Jersey Shore

For some reason, this week, my son decided that Jersey Shore was the most important thing in his life. He hijacked our DVR to record what I guess was the season premier, where the entire cast sets off for Italy, because nothing says Jersey Shore like Florence.

How I came to watch the show along with my son is a long, complicated story that involves a trip to CVS at 8 in the morning for a passport photo, a woman with a cell phone obsession, 60 unpleasant questions, and a deep desire to put on my pajamas at one in the afternoon on a weekday. And there I was, on the couch, halfheartedly reading Atonement with one eye and watching the horror that is Jersey Shore unfold before my eyes with the other.

Here was a precious moment from Jersey Shore (paraphrased, but general spirit intact):

Person One (interchangeable disgusting middle-age relative of cast member): "Is there anything you need to know about Italy before you go?"
Person Two (interchangeable douchey twenty-something guy who is in cast of show): "Heh heh, the age of consent, heh heh."
Person One (I shit you not on this one): "Lift up the arm and check for hair. If it’s there, she’s old enough."

After I swallowed back the barf that came up in my throat at that line, I said to my son, who I’d assumed was a decent sort before this moment, “That is disgusting. What kind of person would say that?”

“They’re funny,” my son replied, giving me a talk-to-the-hand gesture.

But here’s the thing: they are NOT funny, those Jersey Shore people. They are so incredibly reprehensible, I found myself making Hitler comparisons before my less reactionary nature told me that this wasn’t exactly the extermination of 6 million Jews. However, if I may, I would like to review the central themes of this fucking lousy show:

Sex – or “smooshing” as they so maturely reference it, apparently with anything that moves. Including the trolls who are their cast mates. I use the term troll literally. One of the cast members is a troll. Tiny, hairy and bug-eyed. Troll.
Bronzing – and all that a great, orange tan implies.
Drinking – which they literally do from sunup to sundown, in some sort of gross, fraternity style smackdown challenge. These are four women who are going to resemble Liz Taylor in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf in about five years. They are not tremendous beauties right now; the booze is only going to make it worse.
Hair – and the various appliances that can be used on it. With all the weaves and products used here, a small house fire could turn into a blaze in the blink of an eye. Especially with these morons flat ironing their weaves in the kitchen. PS, word on the street is that weaves stink real bad. I would not want to share a cab with these ladies.
Boobs – in the most infantile and immature way, every person on this cast seems to be obsessed with boobs. How to show them, emphasize them, see them, make other people see them, etc. etc. I would not have been at all surprised if someone would have made blinking headlight gestures with their hands and shouted “Honk, honk!” at someone’s breasts, followed by a loud chorus of “Aroooooooga!” Nothing classier than reducing women to fake hair and knockers. That’s the best that America has to offer, for sure.

My son says that I take this stuff way too seriously, and really, it’s just good old-fashioned entertainment. I sweetly informed him that this show would never show up on our DVR again, and that the kind of Id-driven behavior celebrated on this show is the same sort of behavior for which three-year-olds get written up in preschool. To which my son replied, “You love Intervention, Mom.”

Well, touché, you, except for one thing: at the end of every episode of Intervention, there are generally two choices: you go to rehab or you go to jail. But, come to think of that, I have a feeling that's going to be the choices some of these cast members will be facing soon enough, too.