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A Letter from Jimmy Buffet to his Wife (Oh Onion, how I love thee...)


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Darling, I know we've been together for over 30 years, and we've always promised that we would never keep any secrets from each other. But I think you should brace yourself, because, well, there is one thing I haven't been completely honest about: I'm Jimmy Buffett.

Please don't be mad!

I know that for all these years you thought I was "Jimmy Buffett the boat salesman who had to travel a lot for work." But no. I am Jimmy Buffett the multiplatinum recording artist known for such songs as "Margaritaville" and "Son Of A Son Of A Sailor." It's not something I'm very proud of, but it pays the bills.

I understand it's a lot to take in right now, but it's true. Your husband and the father of your children wrote and recorded the song "Cheeseburger In Paradise." I actually wrote the lyrics to it the night we met. I understand if you never want to speak to me again.

It's been tearing me up inside, lying to you like this. I can't stand all the sneaking around, so as much as it pains me, I must reveal the awful truth. Last night when I told you I was going to run to the store for a second, I actually flew down to Miami and performed in front of 45,000 people for my Year of Still Here Tour. Also, that Country Music Award on my dresser? That wasn't a gag gift like I said. That is real. And I didn't save up for your diamond engagement ring by taking extra shifts at the marina. Something called "Pencil Thin Mustache" bought that ring. It's a song about a guy who wants a pencil thin mustache.

Jesus Christ, what have I done?

And all those times I told you that I was "going to the Jimmy Buffett concert"? Well, I wasn't attending those concerts, I was standing on stage singing songs for thousands of screaming fans. Yes, the very same people who come up to me on the street and tell me how much they love me. They're called…they're called Parrotheads and I'm sorry!

Please, don't let this change the way you think of me. I'm still the same guy I've always been, except that I don't actually sell boats, and occasionally I yell to thousands of people to "get your fins up" and then they wave their hands around above their heads and pretend they're sharks.

If it's any consolation, I'm also a bestselling author. That's not so bad, right? My newest novel is called Swine Not? and on the cover there's a picture of me in a hammock next to a pig, and…. Oh God, you know what, just forget I ever mentioned that.

I didn't want you to ever have to find out about this, but I knew you were starting to get suspicious. Especially the other night, when we were watching TV and the A&E Biography on Jimmy Buffett came on, and he looked exactly like me, and then they showed a picture of the two of us together while they were talking about his family life. I tried to throw you off the trail by accusing you of having an affair with Jimmy Buffett the singer, but deep down, I knew it was time to come clean.

"A Pirate Looks At Forty," "Why Don't We Get Drunk (And Screw)," "Jamaica Mistaica"—all me. Every single one of them. That was me.

I'm sure this probably explains a lot, like how we're able to eat for free twice a day, every day at the Margaritaville Café. Also, the reason I don't let you into the garage and scream at you if you even go near the door is because it's not really a garage, it's a $4 million recording studio. And it's tropical- themed.

You know our friend Greg Taylor who I always call "Fingers" and who is always carrying around a harmonica? Well, he's Fingers Taylor, the guy who plays the harmonica in my backup band, the…ugh, the Coral Reefers. I know, it sounds stupid! It all sounds so stupid, but it's my life!

I still don't know how you didn't figure out my horrible secret last year when we were at that Alan Jackson concert together and he pulled me up on stage. Remember? See, I wasn't doing Jimmy Buffett cover songs for karaoke, I was actually being Jimmy Buffett because I am him, and I was performing songs that I wrote, sometimes right when you were in the next room with the kids.

Oh my God, the kids! They must never find out.

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