August 24, 2011

I don't care if you really are Italian.

I understand that Jersey Shore exists solely for entertainment purposes. I get it. They’re drunk and messy and smell like last week’s dirty laundry. Ha.  I will also admit that I, too, fall victim to its humour from time to time- allowing its greasy, tanned, guido hands to wrap around my brain long enough to make me wonder if really there is going to be a ‘situation.’
But at night, when I am alone, I feel the shame deep inside of me.  Why couldn’t I look away, I wonder. Do I look like that when *I’m* drunk?  I ask myself.

When it boils down to it, I’ve likely exhibited enough Jersey Shore flavour in my time, but it went untelevised, and therefore, it was okay. Only the poor souls in my direct vicinity were subjected to my awesomeness humiliation and that, my friends, is the acceptable kind of trashy.  Sure, I’ve had to send those awkward “Hey, can you take that picture down, my nipple is totally showing” facebook messages, but who hasn’t?

There is no shame in drinking, but there is shame in fake tans and hair bumps- and also, calling yourself anything that starts with “the”. Just don’t do it.  I know your friend thought calling you “the circumstance” was a hilarious idea, but you guys were stoned and that was circumstantially funny. Ha. Just don’t do it.

So, go ahead and punch a chick in the face, throw up glitter, faceplant into a fucking cactus, whatever- but recognize that you’re an embarrassment and buy some Gatorade before you pass out under the front porch- and for the love of god, stay away from video cameras.

*Also, I generally recommend forcing everyone you’re with into the obligatory 8 shots of tequila, just so their lines will be almost as blurry as yours. Bring those judgy motherfuckers down with you.

If they can’t remember either, it’s like it never even happened.

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