If you're too drunk to pay attention to the superdepressing dirty-beach-bum-on-a-bender lyrics, Jimmy Buffett's "Margaritaville" might seem like some perfect little paradise where nobody works, the tequila is always free, and every afternoon is spent lazily "nibblin' on sponge cake" and "watchin' the sun bake."
But that's bullshit. The place is a death trap. And that's especially true because 99 percent of Buffett's fans (AKA Parrotheads) are rapidly aging ex-hippies who've crapped away the past 35 years by guzzling endless 40-ounce frozen cocktails on the beach, passing out in the sand, and roasting like human turkeys in the blazing subtropical sun.
For decades, these people have subsisted on a terribly unhealthy diet of ol' Jimmy's conch fritters, chicken wings, chili nachos, barbecue bacon burgers, and all-you-can-smoke square grouper. Meanwhile, the only exercise a paunchy, sunburned, middle-aged Parrothead will ever get is doing the Buffett shuffle to Don't Stop the Carnival.
So, yeah, "island escapism" is a dangerous lifestyle. It will kill you. And here are nine ways to die in Margaritaville.
Trippin' over your own flip-flops. Blow out a flip-flop. Step on a pop-top. Contract a nasty case of botulism. Less than 48 hours later, you're a freaking corpse.
Buffett-style stage dive. In January 2011, Jimmy fell off the stage during a concert in Sydney, Australia. He escaped with minor injuries. But if the average Parrothead tried to pull the same stunt, his or her tequila-softened skull would've just cracked open like a rotten coconut.
Tannin' till you die. Just an FYI: While you're sunning your leathery hippie hide and the prince of all Parrotheads is singin' "All of those tourists covered with oil... Smell those shrimp they're beginnin' to boil," there's a kiloton of ultraviolet radiation burning a cancerous hole in your back.
Square grouper overdose. Technically, it's impossible for a human being to OD on pot. But we've witnessed the near-death experience of a just-hatched Parrothead with an undiagnosed weed allergy. She sucked down a half-pound of square grouper, went into anaphylactic shock, and began writhing in the sand. Man, who knows what would've happened if Dr. Pencil Thin Mustache hadn't been on the scene with an epinephrine pen?
Chokin' on a Cheeseburger in Paradise. According to the U.S. National Safety Council, approximately 2,500 choking deaths happen in the States every year. Wanna become a statistic? Hit the closest Margaritaville theme restaurant, guzzle a dozen Lucky Ritas, and try to stuff a Cheeseburger in Paradise down your throat. It's America's most reliable formula for food-related asphyxiation.
Drunken suffocation in one's own clothes. After six midday pitchers of lukewarm margaritas, a Parrothead drags his ass home to stumble around the patio in an alcoholic stupor while searching for random shit — i.e., a "lost shaker of salt." Finally, due to a combination of massive sunstroke and chronic dehydration, dude face-plants into a pile of dirty Bermuda shorts and suffocates like a drunk baby. So tragic.
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Killin' your liver. Not even Mr. Margaritaville can salt the rim on the sad fact that out-of-control consumption of delicious boozy drinks will eventually lead to chronic nosebleeds, organ failure, and death. Enjoy the party!
Booby-induced coronary. Yes, young female Parrotheads actually exist. And sometimes, just for fun, they take off their bikini tops to flash bare breasts at a bunch of sexagenarian Buffett wannabes. Unfortunately, when a party-animal grandpa pops a double dose of Viagra, sees a booby, and gets a boner, his heart explodes like a 65-year-old tropical bird shitting its deathbed.
Listenin' to "Margaritaville" too many times. During the winter of 2009, a 37-year-old man entered a bar in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. He popped a quarter into the jukebox, it played Buffett's ode to Mexican mixed drinks, and two guys beat him to death. The lesson: Listen to "Margaritaville" exactly zero times per day.