This was a joke. It was supposed to be funny. But if I had known which fate would befall me at the Xfinity Center in Mansfield tonight, I never would’ve gone to margaritaville.com, I never would’ve asked Clint to bring shrooms, and I DEFINITELY wouldn’t have taken five grams of them.
I came here to listen to “Cheeseburger in Paradise,” see some cool visuals, and make fun of old drunk people, but that all changed when the saxophone player transformed into a pineapple cyclops and everything got bright and squiggly.
I should’ve known not to look in the mirror in the Porta Potty, but it was too late: staring back at me was a huge human cheeseburger, who not only wasn’t in paradise, but was most certainly in hell. I don’t know what happened, but I’m pretty sure the saxophonist had something to do with it, irreversibly morphing into a life-size ground beef patty smothered in melted American cheese, forever sandwiched between two halves of a stale sesame bun.
Flames are leaping in every which direction, and there’s a talking banana daiquiri behind me that levitates every so often and tells me that I’m “next.” What does she mean? How has she not melted?
Also, there’s this eagle thing? But it has a head that’s made out of a… citrus slice? In the shape of the United States? It definitely wants to peck all the sesame seeds off me. And there’s ketchup. All over my feet, but it’s glue ketchup, and I’m so thirsty, but I can’t make it to the bar because my feet are stuck.
WHO ARE ALL OF THESE LAUGHING FRENCH FRIES.
Jimmy’s gonna eat me. It all makes sense. Jimmy is Lucifer, and I’m his big warm bun and a huge hunk of meat. His heaven on earth with an onion slice.
Lettuce and tomato, Heinz 57, and french fried potatoes.
Not too particular, not too precise.
For all eternity.