…that’s an actual quote. Not mine, that’s for damn sure.
Everyone has heard of the Jersey Shore, of course. This morning, a friend of mine sent me this video:
I’ll wait while you watch that.
…are you done? Okay, great.
That is an actual compilation of “quotes” from one of the “stars” of the Jersey Shore, molded into a brilliant melody.
Now, I watch that show religiously, for the same reason I watch Toddlers and Tiaras: I like laughing at other people (it’s not mean, its true). Toddlers and Tiaras, I don’t always laugh at them, unless the kids do something really funny (like when Mackenzie told her mom she was driving her crazy, or the little red-headed girl was riding her wagon and her mom let go, and the kid went careening down a hill – money). I wind up being more disgusted than anything else with that particular gem because I also watch a lot of Law and Order (yea, so I like TV, mind your beeswax) and it just seems like a segway to pedophilia.
I digress. The Jersey Shore show makes me laugh because these people are literally famous, and millionaires, for no reason at all. And they act like animals. On TV. And they. Are. Stupid.
I’m pretty sure that if I had a strange affinity for pickles, and I blacked out every night while dancing on bars with no under-roos on, displaying my cooter for all the land to view, my folks would check me into rehab. After giving me a shot to the head. And when I got my act together, I’d profusely thank them for saving me from cirrhosis and a guaranteed slew of STDs.
If I was doing all the above, and actually being FILMED? I don’t think all the money in the world would be able to compensate for the level of humiliation my family would be subjected to. Sure, I can buy you a Beamer – but your boss is still gonna look at you and say “I saw your daughter “dance her panties” off at the bar last night on MTV. Kudos on the parenting! Now, where’s that TPS report?”
And what happens if we fast forward a few years to, oh, I don’t know, the tender age of 31. My fame as being a slut-bag has dissipated, I clearly drank through all of my money (or maybe graduated to something like drugs), and I didn’t have a clear enough head during my 5 minutes to invest in other business ventures (like some of the other cats on this cast are doing – I actually like JWOWW. Not her name, of course, but I think she’s a smart chic). What now? Well, I can star on another family favorite, Intervention. Maybe one of those C-list television shows (like the one where Mini Me rode around some house buck naked in his cute little car, then pee-ed in the corner) will want to cast me. Or I can ::GASP:: get a job.
Lets picture this interview, shall we? I took off my poof, toned down the smokey eye, and wedged myself into panty hose. I’m set for my interview at this nice company in Gotham. The building even has a door man! I’m chatting up the interviewer, and its going well. I’m explaining why my degree is from University of Phoenix, and how my life experience has helped mold me into the brilliant young go-getter when the interviewer has that moment of realization of WHY I look so familiar. Well, I’m the girl who sat in a refrigerator eating pickles and drinking wine because my rear end was hot from a strange reaction to self tanner.
What do you mean, you don’t want to hire me?