[UPDATE] Tree: 1, Coddington: 0

The Coddington family legacy, measured in rum drinks, restraining orders, and one very sturdy tree on East Hillsboro Boulevard.

The Deerfield Beach Reality Check: The Coddington Legacy

For those of you who are new to Deerfield Beach and lack the historical context of what went down here — pull up a chair.

And a drink, preferably something with rum.

<Ding> <Ding>
Class is in session.

Around 2010-ish, I was a legitimate force of nature in this town. Three elected officials arrested from my work. The housing authority’s executive director — beloved by a very particular crowd — chased out on a rail. Multiple candidates for office made to look like the fools they were. The Mango Festival? Busted up. And I was irritating about every single bit of it. Rightly so.

The OSOB crowd — Original Save Our Beach, for the uninitiated — had, and for the moment still has, a stranglehold on this community, gleefully depressing property values on the barrier island. They loved HA’s Pam Davis, a woman who, to put it charitably, is worthless as tits on a bull.

Then there was Ron Coddington, codename Ron Rico.

I don’t remember the precise details of whatever domestic disturbance erupted near his place, but Ron Rico came outside drunk and nearly got himself arrested. Which is fitting, because when Rum-a-Dunion later ran for office, he came in a distant fifth place in a four-person race, capturing the all-important Spiced Rum and Mylanta Fifth Place trophy.

Remember 3rd place finisher Coddie Loomis? Well, neither does the rest of our city.

But I digress.

151 Reasons Not to Run for Office once proudly stood on the debate stage and essentially told the room they should be grateful for the opportunity to elect him. No, Mount Gay Delusion. We wouldn’t. Maybe as a boxed wine inspector. And even then, only maybe.

Which brings us to the son. Cory “10G of MDMA” Coddington, codename The Sovereign Sour.

10g’s and I have history. He is a hothead. He is a liar. He claims 35 years of professional experience while being in his mid-40s — you do the math, I’ll wait. But Snatch and Grab’s defining moment, the one that tells you everything you need to know, happened at the League of Women Voters building on Federal Highway during his father’s campaign. Maybe 50 people packed into that room. I’m seated next to a woman with a newborn in a carriage — a brand-new human being, days old — and 210 Pounds of Celsius walks over and tries to get into a physical altercation with me over something I’d written about his father.

Who picks a fistfight over a baby carriage?

That’s Cory Coddington.

Now let’s look at what Cuba Libre has been up to lately, because the public record is doing a lot of the talking for me.

This man, channeling his inner Cartman Beefcake 9000, is currently staring down the barrel of a first-degree felony. My law enforcement sources tell me this is as serious as it gets, and that even if he somehow threads the needle legally, he is in for an extended season of pain.

Here’s the timeline, for those keeping score at home:

The Snatch. It starts with domestic violence. Specifically, forcibly ripping a $500 blue iPhone 16 out of his wife’s pocket while she was lying in bed. That’s where we begin.

Editor’s Note: who says that romance is dead?

The Cruise Ship Gambit. Having been issued a domestic violence protection order, Cory’s next move was to book a cabin directly adjacent to his wife’s on the Radiance of the Seas and attempt to board at Port Everglades. Tactical genius.

Visit REVOLT.Training to learn more.

The Grand Theft Finale. June 6, 2026. Popov Rum crashes a vehicle into a tree near the 500 block of East Hillsboro Boulevard. His solution: carjack a passing motorist — no weapon, just pure audacity — abandon the stolen vehicle at a fast-food restaurant, then fight three cops at a gas station while allegedly in possession of MDMA.

You can’t make this level of stupid up.

I actually drove past the old Andy Maurodis office right after it happened. Thought someone had knocked over a ten-foot concrete pillar. Nope. Just First Degree Felony Fizz and a tree, settling their differences.

Good news — the tree is still standing. Old 151, well, we suspect he’s over at Broward North.

As of this writing, Cory has not been booked into county jail. Our working theory is he’s still at the hospital — because when you fight three cops while allegedly holding MDMA after carjacking someone and introducing your face to a tree at highway speed, you tend to require some medical attention before the booking process commences.

Fucking. Glorious.

Praise Jesus H. Christ and pass the Appleton.

Speaking of paperwork: there’s nothing on the Broward Clerk of Court yet. The system is presumably still sitting there, mouth agape, trying to process Cory’s particular brand of dumbfoundery.

Side note: Fast Food Getaway lists his weight at 210. Sure, sure, sure. Never realized they measured fat pounds in Celsius.

Someone asked if Cory might be a sovereign citizen. Honestly? At this point I wouldn’t rule anything out. Someone call a supervisor. Get the laminated cards ready. This man fought three deputies.

Visit REVOLT.Training to learn more.

And while we’re in the archives — there’s an old story floating around town. Back when Pocket Picker’s Punch was doing IT work for a local lawn service, he allegedly went poking around in the company’s computers and stumbled onto Bill Ganz’s past-due account. Word is, he took that information straight to the Pat Jolivet and John Grassi crowd, ran his mouth extensively, and allegedly tried to leverage it. Over a lawn bill. I’m not saying I’ve never been late on a bill — I’m saying I didn’t try to build a blackmail operation around it.

The community response to all of this has been — let’s say — piss warm. I’m hearing guffaws. I’m hearing “about time.” I’m hearing “hope the tree pulls through.” And my personal favorite: “painted my completely unsurprised face.”

As for me, my sense of schadenfreude has transcended ordinary human experience. We have left schadenfreude behind. We are now operating at full schadenboner.

Cory Coddington is a bad egg. A piece of shit of the first order. From a shitster father — those two poor excuses for human beings have spent decades convincing themselves they were something other than what the public record has always shown them to be.

Ron — this shouldn’t surprise you. This was always the trajectory. Your son is 46 years old. Fat, dumb, and stupid is no way to go through life, sir.

Though, it seems, Ron Rico Jr. has been making a go at it.

The record doesn’t lie, Cory. It just waits.

I’ll be following this story closely, ‘cause as they say, payback is a real bitch.

Also, I’ve called a supervisor for you. They’ll need to see your license, insurance, and registration. For both your car and the carjacked one.

UPDATE:

Back in the day, Ron Rico decided one humiliating fifth-place finish wasn’t enough. He wanted another crack at elected office.

Upon learning that I had purchased his campaign domain — voteforron.com — and was using it to lambaste him with the satire he so richly deserved, Ron, or someone operating in his orbit, floated the idea of a $1 billion lawsuit. Yes. Billion. With a B.

In the eternal words of the great philosopher Nanny:

“You go right ahead and blow me.”

A message from REVOLT Insights

Civil litigation drafting built to survive a hostile read

Pleadings, motions, and statutory filings drafted for licensed Florida and federal practitioners. Practice areas: Chapter 119, §57.105, FDUTPA, §1983, qualified immunity, and dispositive motions. Every citation Shepardized through Lexis. Build Sheet with every draft. Flat-fee. Law-firm-only by design. The retaining attorney directs and signs every filing.