This is not the article I wanted to write.  When I set out to write a review of MTV’s controversial new reality show Jersey Shore, I had a pretty good idea of how it was going to go.  I was going to write my standard (dare I say “trademark?”), long-winded rant which would combine obscure references, big words, and level one swears to express my deep displeasure with the show’s public displays of douchebaggery.

It seemed pretty straightforward. The show is a vocal proponent of self-ascribed nicknames, the state of New Jersey, and Italian-Americans engaging in non-mob activities. I had (and have) no interest in any of those things, and was confident in my ability to heap scorn on Jersey Whore.

But that was before I watched my first episode.

Fifteen minutes into “researching” my article, a strange thing began happening to me.  It’s the same thing that happened to John Smith in Pocahontas.  And the main character in Avatar.  And Secretary of State Hillary Clinton.  I fell in love with that which I set out to destroy.

Since last Monday, I have watched all eight episodes of Jersey Shore and several of the “After Hours” Q&A sessions with cast members.  During the course of my research, I was forced to modify my article’s thesis.  It now reads: Yo, Tila Tequila, I’m really happy for you and I’ma let you finish, but Jersey Shore is the best reality show of all time.  OF ALL TIME!

I know.  Calling a show the best reality show of all time is a bit like calling the Phoenix Mercury the best team in the WNBA.  It’s not saying much and it’s still not real television.  But it is something.  Love it or hate it, reality television speaks to our culture.  Since the debut of The Real World in 1992, reality television has been increasing in both airtime and, more importantly, influence.  From The Bachelor to The Hills to The View, reality TV is everywhere.

So it is no small thing when I say, with complete sincerity, that the eight juiced-up, fake-baked, foul-mouthed, hard-drinking, hard-fighting, STD-collecting, toilet bowl-hugging Guidos in the Jersey Shore house represent the pinnacle of all that reality TV aspires to be.

Don’t misunderstand me.  The stars of the show are every bit the self-absorbed, inarticulate, non-contributing zeroes you imagine they are.  The Italian-American organizations who criticize the show as “the biggest step backward for Italian-Americans since the birth of John Bon Jovi” are exactly right.  The cast members suck to a degree that is both impressive and remarkably consistent.  As an example, here is one exchange which is particularly illustrative of the lifestyles and IQs we’re dealing with.

(Sami “Sweetheart” and Ronnie are debriefing after their first night of promiscuous sex)

• Sami: Yeah, I had sex.  I mean, of course you’re gonna have sex if you like somebody.  Um, hello!  It’s natural!
• Ronnie: We smooshed. (fist pumps)

They are, without exception, terrible people.  And that is precisely the point.  The laws of reality TV dictate that every show must have a “token toolshed.”  For a reality show to survive it needs a guy/girl/trannie who will stir the pot, say offensive things, get someone pregnant, OD on NyQuil, and generally move the plot forward.  To effectively fill this role, a cast member must lack morals, restraint, basic human decency, and – most importantly – anything resembling self-awareness.

With Jersey Shore, MTV has for the first time stocked a reality show exclusively with token toolsheds.  Every guy is “that guy.”  Every girl is “OMG…ho bag!!!!”  It’s as if the producers only accepted applications from society’s Douchebag Elite (i.e. DJs, club promoters, assistant managers of fitness clubs, amateur models, and Ed Hardy enthusiasts.)  This makes for a fairly predictable storyline (i.e. posture, argue, drink, fist fight, hook-up, pass out, repeat), but it also makes for brilliant reality television.

As I have said before, reality television is not here to celebrate America’s best and brightest.  That’s what the Country Music Awards are for.  Reality television is for shining a spotlight on all that is base, freakish, and dysfunctional in America.  We watch families disintegrate and coeds get alcohol poisoning and we can’t help but feel better about ourselves.  It’s the feel-good genre of the 21^st century!  With the help of reality television, even the worst parent, the most irresponsible drunk, the most promiscuous cheerleader, and the most fist-pumpingest frat boy can point at someone else and say, “well, at least I’m not THAT bad.”

The problem is, as America accelerates its slippery slide to Sodom, the reality television machine has had to scramble to keep pace.  As real life douchebags strut out of the closet and into Armani Exchange in ever-increasing numbers, the reality show douchebags must rise to an even higher (or sink to an even lower) level.

In that respect, Jersey Shore may have saved reality television.  Vinny, Ronnie, Snooki, Sweetheart, Jolie, Pauly D, JWoww, and The Situation are the new gold standard by which all future television toolsheds will be judged.  These eight have advanced the limits of douchebaggery to heights never before thought possible, and I refuse to believe any actual person will ever equal them.  Or maybe I just don’t want to.

I take comfort in their accomplishment.  I sleep more soundly at night.  Or at least I hope I do. The Jersey Shore season finale is tomorrow night and, judging from the previews, it’s going be an emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually draining hour of television.  Trust me, you do NOT want to miss it.

(In other, unrelated MTV news, I had my first “I have lost all connection with young people” moment last week.  While innocently watching Jersey Shore, I was treated to a public service announcement featuring an apparently nude girl standing in an empty gym and holding a large poster over her lady parts.  The girl stared at the ground in shame while a voiceover intoned, “If someone pressures you to send revealing photos, you can say no.  Because there’s a thin line between him and the rest of the world.”  For the first, but assuredly not the last, time permit me to inquire, “Is THAT what kids are doing these days?”)

