Rancheros.

Okay, urban developers, explain why the new thing in Sarasota, FL is to call every freakin' master plan developed community within city limits a "Ranch."

Because, uh, this "Ranch" I'm supposed to be living on? Why is it I don't see the droves of cattle or cowhands? Where's One-Eyed Jimbo serving chow out of a Dutch oven? I don't hear any herding dogs barking or chickens clucking.

I'm really confused, because all I see are shoddily contrustructed housing tracts and apartment-to-condo conversions that look all bright and shiny new but are going to be trashed and blood-spattered in three years because it's not humanly possible to put 300 people in a building, divide them by partitions, and think they won't end up hating each other when plumbing and sewerage lines leak and break over their dinig room tables.

But Ranch?

Um, no.

Unless you're talking about a Jolly Rancher candy. They are very solid and teeth-breaking, and I don't recommend them to kids with dental work, but for me, they are tasty, and provide a bit of enigma: Jolly. Ranchers. I want to know why they are jolly.

Am I Jolly Rancher living on my Ranch apartment which turned out to be Horror House of Housing in the Walmart side carnival show?

Maybe.