This week we got a double dose of Jersey Shore shenanigans. In both servings, we witnessed Seaside troll Snooki getting arrested. That makes it two cast members who’ve now been thrown in the slammer. If you’ve ever been to Seaside Heights on July 4th weekend, you wouldn’t be surprised. You’d be amazed at how many people can be arrested in one night. Believe me when I tell you, I was there.
Last we left NASTY, he was about to leave the comforts of sanity and spiral deeper down the hellacious path towards perversion.
I kicked and I screamed. But no one could hear me.
I tried looking on the bright side. Rufilin isn’t as bad as people make it out to be. Sure, its widespread use in helping inept bros get with the girl of their choice is deplorable, but when used to fuel a night of depraved debauchery it has its merits.
“Listen Pudge, I just thought you needed to loosen up. You look like shit and you clearly have no idea what you’re walking into out there. I mean, it’s a fuckin’ battlefield. If you’re not shit-faced wasted, then you’re going to get eaten alive out there. Like I said, just be thankful you’ve got your boys with you. You’re gonna need all the help you can get. ‘Sides the effects won’t start hitting you for at least another hour,” explained Meunster as he slapped my right shoulder and poured me another stiff one.
Armed with that last bit of intel, I took a deep breath. I had another hour before I’d mutate into an incoherent blob of a hot mess; cursing, spitting, and raging my way into another night of oblivion. Nothing Squinty and Sanchez haven’t already seen already. So I decided to do the only thing I knew would calm my nerves — drink some more.
I gulped down drink after drink, avoiding any more of that laced Cuervo. Instead opting for my poison of choice: cheap London Dry Gin and a splash of juice. As I stood whipping my liver into submission, I could hear myself losing it. The voices in my head arguing at the top of their lungs.
“Jesus NASTY, you should probably slow it down.”
“Don’t you tell me what to do! No one tells me what to do! I do what I want!”
“Don’t wana get too sloppy here. We’ve still got the night to get through. We also haven’t left this spot since we got here. Sooner or later we’re gonna have to start mingling with the bros.”
“Mingle? I’d rather be caught with my pants down in a prison yard.”
“Stop your muttering and go make nice with those bros over there.”
My legs took me over in the general direction of some Rutgers meatheads. I immediately introduced myself in typical NASTY fashion. Grippin’ and Grinnin’. “Where you fellas from? Oh, yeah? Well, ain’t that a fuckin’ coincidence. My friend Sanchez is from Paterson. Why yes, I’d love to hear a joke. Okay. Okay. Mmm-hmm… Ahahaha! Love it.”
It turned into a gay old time. Or at least that’s how I imagined it. I thought, “You know what, these bros aren’t half bad. If I didn’t know any better, I’d probably say they are some real upstanding gentlemen in this house.”
“You idiot, that’s exactly what they want you to think. Look around you. You’re surrounded. Before you know it –”
I rubbed my beer goggles clean and finally saw what my left half had been describing as clear as day. The bros all shared the same glassy-eyed stare. They all leaned to the side while they maintained a constant state of flexed muscles. As they continued to pump themselves full of cheap liqs and cheaper hops, their chests started inflating. Puffed out, they started filling out their Ed Hardy muscle shirts — which I had just then noticed that they were all now wearing. How they went from crewnecks and polos to V-neck muscle shirts continues to escape my memory. The bros had begun losing their wits and started communicating to each other in a slurred tongue.
“… you’ll turn into one of them.”
It was at this point that I realized that I might be in trouble. My head swiveled left and right to check up on my comrades. Squinty looked like he was far from the edge. His self-control was admirable considering the circumstances. Sanchez also looked to be maintaining his composure. “Phew! Dodged a bullet there,” I thought until I looked down.
Somehow I had changed into a pair of all-white puma sneakers, Diesel jeans, and a Fossil watch. My skin went from its natural corn chip yellow to a burnt orange tinge. I could feel my hair standing up on edge as if scared into a blow-out… Fuck! The transformation was already underway.
I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. I started sweating profusely. The first side-effect of rufilin. My shirt was beginning to soak. A Bro asked if I needed to change, he offered me a freshly ironed Affliction tee. I looked down that well of despair and before I could do anything that I might have regretted, Squinty and Sanchez pulled me back from the edge.
They rushed into action, throwing my drink into the air before slapping me in the face. “Wake up, damn you!”
I had a dumbfounded look on my face — like why would you do that? Could you blame me? It was the bros. Like a virus, it had already penetrated the soft membrane of my cerebral cortex and I wasn’t thinking straight. My friends were clearly saving me from myself.
“You’ll thank us later,” Sanchez screamed as he dragged me out the front door. “We’ve got to get out of here, before we all end up like them.”
We were looking for safety but all we could see was the debauchery around us. It didn’t look good.
Things never look good once you’ve entered the fiery pits of hell.