In Defense of Snooki

One of my hobbies is listening in on people’s conversations and judging their intelligence based on their subject matter and formation of opinions.  More often than not it leads me to believe that nobody talks about anything of worth anymore.  As a matter of fact, we are specifically told to not discuss things such as politics or religion in public.  This is a far cry from the days when intellectuals went TO public places to discuss politics and religion in order to make change.  Then again I think we would all rather talk about Miley Cyrus smoking pot than how the new health care propositions might change our lives.  In any event, during one of these conversations last Sunday I heard this exchange after a promo for the new season of “Jersey Shore”:

Guy 1 :  “Who’s that little fat girl with all the makeup?”

Guy 2:  “Which one?”
Guy 1: “I don’t know…the one who got punched.”

Guy 2: “Oh, Snooki.”

Guy 1: “I hope she dies in a brush fire.”

First of all, who the hell other than Bambi’s mom dies in a brush fire? 

Second of all, these were two deadbeats wearing Mike Vick jerseys.  The same Mike Vick who was stupid enough to try and steal a watch from an airport screener, later hide pot inside a water bottle trying to get it onto an airplane, then lent his Mercedes to two of his friends who were selling pot out of it and arrested, soon after had to settle with women out of court for allegedly purposely giving them genital herpes and to top it all off he snubbed a Capitol Hill awards ceremony where he was supposed to accept an award for his work with kids.  That’s not a typo:  Mike Vick snubbed an invitation from Capitol Hill, twice, yes, TWICE and later sent his mom to pick up the award.  Oh, and then there’s the deliberate canine mass murder operation he was orchestrating out of his backyard. 

It would seem to me that if some tinsel-brained guidette who enjoys to dance and tanning deserves to die in a brushfire than the quarterback of the Philadelphia Eagles deserves to be castrated, dipped in sulfuric acid and then forced to listen to 30 seconds of Chelsea Handler’s comedy routine.  I’m not saying anyone should have to listen to Chelsea Handler’s comedy, just pushing across the point that in the grand scheme of people we should universally shaking our fists at, Snooki falls somewhere between Michael Cera and whoever created “The Upper Decker.” 

(Sidenote:  Michael Cera can’t act.  At this point in time, Leslie Neilson has more comedic range than this kid.  How many times can we repackage the same awkward, gangly, mumbling virgin?  Michael Cera, you’re nervous and weird…we get it.)

There are a few things that really seem to chafe the inside of people’s buttons when it comes to Snooki and the whole “Jersey Shore” series in general, and understandably so.  However, I believe the venom directed in this direction is terribly misguided and overblown.

First of all, Snooki is NOT Italian.  The little gnome was born in Chile, then adopted and raised by Italian Americans.  Italian-Americans are constantly berating the show and its cast for inappropriately casting a shadow over their heritage and lifestyle.  These same people, however, will talk about “The Sopranos”, “The Godfather” and “Goodfellas” as though they are scripture.  That’s an entirely different conversation altogether, but a contradiction of the belief system is definitely in place.   If anyone should be bearing the burden of this moron representing their race, it should be the people of Chile.  They should open re-open that mine and coax Snooki into it with a red bull and vodka and put the lid on it.

Secondly, she isn’t from New Jersey, she’s from Staten Island.  Listen, she actually does represent the Jersey Shore-loving nitwit crowd extremely well.  Bronzed skin, two foot tall hair, dressed to undress, etc….but the hatred thrown towards New Jersey because of the show is a bit unfair.  Only two of the cast members are actually from the glorious Garden State:  Sammi and The Situation.  If you are wondering how I know so much about this, it’s because I have no girlfriend and a very bare essential social life.  Also, for those so quick to take a jab at the realism of the New Jersey-guido stereotype just remember that there’s a flannel wearing pickup driver spitting tobacco in Nebraska, an open-shirted Cuban wearing pinky rings in Miami, a Hooters waitress who can’t read with dreams of becoming an actress in Los Angeles and a shirtless, drunk being arrested for domestic assault in Alabama all ready to play their part as well.  

People are very quick to claim that it is shows like these that are ruining America, as if television isn’t actually an extremely vivid representation of what we really are.  Currently on our airwaves we have reality shows featuring: a Playboy playmate who married a flame-out ex-football player, the woman who married Russell Simmons, a professional wrestler’s daughter, a certain KISS bassist, and a celebuetant who made herself famous by going to parties and making a porno.  This list doesn’t even include the genital rash of shows that revolve around dating marrying D-list celebrities or eating gorilla genitals to win a million dollars.  Do you know there is a show out there right now called “Bridalplasty?”  It’s about women competing to get plastic surgery for their wedding day.  In one episode the women were trying to complete a puzzle in order to win the “golden syringe” that would be injecting botox into their gluttonous skulls.  This is a snapshot of American life: public fawning over and vicarious living through shallow people who are desperately trying to extend their fifteen minutes of fame in order to achieve the outward appearance of a happy, fulfilling, successful lifestyle while spending so much time looking on we fail to achieve their own version of the American dream.  (I’ve re-read that sentence twelve times and it will make no sense to anyone, but it’s staying in there.)

The cast is stupid and the show is nonsensical, points I won’t refute.  On the other hand I would rather watch an hour of these idiots getting drunk and fighting each other than watch twenty seconds of Ellen Degeneres dance around with her audience to the newest Ludacris song. 

Actually, I think we would all be better off reading a book.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: