the coat.

We’re not saying they’re organized, but we’re also not saying they’re not. Some locals swear they hear them planning their attacks at dawn. And that citronella candle you lit? That’s basically an appetizer.

Now here’s where things go from annoying to concerning. Florida mosquitoes aren’t just tiny sky demons , they can actually carry some pretty nasty stuff, like West Nile virus, dengue, and Eastern equine encephalitis. (We had to Google that last one, and trust us, you don’t want it.)

But don’t panic. Do this instead:

Hillsborough County actually offers free mosquito control. Yes, that’s right. You can report high mosquito activity or standing water near your home, and the county will send someone out to investigate and, if needed, spray the area like a full-on mosquito SWAT team.

Here's how to fight back:

🦟 Request service online:
HCFLGov.net/Mosquito

📞 Or call: (813) 635-5400

Don’t be shy. If the bugs are biting, say something.

In the meantime, wear long sleeves, light citronella like you're summoning spirits, and maybe keep a flyswatter in every room of your house. Just in case.

Because here in Southshore, the mosquitoes don’t clock out, and neither should you.

💧 Get Back to Feeling You Again

Southshore Story Time

Sun City Center - The Retirement Revolution

By 1987, the story had faded into local gossip, until renovation crews returned to upgrade the shuffleboard courts. This time, the door was impossible to ignore. Bolted shut. Coated in rust, but humming faintly with electrical current. Curious, a foreman pried it open.

Beneath it? A tunnel. Long. Cold. Quietly powered by a generator that shouldn’t have been running. It descended at a gradual slope under the city, lit by yellowed fluorescent bulbs that hadn’t been replaced in decades.

City records made no mention of it. Old blueprints from the 1960s were “incomplete.” When local officials requested access, the HOA, oddly swift and unusually firm, denied the request. Called it “maintenance access” and sealed it off again.

But Harold Mendez, a retired civil engineer and self-proclaimed conspiracy buff, wasn’t satisfied. He’d seen too many inconsistencies. One night, just after midnight, he grabbed a flashlight, picked the lock, and slipped beneath the courts with a small GoPro strapped to his chest.

He never returned home.

The next morning, the door was welded shut.

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Keep It Local.