The paper waltzed out of the poet’s hands, as if it preferred a dance of its own.

In honor of Jimmy Buffet’s passing, the Parrothead drank 76 Landsharks. The ringing in her ears was from the gong they hit every time a drink was consumed. Her eyes were playing tricks on her as surely no one could drink 76 Landsharks and live to tell about it. She tried to speak up, but the “5:00 somewhere” refrain drowned her out. She gave up, rubbed her hands over the bar counter and did a shot of tequila. RIP.

Her ears spotted the malfunctioning traffic light first.

Kevin traveled so often his nickname became IATA and he chuckled as he snapped an IG at the Paris CDG airport.

The Parrothead actually drank 76 margaritas ~ how many different kinds does Margaritaville serve?

How many margaritas are there in the world? Do skinny margaritas and name brands count differently?

The Falcon Tesla had doors that almost hit its pompous owner. It’s like gull wings but Tesla renamed it; Starbucks calls an extra large a grande. My senses sipped this tidbit as if it were the only water in a scotch and soda.

Because I heard that Kevin Costner did not have to pay child support, I decided against ever having children.

Prepping to go on stage, he milked up which she thought was urban slang for shooting heroin, until her non-reader-wearing eyes realized it read, “miked” up.

Ah…“The (watery) (pavement) of (her romantic life)…”

The wheels of the car did not help anyone piled up in the dump. Pity no one told the collector.

Alan Jackson decided to actually go back to work and forgo his tall, strong Hurricane.

Miss T often got called, “Misty” which was ironic, given that she refused to ever cry and hated nostalgia.

Luckily, Alan Jackson’s “work” was writing more songs and prepping to go on tour. He’ll play St. Augustine’s Amp in 2024.

The flip-flops had mink linings in rainbow colors.

The children boycotted going to school because it was summer vacation.

The key wailed in the lock as if to warn the person not to enter that door.

The whiskey slid over the ice like a synchronized swimmer, without a songtrack.

Alan Jackson started to write an eulogy to Jimmy Buffett and, for the first time in a very long time, hated that he was a songwriter.