Jimmy Buffet Owes Me Money

May contain strong language

I was scheduled to be at a club near my hometown a few months ago. Much to my chagrin I looked at the website one night and saw my headshot replaced with:  “Apr. 21 No comedy show-We’re headed to the Jimmy Buffet concert.” Thus, my simmering resentment for Mr. Jimmy Buffet grows in to full blown hatred.  I’ve never understood the magic of this man. This tool-bag composed a ballad to a sandwich. I have in my 30 some odd years of life  had some really, really good cheeseburgers. However, none of them warranted me writing a song or a story about my affinity for meat and/or condiments. I’ve written a lot of juvenile dick jokes in my day but “Cheeseburger in Paradise’s” lyrics make my filthy observations look like John Lennon’s “Imagine”. Hey Jimmy, how about writing a song about naps, your love of warm baths, or maybe you have a favorite coffee mug? I would like to hear that put to a mediocre melody and blasted through every home in America (and by America, I mean Mississippi).

At one point this overrated lunatic breaks into a hand-clapping litany of what he fantasizes about decorating his precious burger with.

He croons:
I like mine with lettuce and tomato
Heinz 57 and french fried potatoes
Big  kosher pickle and a cold draft beer

His assets should be frozen until he publicly apologizes for this garbage. Then he should be drawn and quartered in front of the towns people. This kind of refuse should not be rewarded with million dollar paychecks.

I know love stories have been beaten to death in the music world but Jimmy could write about something a little more near and dear to his heart. Maybe write a song about the contractors dragging their asses at his fourth beach house or how about doing a song addressing the ever-rising cost of concert t-shirts. Things I’m sure Sir Jimmy has dealt with and/or caused a time or two.

I don’t care if every other song he wrote was brilliant this corny piece of turd voids out anything tolerable this sunburned cult leader has ever recorded.

I lost a few hundred bucks that evening and ole Jimmy probably gained another $300,000 to fund his global meandering to continue dreaming up future songs about sausage links or whatever tickles his fancy.

As for the Parrot Heads, I realize that when you’re 57 years old and smoking hash/drinking in the high life that meaningful lyrics don’t really come into play. It’s all about that sweet release. Kicking those heels up Charlie Brown style and getting a nice breeze blowing up your Dockers.  A temporary escape from the possession charge and the real estate market. You might wanna sober up for a few days, put some spectacles on and analyze this horseshit parrot-shit you celebrate.

In Closing,

I hope you step on a “pop-top” and blow out your ACL – then fall face first into a blender and choke to death on margarita mix, Jimmy Buffet (or as I call you “Jim Jones for Sunburnt Grandparents”).

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