Return to the Shore

Thursday night was the Season 3 premiere of Jersey Shore. TV’s latest reality show juggernaut revolves around a cast made up of mostly Italian-American degenerates. They drink. They party. They spread STDs.

The American Way of Life on full juiced-up display for all the world to see — and laugh at.

Shame that no one ever asked to film me getting boozed up and chasing broads with my cast of depraved goons during my short stay at the Jersey Shore. I’d have done it for free.

World, allow me to introduce pudge NASTY and his nasty encounters with the sodomizing wench that is Life. NASTY, take it away:

It was July 4th weekend and we had just spent the first few days of our extended weekend over in Bodymore, Murdaland. In a rush to leave that mustard stain of a city on America’s Eastern Coast, we forgot to pack our guns. Bad move. Especially now that it looked like we’d be spending America’s birthday in the cesspool that is Dirty Jersey. I really wish I had packed my Luger.

“Hey bros, a buddy of mine has a house over in Jersey Shore for the weekend. You fellas down for a rockin’ time?” asked Sanchez.

“I don’t know… We’ve been driving all day, slow-roasting to a crisp, in a cramped car that’s starting to smell like cat piss. I can’t remember the last time I’d been sober since we left for Baltimore and quite frankly, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten anything since 3 o’clock.” The car’s clock read 3:26.

“There’ll be free booze waiting for us when we get there.”

VROOM. VROOM.

We barreled down the Verrazano en route to Jersey as fast we could, because as my father always said, “The less time you spend in Staten Island, the better”.

I had heard incredible tales of spectacular debauchery fueled by the constant flow of Bud Light and thumping house music, but knew better than to trust the tall tales of some self-flagellating bros who’d think nothing of drinking themselves silly as a way to escape their pathetic existence. If there’s one thing you can count on in life, it’s death and unabashed self-promoters from Jersey.

Sanchez was from Jersey, but I never held that against him. I trusted his judgement when it came to boozing. He had grown to become one of my most trusted goons — my Sergeant-at-Arms. Not because he was a good person. He was a terrible human being — foul, vulgar, and perverse. The filthiest piece of scum you’d try wiping off the bottom of your shoe. With a stick. But that never stopped him from going out there in the never-ending search for a good time. That’s the type of degenerate you keep around.

We were hitting 90 on the highway as the road opened up like the legs of a coked-up whore. We were diving in headfirst right into the gaping hole of the Tri-State and there would be no turning back. Sanchez warned us, “So, um… don’t believe everything you saw on Jersey Shore. Because you’ll be disappointed. Nothing is ever as good as it seems when it’s on TV. Like your mom’s vagina.” My mom had a brief cameo in a 2 Live Crew music video.

“Don’t ruin the trip for the rest of us,” replied Squinty, my fellow slant-eyed associate. Unlike most of your acquaintances of the Asian persuasion, Squinty was not quiet, nor was he short, or good at math. A sinewy giant, by Asian standards, at an even 6 foot, he was filled with a healthy dose of RAGE. A perfect accomplice.

“There better be plenty of cum buckets looking to have their holes filled up,” I said to no one in particular.

“Thanks for the visual,” Sanchez snarked.

“Don’t act like you’ve never thought of me naked.” Both Sanchez and Squinty knew it had been a while since I’d #$@%ed. Or been #$@%ed for that matter. I kept my mouth shut the rest of the way in.

It would take another hour before we arrived at Ground Zero.

Gridlocked. Surrounded by cars. There was no way out. Looking around, it was as if we had driven right into the herpes infested mouth of Armageddon. Helicopters flew overhead as cars sat bumper to bumper. The streets were overflowing with drunks and disorderlies. Police cruisers roamed wildly in search of the nearest citation. It seemed like the entire free world had descended upon Seaside Heights in hopes of wreaking havoc. As my Pathfinder crept slowly down the two-lane street, we passed a sign.

I poked my head out the window and breathed in the fresh smells of salt water, sour sweat, and stale cigarettes. Then I threw up in my mouth.

This was just the beginning…

More to come next week.