Is it Wrong to Feel Joy When Jimmy Buffett Gets Seriously Injured?

Yes, it is.  I know.  But I know I’m not alone in experiencing that fleeting feeling of joy upon hearing that a hated individual—in this case, Jimmy Buffett—gets hurt.  And it is a fleeting feeling.  It doesn’t last more than a few seconds before guilt sets in.  But the joy does exist for that short period of time.

And it’s delicious.

In case you didn’t know, Mr. Buffett fell off of the stage in Sydney, Australia and hit his head today.  Some might say he lost his balance due to the barrels of unwarranted cash he had strapped to him.  Others might say, and correctly, that a flash of light blinded him and sent him flying.

Either way, a smile lit up my face when I first read about this.  I couldn’t help it.  I hate the guy.  I hate his music, I hate his face, and I hate his rabid fanbase.  Why, you ask?  What did Jimmy ever do to me?  Well, I’ll tell you.  And it all began with a former muscle-bound roommate named Ricky.

It was a time in my life that I got a new job and needed an apartment.  Not being able to afford a place on my own, I decided to room with a new coworker.  As you have guessed, his name was Ricky and I barely knew him.  Still, he seemed nice enough and I didn’t see much harm.  Now, don’t worry.  The ground didn’t fall out from beneath my feet.  The worst things he did involved leaving nose hair trimmings in the sink, a pile of grease underneath his often-used George Foreman Grill, and hanging up a giant Jimmy Buffett/Coors Light banner right outside my bedroom door.

And when I say giant, you had best believe me.  It was massive.  About six feet long and three feet high.  And Jimmy himself was smack dab in the center of it, his mouth open presumably spouting more tropical nonsense about grilled meat and salt shakers.  It was positioned in such a way that when I opened my bedroom door, he was RIGHT THERE.  Every morning I’d wake up, bleary-eyed, and walk out the door, only to be greeted by that red-skinned talentless freak.  Not a good way to live.

At the time I had relatively little hate for Jimmy.  I mostly just hated two things about him:  Cheeseburger in Paradise and, of course, motherfucking Margaritaville.  OH GOD do I hate those songs.  Always have.  They’re right up there with Hotel California and Brown Eyed Girl as the most overplayed piles of musical garbage I’ve ever heard.  But before the banner was erected, these terrible songs rarely touched me.  Now this Hawaiian-shirted freak was (ahem) touching me on a daily basis.  It was not to be tolerated.

I moved out at my first opportunity and found an apartment, and roommate (ahoy Mr. Limejuiceboy), that had absolutely no connection to Jimmy Buffett whatsoever.  Those were good times.  Little did I know that Jimmy would get me back not once, but twice.

It was 2006 that I ventured down to sunny Jamaica with soon-to-be Mrs. Blackjack.  After making it to our room we decided to go out and get a drink.  And wouldn’t you know the place situated right next to us…

Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville!

I had a margarita at every establishment I went to in Jamaica and I can honestly say the worst margarita was served at Margaritaville.  It was all slush, colored dyes, and margarita mix.  Was there any booze in it?  Not much.  I felt like I was drinking a freaking Slurpee.  But fine, that’s okay.  I didn’t expect much from Mr. Buffett anyway.  I wouldn’t have even gone if it wasn’t right next to our little cabana.  But wouldn’t you know it, that night Margaritaville was having a dance party!  One that went until 5am!  And outside!  Have you ever tried to sleep at 4am when the pictures on the wall are rattling, Jimmy?  Of course not.  After all, you’d never build another one of your palatial mansions right next to one of your crappy restaurants anyway, so the point is moot I guess.  Still, Jamaica can easily be described as a horrifying mix of sobering poverty and the corporate sleaze of Jimmy Buffett’s goddamned Margaritaville.  Everywhere you looked it was one or the other.  Hey Jimmy, I know you’re all laid back and stuff, but could you possibly take the time to lift a finger to donate some money to a country you’re so obviously taking advantage of?  You’re a creep.

Now earlier I mentioned that this curly-haired cretin had affected me twice.  Jamaica was one instance.  And oh yes, there was another.  God help us.

It was two years ago that I had a trip planned to Sunday River in Maine.  It was a bit past season, but I got a group of friends together (ahoy Mr. Limejuiceboy again) to go up there and have a good time.  I can’t remember exactly when I discovered this, but it wasn’t long before the trip started that I learned that the very weekend we were going to Sunday River the place was hosting the annual Jimmy Buffett festival.  Greetings again, Mr. Buffett.  Only this time would be worse.  Much worse.  Because while Jimmy himself wouldn’t be there, the ski resort was bound to be filled with…

Parrotheads.  Oh holy hell on a stick.

They were EVERYWHERE.  And they were every bit as obnoxious as you’d expect.  Grass skirts.  Stupid hats.  Full body costumes.  Cover bands singing those horrible songs.  Cheeseburgers.  Crappy margaritas.  Dancing.  Fireworks.  Hooting and hollering.  HORROR.

We decided, as a group, to bite the bullet and just go smack dab in the center of them during the height of their revelry.  We called it a science experiment.  An opportunity to examine these slap-happy freaks of nature.

I think it lasted about 30 minutes tops.

These freaks were everywhere.  All around us.  We were totally outnumbered and out of our element.   My only course of action was to take pictures of them.  Which I did.  Here, take a look!

Check out the skunkhead in the middle

Their mothers must be proud.

After that we stayed close to home, away from this modern day Sodom and Gomorrah.  But the scars still remain.  Oh yes, they remain to this day.

So, that brings us back to today, where Jimmy is lying in a hospital bed in Australia with a bump on the head.  I don’t feel sadness for him.  But I no longer feel joy.  I did feel joy earlier.  I certainly did.  The question is was that joy warranted?  Is bad music, corporate irresponsibility in an impoverished nation, mediocre beverages, asinine fans, and more bad music justification enough to hate the man that started it all with such a passion that happiness would wash over me at the news of his misfortune?

Maybe.  Maybe not.  But I did feel that way.  Maybe that means I’m not a bad guy…

Just human.  Here’s hopin’.

–Cap’n MargaritaJack