I’m just going to throw this out there: I DON’T WATCH “JERSEY SHORE.” In fact, I loathe everything about it. I would much rather kill brain cells by drinking a bottle of Evan Williams while huffing rubber cement than submit myself to a half hour of this bullshit. One sight of “The Situation” and I am nauseated. Needless to say, I was not in attendance at Lodge Bar when he appeared. I had better things to do, such as devour $ 0.35 wings at Paninis.
“Jersey Shore” is destroying popular culture with every nickname, every catch phrase and every fist pump. They have infiltrated the media and college parties alike. It’s inescapable. Things were bad enough when “Speidi” became a household name after destroying “The Hills.” Now there are fist pumps. Fist pumps.
Now, do not confuse me with someone too good for trashy TV. I am no stranger to reality television. There are few things I enjoy more than watching fat people try to get skinny while secretly wishing that I was Jillian Michaels, or getting sucked into the world of obsessive hoarders crying over stuffed animals covered in fecal matter. But I can’t bring myself to watch “Jersey Shore.” There is no number of jager bombs for me to take to the face that will make it okay for me to subject myself to this kind of torture. If I have an infinite amount of drama in my own life, why do I want to watch someone else’s? It’s not entertaining. It’s not funny. Frankly, they’re so pathetic that I feel bad for them. I had a neighbor with a dog named Snooki, and, let me tell you, she was much cuter than the broad with the overly-teased hair will ever be.
They can take their fake tans, their bad hair and their illegitimate fame and shove it up their fat asses. At least the world became a better place the night this season ended. We can have some peace … until next season.
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