My travels through space were successful last week, and proved a couple of my scientific theories. First, that mosquitoes love the taste of my tender flesh. Second, that I’m no longer 22, and suffer perilous consequences when trying to act it. Third, maui maui is delicious. And fourth, and this is the most important, is that Jimmy Buffett is a sunburned mongoloid who uses sea shanties about sandals and booze cruises to seduce the husky white man in an effort to keep the native island folk of the Earth hostage.
Jimmy Buffett is a fucking dildo and I wish he would die. But I’ll give the dildo his due, he knows how to milk money out of morons. His mischief is more in self-perpetuating culture, less in craft. Much like the Grateful Dead, Jimmy Buffett writes a bunch of stupid crap that nobody’s ever actually heard or can recall if asked to recite. If you don’t believe me, sing one line of Jimmy Buffett’s music that doesn’t start with the words “wasting away”…
Jimmy Buffett projects an image to a bunch of fat, lowly car salesmen from Texas of successfully managing a carefree mindset. They in turn listen to his music on their yearly rapist retreat to the Caribbean where they gang-fuck some poor girl because they’re in their forties, balding, and reek of cheap cologne. But people in the Caribbean hear that music while having the time of their lives (not getting raped by parrot heads) and that association is made. My Caribbean trip = the music of a sunburned mongoloid.
Ten years later when Jimmy Buffett brings his travelling short bus to town, those same people are then reminded of that wonderfully carefree time they had in the Caribbean before she got knocked up by some Jamaican and he decided to be the better man and raise the little bastard. So they go to his show. Not to hear the music, but to believe that they’re still those people they thought they were. And that’s the key to Buffett’s empire. The man has managed to fuse his own brand of honky-tonk refuse to people’s projected self-image of listless carefree island dwellers.
This oppresses the island dweller by making his existence into some kind of faceless agent of that image, almost the way people imagine heaven to be comprised of servant angels. But in reality, the island people are not happy, but are actually a miserable folk with the potential of becoming terrorists with the right religion. And while they yearn to call to the Cthulhu to free them from their jobs at Margaritaville, the dreadful, mind-sloshing sounds of “Beach House on the Moon” and “Buck Butt the Turtle” and “Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw” drown out all but the sound of mumbling shitheads clanking their bottles together and giving each other high-fives because there’s like, so many hot women here tonight. Also there are songs like “Stranded on a Sandbar” and “Mermaid in the Night” and “Off to see the Lizard” and “Jamaica Mistaica”… to name a few.
And Margaritaville may be the greatest testament to stroking oneself since Hack Knight Shyamalan broke traditional film narrative by having a character explain his own death scene in that shitty movie about that water slut. Margaritaville is a place where travelers around the world can sit, eat a cheeseburger, and be forced to listen to auditory slop like “A Pirates Treasure” and “Son of a Son of a Sailor” and “Havana Daydreamin”. And somewhere out in the murky ocean, the Cthulhu waits until he can crawl up on land, wrap a tentacle around that retard’s big fucking head and just yank his goddamn spinal column out through his teeth. Then shove a guitar string up his salty butthole and pull the other end out his face and just floss him until what’s left of him that isn’t shit can be fit inside a beach bag and sent out into the reef for the fish to nibble at.
I should warn you, rapists who love Jimmy Buffett, that this web blog has never condoned of discrimination except on a few hilarious occassions, but you are not welcome here. We will prevail against you and your sunburned mongoloid, in the name of the Cthulhu and the miserable island bastards who stole five dollars from my backpack. This week is dedicated to them. A week of hating Jimmy Buffett for being the dildo that he is.