Merchant of Seaside

Inspired by yet another fantastic post about the Jersey Shore on Gawker, I wrote the following:

Signior Denton, many a time and oft
On the Boardwalk you have hated on me
About my partying and my nuisances:
Still I have borne it with a patient fist-pump,
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
You call me idiot, cut-throat juicer,
And spit upon my Guido Ed Hardy,
And all for the sake of entertainment.
Well, then, it now appears you need my ratings:
Piss off, then; you come to me and you say
‘Vinny, we would have page views;’ you say so;
You, that did void your bowels on our show
And insult me as you spurn a c-list VH1’er
Out of your offices: page views are your suit
What should I say to you? Should I not say
‘Hath a Pinchot money? Is it possible
A Bonaduce can lend a thousand unique visitors? Or
Shall I bend low and in a Real Worlder’s key,
With bated breath and simplistic drunkenness, say this:
‘Fair sir, you shit on me on Friday last;
You spurned me such a day; another time
You called me Situationesque; and for these courtesies
I’ll lend you this many readers’?

Keep ’em coming, Gawker–I haven’t even gotten to Caliban yet!

Shakespeare Would Have Loved the Jersey Shore

To smoosh, or not to smoosh, that is the question:
Whether ‘tis Baser in the mind to suffer
The Stings and Lesions of clubbing’s Fortune,
Or take Arms against a Sea of Grenades
And by opposing jump on them: to smoosh,
To sleep no more, and by a smoosh to say we end
The blue balls, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? ‘Tis a getting in
Devoutly to be wished. To smoosh to sleep,
To sleep perchance to smoosh; Ay, there’s a rub,
For in that smoosh what tricks may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal magnum,
Must give us pause. There’s the attention
That makes Calamity of such long fame:
For who would bear the Tricks and Grenades of time,
The Ronnies’s wrong, the Situation’s Contumely,
The bangs of despised Grenades, the cab’s delay,
The insolence of laundrywomen, and the Spurns
That patient argument with JWoww make,
When he himself might his Smoosh make
With bold Bodyspray? Who would GTL bear,
To grunt and sweat beneath camera’s lights,
But that dread of something after Fame,
The Undiscovered Jersey, from whose bourne
No Guido returns, Confuses the will
And makes us rather bear those tricks we have
Than to fly to Grenades we know not of.
Thus Desparation does make fameballs of us all,
And thus the Native hue of hangovers
Is sicklied o’er, with the pale cast of Smoosh
And enterprises of the great Sitch and Paulie,
With this regard their attentions turn awry,
And lose the name of smooshing. Soft you now,
The fair Snooki? Guidette, in thy Orisons
Be all my smooshes remembered.

As a note, a few weeks ago, inspired by the psychoanalytic power of one Mr. Brian Moylan, I left this as comment on one of his Jersey Shore recaps. I reproduce it here in the interest of garnering attention for myself (attention-seeking behavior? on the Internet? surely not!).

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