I wish I was forced to watch Jersey Shore, held at gunpoint, tied to a chair, eyed taped open. Now that would be a valid excuse as to why I’ve seen every episode. I wish I loathed Jersey Shore, like I do so many other brain numbing reality shows, but I’d be lying if that’s what I told you. I wish I could sit down with you, look into your eyes, put my hand on yours and sincerely tell you I wasn’t excited about the season 4 premiere in Florence, Italy and wasn’t looking forward to when Snooki gets drunk and falls down or witness the first mention of GTL or T-Shirt Time. Give me a genie’s lamp and I would use my three wishes on those three things and never look back.
I like Jersey Shore and this liking of something so dumb creates such a disturbance inside me that I’m beginning to hate myself. Why can’t I be stronger?
This, my friends, is my confession. Please, I beg you, don’t tell your friends.
I didn’t choose to watch Jersey Shore. It chose me. A higher power made it happen. A higher EVIL power. Bring me a Tome you deem holy and I will place my right hand on it, and with my chin held high and two unblinking eyes I will swear to whichever god(s) it is that would convince you I’m telling the truth, that enjoying Jersey Shore was not my choice. It was a cruel fate. A curse placed upon me by one of the many I’ve offended with my rants. I’m sorry Mr. Cage, Ms. Black, and Rod Stewart’s Hair. I’m truly, kinda, sorta sorry. Remove this curse from me. Exorcise this demon.
So here’s how it went down. Here’s how I got hooked on Jersey Shore and started down this spiral of self-hatred. It was on a Sunday. I was beached on the sofa-bed with a hangover so powerful changing a channel was like running a double-marathon, and speaking of running marathons, MTV was running a Jersey Shore marathon that I chose to sample because not only was my brain so pickled from alcohol that I wanted something mindless, but I also wanted bear witness to the stupidity that a whole generation of morons had embraced. If I watch it once I could better arm myself to insult the show relentlessly. A prophet against the dark forces of Jersey Shore. I had done so with so many other reality shows and never got drawn in. Never. Little did I know that when the marathon had run its course, the skies would turn red, ash would rain from the jet black clouds, the seas would consume the earth and its people, and in the end, I too would moronically embrace this herd of bronzed up Guidos.
God save us all.
So if you hear the Jersey Shore theme song playing on your TV, the terms GTL (Gym Tan Laundry), DTF (Down to Fuck), or Cabs Are Heeeere: Run. Run like hell and never look back or you’ll end up like me, lying in the shower, curled up in the fetal position muttering things about Pauly D, J-WOWW, Sammy Sweetheart and The Situation, and that I can assure you, isn’t what you ever want.
Run–No, fly you fools!