Yesterday our neighbor handed us some hot dogs, buns and sausages. They were left over from a party at a Jimmy Buffett concert. Big Brother remarked that he wasn’t surprised that no cheeseburgers were left.
Just now on the way home from church, Middle Sister and I heard “Margaritaville” on the radio. She mis-heard the lyrics in a way I’d never thought of before:
“Some people claim that there’s a wombat to blame…”
I had to set her straight on that, and she was outraged. “Why is a woman to blame, when most of the murderers are men?!”
“The song isn’t about murder, sweetie.”
“Well, what IS it about?”
“It’s about some guy who I guess got his heart broken by some girl, so he’s wasting his life away.”
“Well, they should be more clear about that stuff in the lyrics.”
That may be, but it probably wouldn’t rhyme anymore.