Should We Just #@$% Shit Up

The torture continued on The Jersey Shore as Ronnie and Sam dominated the episode with the same old song and dance. “Should we stay together?” “Should we break up?” Wahh! Wahh! Pass me another fried pickle and get on with it. Crazy Ronnie is much more entertaining anyway, because it leads to anal probes and bloody stool.

Fortunately (or unfortunately?) NASTY never had anything stuck up his ass without his full consent down in Seaside.

It was at this point that I saw a bright light. Most people will tell you that everything was fine before blacking out. They’re lying. Especially if they’re females. You see, there are certain signs to watch out for to know when you’ve been drugged — sweating, spotty vision, and a steady stream of incoherent babble. Everything I look out for when approaching a female. I’m not a predator. Just bad at life.

And I was exhibiting all of these symptoms before being badly bashed in the throat by a pipe. As I lay on the grass, the last thing I remember was Squinty looking at me through his slits with pity and anger. I coughed and moaned like a mother giving birth to a fat baby. Tears streamed down my face as I saw the light growing larger and brighter.

“No, it’s too soon! I can’t go now. I need more time. I haven’t even tried anallingus yet. You can’t do this to me!”

After the trip, Sanchez recounted the rest of the night in all its gory details. Supposedly, I just lay on the ground coughing and spewing venom as passersby stepped over my body on their ways to the bars. It would take some cajoling before I got enough strength to walk on my own but by that time my pupils had rolled to the back of my skull. I started walking with a noticeable limp, most probably suffered at the hands of some juicehead crunching down on my ankle. A huge welt was starting to grow out of my neck and I could barely slur. Drool hung from the side of my mouth like a bloodhound.

Sanchez and Squinty dragged me to Hemingway’s Cafe. Rather obviously named after the great American writer or very tongue-in-cheek — but that would be giving New Jersey too much credit. Inside Hemingway’s was a pit of overly jacked upper bodies swaying to the thumping bassline of House and Trance like the walking dead.

Sanchez tried to keep me away but I must’ve been drawn to the sirens’ call as I juked and jived my way onto the dance floor. Squinty had wandered off in search of a lite beer. Sanchez says he watched as I stumbled onto a bar in the far corner and started hitting on the warmest body closest to me. Unfortunately for me, that happened to be a Jay Leno chinned transvestite Asian. Also just as unfortunate, I didn’t realize that until she took my hand and dragged me to the bathrooms where Sanchez’s imagination ran wild when recounting this specific part. And having no recollection of it, I guess I have to believe him.

After what couldn’t have been more than 2 minutes — I’m fast — Sanchez tells me that she came running out, her make-up sliding off her face. She ran right out the bar and into the street where she was met head-on with a Cadillac. Her enormous chin probably saved her life as she was able to walk away. The driver zoomed off like nothing had happened. As the zombies went back to partying, I rolled out of the bathroom. My face was covered in scratches and my hair mussed up. I was also not wearing any pants.

As my pocket rocket swung back and forth, I could feel the eyes on me as if my naked presence was such a big hindrance to everyone’s fun time. By being free and out in the open, at my most vulnerable, I was impeding everyone’s own search for a good time. But at least Sanchez and Squinty had enough brains between the two of them to drag me out the bar and into a cab.

“We’ll pay extra — just get us the hell out of here!”