Have you ever taken a dump that the toilet just couldn’t seem to choke down? I feel like that toilet when I’m forced to listen to Jason Mraz’s scattin’, be-boppin’, skiddlywink warbling. I could be anywhere– walking down the street, in my grandmother’s car, at the TJMaxx– when my ears are suddenly spewed upon. It’s funny that “scat,” the obnoxious jazz-influenced vocal riffing that Mrass-clown utilizes, is also a homonym for droppings, feces, or crap, typically of the animal variety. The latter kind of “scat” is exactly what falls like little black pellets from Mrass-goblin’s mouth. After spending some time percolating in the artistic cesspool of Los Angeles, it is rerouted to the ears of consumers, which then become toilets, which then must choke down the wretched aural blob with a mental flush or two.

Here’s the deal: I just fundamentally reject Mraz’s entire ethos. Honestly, Mr. A-Z is just Jimmy Buffet for Generation Y. It’s cleaned up and made to sound intelligent to the average Delta Phi Kappa bro just learning to play some riffs on the guitar, but at it’s core it’s the same swill. And the worst part is, he’s one of several unconscious Buffet memes; an all-star lineup that includes Jack Johnson, John Mayer, Matt Nathanson, G. Love, Gavin DeGraw, so on and so on.

Don’t believe me? Let’s compare lyrics, shall we? First, some standard tripe from Mrass-hole:

The remedy is the experience.
This is a dangerous liaison
I say the comedy is that it’s serious.
This is a strange enough new play on words
I say the tragedy is how you’re gonna spend
The rest of your nights with the light on
So shine the light on all of your friends
When it all amounts to nothing in the end.

I challenge you, reader: examine the lyrics to the rest of this song and tell me what the hell it means beyond, “Screw it, man. Let’s just chill.” Now, as a fine segue, some lines from a Jimmy Buffet classic, “Why Don’t We Get Drunk (And Screw).”

I really do appreciate the fact you’re sittin’ here
Your voice sounds so wonderful
But yer face don’t look too clear
So bar maid bring a pitcher, another round o’ brew
Honey, why don’t we get drunk and screw

Chorus:

Why don’t we get drunk and screw
I just bought a water bed, it’s filled up for me and you
They say you are a snuff queen
Honey I don’t think that’s true
So, why don’t we get drunk and screw.

You can’t make this crap up, folks. The Sacred Writ mentions the sins of the fathers being visited upon their children. Well, Generation Me of the 1960s must have ravished the soil with a Troy-Bilt tiller of crap to sow the poop crop we have on our hands today. And the ethos is exactly the same: it’s all about the experience, man (or bro or dude or babe).

Lets just drink a lot, smoke a lot, just get absorbed in the music and watch the change happen. Yeah, man. We’re changing things. We’re changing things through the power of music and positive energy. Yeah, bro. Jason Mraz and Jimmy Buffet are so, like, environmentally conscious and charitable. When I go to this concert, I’m making a difference. Don’t bother me with your politics, your organized religion, your book-learning. I just want to live my life, man. I just want to smoke this weed, bounce around like a palsy patient at this show, and have unprotected sex with this chick. I just want to “be,” man.

Get the plunger.

This graphic, slightly nauseating review was penned by Mr. Ryan K. Hodgen.  Mr. Hodgen is a fairly misanthropic malcontent who cannot abide convesations with people possessing less than two Ph.Ds.  He gives voice to our generation’s silently suffering minority: the literary elite.

The show, produced by Jerry Bruckheimer and Dr. James Dobson, is entitled 24: Ex Nihilo and stars Keifer Sutherland as Jack Bauer, the only begotten nephew of God. The show, slated for six seasons, will tell the story of Jack Bauer thwarting attempts by various parties to destroy creation.

“Seasons one through three are admittedly a little slow,” said Dobson. “But when more characters are introduced and the earth begins to take shape, the show really takes off. Personally, I can’t wait for season six, which will replace CTU with DNA, imago dei style! Sure there’s gratuitous nudity in every episode, but this is Biblical nudity and I think it’s important for parents to see it with their children.”

Dobson also gave this reporter a special sneak peak of the series in exchange for some leads on possible cartoon homosexuals. I determined that the best way to review this show was to list some of the key events from one day. I chose day five. Consider this your spoiler alert.

6:12:34 a.m.: God creates the white pine tree. Good for Him!
1:39:21 p.m.: Jack Bauer uncovers the demonic plot to destroy moss, thereby leaving creation incomplete.
2:30-5:30 p.m.: Using his Glock, Jack hunts the North American elk to near extinction before the newly created rain forces him back inside. Creation is temporarily behind schedule while God replenishes the elk population.
6:00:00 p.m.: Jack and God have some dinner.
10:43:21 p.m.: Jack has a run-in with a belligerent, talking snake near present day Baghdad. After giving the snake a stern dressing down, Jack washes its mouth out with soap and lets it go.

Without giving too much away, I’d like to leave a few other hints: Chinese government, Eva Longoria as Eve, a walrus with a lisp for comic relief, an assassination attempt on Adam (played by Adam Brody), and much more. In the opinion of this critic, missing this show would be worse than original sin. Seriously, Paradise Found with this series. Fox has done it again and I can say with absolutely no reservation, “it is good!”

-Written by Adam Snyder and reprinted with permission from a previous publication.  Please direct all complaints/accusations of blasphemy to The Talking Mirror’s corporate offices.