Adult to child in record time.
Nothing makes me feel like an insolent child faster than being shushed. Suddenly I’m not mature enough to control the volume of my voice or speak when I want. No inside voices for me, I’m immature.
You’ve sunk to a new low MTV, and that’s really saying something considering your track record.
The business plan is genius really. Take 9 of the sleaziest “guido’s and guidette’s” (their words, not mine) and throw them into an alcohol soaked house on the Jersey Shore. Make millions. Easy as pie.
My favorite parts of this show are as follows:
1. Snooki (not her legal name) tells the cast mates her name is Snooki and everyone promptly calls her Snickers.
2. Mike refers to himself as “The Situation.” I’m going to assume “the situation” is chlamydia.
3. In order to live in the house they have to work at a T-shirt shop on the boardwalk. Nothing particularly funny about that, I just like that they have to work at a shop as cheap as their accents.
But, is this show terrible? Absolutely. By the second episode, one roommate has broken up with her boyfriend (who is also currently getting a divorce) and refuses to go to work. She also refuses to call and give her boss a heads up. So when he comes by to check on his mortally wounded house bunny, she refuses to talk to him from anywhere but the bathroom. That’s right. She makes her boss come talk to her through the bathroom door as she fiddles with the water and fake coughs. It is small screen gold.
And if that wasn’t enough, the promo for the season features Snickers (née Snooki) getting punched in the face by a guy at a a bar. So there’s that.
Is there anything worse? First, you sound like a drunk. And you can’t get out a full sentence without hiccuping again so then everyone laughs, again. And your stomach starts to hurt and you can’t eat and no one takes you seriously. It’s just horrible.
Even worse are the supposed “cures” for hiccups.
Hold your breathe and drink for 10 seconds. Hold your breathe and hop on one leg for 15 jumps. Hold your breathe and rub your tummy and pat your head. Say the ABC’s backwards. Click your heels three times and think of home.
Nothing works. Hiccups are incurable. Just as Charles Osborne. He suffered from the little bastards for 68 years.
Not to be confused with insomnia. I mean when you typically have no trouble catching some z’s and you can’t sleep a wink.
Tossing and turning and turning tossing. It’s agony. And then you just watch those precious minutes tick by, thinking of how horrible tomorrow is going to be.
Try counting sheep, try a glass of warm milk, hire someone to come scratch your back. None of it works. You’re doomed to spend those 6 to 8 hours wide awake with your mind wandering to the great recesses of your brain.
The worst is if you have someone sleeping next to you. How dare they!? Just doze on off into lalaland while you lie awake in hell! You’re so tempted to wake them up, give them a swift elbow to the kidney or a kick to the shin. Startle them and then insist they were having a bad dream. It works every time.
After all, misery loves company.
Hey, Tiger, can we have a heart to heart? I just need your help in understanding this whole situation.
So let me just lay out the facts.
1. You drove your car into a fire hydrant and then into a tree. Your wife broke the back window with one of your golf clubs. She may or may not have been aiming for your face.
2. You have slept around. And by “around” I mean “with anything that has a fake tan and questionable morals.”
3. You publicly admitted to your indiscretions and have taken an “indefinite” break from golf.
4. You have extremely white teeth.
Now I can maybe understand running around on your wife if she could, by any stretch of the imagination, be considered hideous. But she can’t.
She’s Swedish. And a model. She’s a Swedish model. On the scale of who you can cheat on, she falls right around “Are you a fucking moron?”
You deserve to be left. By your wife and your sponsors. No one cheats on a Swedish model and gets away with it. NOBODY!
Even if you’re no longer in school, you can appreciate the pain and utter hell millions of college students are going through. The endless nights, the asinine tests, the kid that’s sniffling and won’t get up an get a tissue.
So please say a prayer and light a candle for our lost souls this week. We’re crossing the River Styx and could really use it.
Anyone who takes public transit on a regular basis knows this topic all too well.
That not-quite-clear liquid creeping closer to your flip-flopped feet. The milky white goo coating the handrail on the bus. And what is that filmy grease that is always on the windows?
My mind races with all the possibilities. None of them sanitary or appropriate for public.