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Liz Farrell is the editor of Lowcountry Current. She is a native Bostonian and a graduate of Gettysburg College. She is excellent at wasting time, loves to drink coffee and read, and has made Google-Image-stalking Tom Selleck a real pastime.
Some people might try to tell you that the season’s biggest spectacle involves Tiger Woods and the growing number of notches on his golf bag, but those folks clearly don’t have cable because, OMG, “Jersey Shore” is where the real fun is.
Crashing into fire hydrants and having 15 mistresses is mere antipasti when you consider the big Italian feast MTV has served up with yet another show that exploits 20-somethings who apparently can’t figure out that being on national television means “we can all see you when you do that.”
This deliciously unpalatable show chronicles the month-long Jersey shore vacation of eight Italian-Americans, who describe themselves as the hottest, tannest “guidos” and “guidettes” on the beach, terms that will lead many of us to furiously flip through our translation guides to find the proper way to say “Please don’t make me call you that” in Ignorantish.
But oh what a glorious mess! The show proves, once again, that excessive exposure to contaminated hot tub water and Paris Hilton’s life story will cause a person to end all declarative sentences with the B-word and enthusiastic fist pumps. Truly, it’s a reality show masterpiece, the likes of which we haven’t seen since Anna Nicole Smith woke up from a midafternoon Ambien coma to demand some doughnut holes and wonder why her cousin Shelly was once again toothless. I’m telling you, Tiger would have to open an adultery-themed putt-putt to compete with the audacity and intrigue of this show.
All I want to do is talk to my friends about Snooki getting punched in the face, JWoww’s Sally Hansen hair extensions, Pauly D’s “special” piercing, Ronnie’s patented dance moves, The Situation’s serious abs and Vinnie’s pink eye, contracted from “dancing with a fat girl.” And we haven’t even mentioned Angelina’s married boyfriend, Sammi’s love triangle, that quacking duck phone and the cast’s frequent dinners of sausage and peppers (eaten after saying grace, naturally).
Needless to say, many Italian-Americans are justifiably horrified by the disgrazia of the “Jersey Shore” crew and MTV’s flaunting of their heritage; many are accusing the network of doing nothing more than promoting played-out stereotypes.
UNICO, a national group that celebrates Italian culture, issued this statement: “Their behavior is reprehensible and demeaning in all respects. (We) don’t see any redeeming value in the show. They are an embarrassment to themselves and to their families.”
Yep. They sure are. And worse than that, we are certainly not laughing with them. The joke is squarely on the cast, none of whom seem to understand the concept of irony or the value of clothes.
Really, these “Jersey Shore” characters aren’t so much Italian-American as they are Hollywood-American, shaped by a decade in which “How much will you pay me to eat this worm on camera?” is a job description. To be sure, their worldviews will never expand past anything more complicated than that which can be stenciled onto a pair of panties and sold at a boardwalk novelty shop, and that, paisans, is merely entertainment.