The news that broke this week was staggering. And no, I’m not talking about how we learned Matt Lauer’s desk at NBC was outfitted with a nifty little locking device so just a mere flick of his wrist was all that was needed to keep young women from fleeing out the door and away from what should have been a safe work environment. I’m also not talking about how the President tweeted some hideously racist videos that earned him the immediate praise of David Duke. All of that was surprising – well, sort of – but the really stunning news came from MTV when they revealed the original stars of Jersey Shore would soon be crawling back to our airwaves in a brand new series wherein they’ll once again reside inside of a house together…only this time, THEY ARE BRINGING THEIR CHILDREN.
Upon hearing this announcement, I instantly had two thoughts:
1. As children are not capable of offering anything resembling consent when it comes to agreeing to brandish their images, their temper tantrums, or their diapered tushies on TV, should CPS maybe be called?
2. The producers of these shows are certainly not stupid. It makes all the sickest sense in the world for some of our Floribama buddies to drop in on the original MTV masters of mayhem because we all know nothing says “ratings bump” like a good old-fashioned crossover episode. The only real question here is which Floribama players will get the invite? I’ve been in a betting mood lately – I like to warm up for March Madness early – so I’ll kick in $50 and wager Kortni or Aimee will eventually show up in Jersey. I’ll also wager that Kortni will greet her new friends by peeing on the carpet in the foyer and Aimee will announce her arrival by ramming her car straight into the living room.
Speaking of Aimee, she really started coming out of her shell at the end of last week’s episode. Though it was clear to anyone with sight that the girl could turn from relatively calm to totally calamitous in under a millisecond – I mean, that’s why she was cast on this show – she held it together for almost two full hours of television…and then she didn’t. The first crack in her temporary sanity came when Jeremiah condescendingly stood over her while she cleaned her side of the bedroom and her eyes began to narrow in a way that seriously scared me because it reminded me of that one Gremlin who shoved one of its own into a microwave, pressed ON, and then watched gleefully while the furry thing cooked until he exploded. I was shocked when the supervised cleaning scene didn’t end with Aimee backing Jeremiah up into a wall until he dabbed purely in a defensive pose. I wondered if perhaps I’d read this Alabama girl incorrectly. I did not. Aimee’s eventual willingness to bound out of bed and scream at Codi for disrespecting Nilsa – you know, by telling her the truth – made me realize my first impression had been absolutely right. Listen, it’s lovely to come to your friend’s aid, but when said friend is drunk off her ass and using a telephone shaped like a crocodile to dial up an ex-husband while simultaneously screaming about how insane it is for one of her roommates to be attracted to a twenty-six year old, I have to wonder if Aimee ever learned the art of picking the right battles.
The rest of the roommates stay downstairs because sometimes it’s better to avoid the carnage. (I said sometimes. We’ll get to the moment when these people go swan-diving into the carnage without holding their noses in just a bit.) They’re giggling at how Codi is insulting Nilsa about her plastic surgery and her obvious desperation while Kayla Jo, the object of Nilsa’s momentary fury, apologizes for what her mid-twenties existence has done to alter the climate in the house. I fully realize Kayla Jo couldn’t have known exactly what would transpire that evening, but she had to be aware that she wasn’t sauntering into one of the parlors on Downtown Abbey. She’s a girl walking into a house leased by MTV that’s filled with booze and people with no boundaries and the paper she signed to appear on camera in the first place was a release form, not an application for MENSA. Chances were pretty good she’d be met with a rabid strand of crazy.
Nilsa – also known as “that rabid strand of crazy” – has come to the conclusion that Kayla Jo isn’t genuine and Jeremiah is a fool to take her side over the side of a person who is bile-green with envy because she’s not the center of attention. When spreading her legs and rhapsodizing about how even the coroner who will eventually treat her corpse will be dazzled by her vagina doesn’t work to pull in a crowd, she decides to hump the couch and pose existential questions to the universe, the cameras, and Kirk, a man who just wants to get some f*cking sleep. “If I was thirty and had no ass, would they care about me?” Nilsa muses aloud, and though I know a rhetorical and tragic question when I hear one, allow me to respond that she’s now twenty-three and she has an ass and still everyone in the vicinity is doing their very best to try to avoid her.
Also: Gus and Jeremiah tie for being the first Floribama floozies to officially get some ass in the house. Their official prize will be this footage, which will be available long after their great-grandchildren take their dying breaths.
Also: Codi pukes his small intestine out.