humans are funny

Category: the jersey shore

  • If only I had bigger boobs and ate more pickles

    We’ve been talking about the economy for so long that we’ve overlooked the largest economic tragedy of the past year.
    Obama hasn’t once mentioned it.
    I’ve seen nobody picketing about it.
    Society is just allowing it to happen, encouraging it even.
    The tragedy of 2010, and perhaps of all the years from now until 2012:

    Snooki makes more money than all of us put together.

    Snooki.


    I know that several people in today’s society make more than all of my blog readers put together. I know my blog stats, and I’m fully aware that simply based on my numbers, we aren’t coming close to Brad Pitt or even Joan Rivers.

    But this is Snooki.
    Snooki– the pudgy orange ball of a girl who truly doesn’t know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’, and in fact thinks it’s simply ‘yer.’
    She’s drunk all the time, has never heard of pants, and has one goal in life: to “hook up with a tan, juiced gorilla Guido.”

    Ah!
    It’s not fair. All she does is get wasted at clubs, have one-night stands with other equally uninspiring people, and go tanning. I spent years doing that in college, and I saw not a penny of return on investment. And there was a lot of investment into those slut costumes and bronzing lotions.

    What has put me over the edge is her book deal.
    Book. Deal.
    Do you know how long I’ve been working on getting a book deal?
    And now Snooki is getting one?
    It’s a memoir about love. And it’s going to sell for twenty-four dollars. That’s more than a Harry Potter book. Snooki is more expensive than Harry Potter. Snooki. Again, Snooki. Snooki’s memoir can only really say, ‘I got drunk. I fucked a Guido. I got my nails done. The end.’ And it’s more expensive than a Harry Potter book.

    You might think that I sound jealous. Oh, no. I’m not jealous. Not at all. Not a bit. Okay, maybe a bit. In honesty, I’d rather have my brain and untan skin coloring than be Snooki with a book deal. I’m mainly jealous because our society rewards drunk dumb people, and that really didn’t start happening until I had already climbed over the drunk dumb phase of my life. In 1998, I rode a mechanical bull in Mexico in a short skirt and no underwear, and all I got was a bottle of cheap tequila. No book deal.

    But I have no fear. My time will come. You hear that literary agents? MY TIME WILL COME! And my book will sell for a million dollars. And only millionaires will buy it. And I will only have to sell one copy before I retire to a treehouse in Laos. And I won’t have to get a fake tan or fuck a gorilla for it. This, I must say, is a much sweeter deal.

    Credit: some funny person on the Internet

  • Thank you, Snooki. Thank you.


    I love The Jersey Shore. LOVE it. I’m not appalled by the fact that these people exist. I’m actually relieved that everyone else now knows that these people exist.

    The Jersey Shore is like watching home movies. That was ME.

    YES, I used to wear fake nails and flirt with Guidos and get in fights with bitches. ME!

    My Chicago suburb of Addison bares more resemblances to Jersey than I’d like to admit. But the Jersey Shore has a shore, and heading there for the summer used to be our goal in life. Well, one of our goals. Others included:

    Tans – I was already tanning in high school. Burning, actually. We’d hit up the tanning beds, butt naked with only a little Playboy bunny sticker on our groin, stuck in the same spot each time so we could tell how tan we were. I think seeing the tan line gave us a sense of accomplishment. Yes, you read that right: Seeing a tan line from a tanning bed is what gave me a sense of accomplishment in high school.

    Long, square nails. Fake ones. – The white “French” variety were ever popular because they looked best with a tan. We could never open our own cans of pop or button our own shirts. A few would always rip off, which I HATED because a chipped nail made me feel so trashy. Ha!

    Silver chains – Had to have shiny silver. I always bought my boyfriends thick chains or ID bracelets from the silver kiosk in Stratford Square mall. They deserved the best.

    Being Italian, Greek, or Anyone with lots of hair – When looking for hook-ups, the first question in Addison is still: “What are you?” Now, when home for the holidays, I usually wish I were Black or Asian just so people won’t ask me. But in high school, I would proudly reply that I was 25% Italian, completely ignoring my other 75% or the mere fact that I’m actually just American.

    Going out – we had to wear the tightest skimpiest clothing to the exclusive 18 & over club, Zero Gravity. My favorite was a skin-tight polyester catsuit, which was the only black thing I owned and therefore the only thing I had to wear to my dad’s funeral. Yep, I wore a tight polyester catsuit to pay respect to the man who formed my zygote. Oh, Addison.

    I always had a feeling that something better might exist, but moving to California was a big shock. I revolted against the word ‘soda,’ the way people pronounced the word ‘mom,’ and those weird shoes they called flip flops. I felt like nobody could understand me like ‘my people’ could. And when Californians asked me what the hell I meant by ‘my people,’ I couldn’t explain. But now I can thanks to The Jersey Shore. The Situation would get me. Well, he would have in 1998.
    Thankfully, I have changed a wee bit in that time.

    But it’s been fucking hard. Hard, I say. When you spend your formative years chasing around tan boys who wear tight T-shirts, bottles of gel, and douse themselves in John Paul Gautier, it’s a challenge to think anything else is cute. I still have the reverse racist problem of thinking certain men are too white. I think very deep deep deep down inside my subconscious, I still want to marry a Guido. Help! It’s what I know, all right. You grow up with a tanning bed and a boyfriend whose mother makes you eat mozzarella balls and 8-finger Cavatelli, and see what kind of guys you end up lusting after.

    Case in point: Phil from high school who is now a bartender.


    Or Addison’s junior mob, who might be full of shit but still pay for everything and make you feel as safe as a Mafia wife (notice how they make the lighter guys stand in back).


    I couldn’t figure out how to wrap up this post. I thought about stealing more pictures of orange tans off the websites of our two town bars. But then this gem landed in my inbox. Vinny is coming to Addison to judge a Fist Pump competition. Yes, you read that right: Vinny is coming to Addison to judge a Fist Pump competition. You can win a tan! No further commentary necessary.