When I woke up, hung over, lying next to a naked man who definitely should not have been in my bed, I understandably blamed “Jersey Shore.”
I am not proud to admit that I love trash TV. It is by far one of my dirtiest guilty pleasures. “Real Housewives,” “A-List,” the Kardashians, and, naturally the pièce de résistance, the tragedy that is “Jersey Shore.” I find it personally revolting that a group of complete underachievers with no real skills or talents have become a cultural phenomenon, celebrated by the masses and held up as icons for ridiculous trashy behavior, and yet, I cannot change the channel. They drink, fight and have sex, and apparently that’s all they have to do because I’m completely hooked.
When I was invited to a “Jersey Shore” themed party, I was understandably ecstatic. I donned my best douchebag couture, tatted up and threw on some sunglasses which only a moron would attempt at an indoor, nighttime party. The guest list was the usual crowd. The music was the same songs we hear every weekend. The event could have easily been any given Saturday night, but there was something about this particular theme that turned things up a few notches. It was as if the cast had possessed us, luring us into the realm of acceptable overindulgence. Another shot? Well, I probably shouldn’t…but I have a spray tan, so hell yes!
My faculties had completely abandoned me by the time we reached the bar, so the events that followed are a bit hazy and pieced together. At some point, I began making out with one of my friends. Realizing how classless it is to make out at the club, we decided to be responsible and head to a nearby friend’s house. Our 42-cocktail erections overpowered our judgment to the point that getting head on the front porch suddenly seemed totally acceptable behavior, until our friend caught us.
A $25 cab ride later, we arrived at my condo only to realize I had left my keys at the party. I decided to pick the lock with a credit card, but then realized I had left my wallet in the cab. None of these issues seemed very important at the moment, so after breaking into my own home, my inebriated friend and I were back on track.
The following morning, spotty memories of the “Jersey Shore” night began coming together. I was terribly uncomfortable having my naked friend in my bed, but I had no keys or car to get him out of there. Downing ibuprofen like PEZ, I text as many people as I could to find a ride for the most elaborate walk of shame of my life. By 4 pm I found the car, lost the formerly naked friend and had already begun compartmentalizing the sense of regret that so typically accompanies a Sunday morning when, amazingly, a stranger knocked on my door and returned my wallet, complete with cash and credit cards. What are the odds?
The “Jersey Shore” lesson: It’s okay to engage in reckless and inappropriate behavior without worrying about consequences or suffering any repercussions. Thank you, trash TV.
