The Last Situation

Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino calls himself “The Situation” because his rectus abdomini, per his apprehension of them, are so momentous in their shape and stiffness, that it has resulted in, well, a situation. To speak of oneself in not just the third-person, but as a circumstance, is pretty fucking impressive. I was instantly drawn to Mike very early on in the show because of his struggle with the ladies. Despite the jacuzzi, liquor, body oil, and other mating apparatus, he never got laid in the end. Here stands a man, albeit an irrational man, wrapped in muscle. In the finale of first and only season I viewed, he ends up making out with roommate Snooki — an unfortunate anticlimax to a series full of promising vag-action, in which two grazed hearts (he was immediately turned down by Sammi after brief interest) repair each other with a wet coating of tongue-action. I was really crestfallen by their embarrassing, wavering pity, as it was very tragic.

With the final episode of Jersey Shore looming on the horizon, I would like to pay homage to the ever optimist, Sorrentino, who had a way with words:

This is “The Situation” right here, my abs are so ripped up it’s, we call it “The Situation.”

You can hate on me all you want to, but what can you possibly say to somebody that looks like Rambo, pretty much, with his shirt off.

I mean this situation is gonna be indescribable, you can’t even describe the situation that you’re about to get into the situation.

I necessarily didn’t want to bring home any sort of zoo creatures what-so-ever. I mean, these broads just probably smelled the food at the house.

I wait till the last minute to shave, I wait till the last minute to put the shirt on ’cause you feel fresh.

It’s obvious that Sammi has a crush on me, it goes back to the days of prehistoric kindergarten.

I knew she was 18, that ass does not look 12.

His misogynistic logic is ineffable, the fleeting, almost disturbed connections he makes. Although this all may well be the consequence of too much Vitamin D or Red Bull, I believe Sorrentino was onto something. Our misconception as the audience is our conviction that we are more intelligent than him; we dismiss Sorrentino for not being a member of our aesthetic class. The cynical extent with which we are “entertained” by programs “beneath” us (Made in Chelsea,The Only Way is Essex, The Bachelor, etc.) alludes to a deep conceit, as if we are somehow invulnerable to the common tendencies portrayed. As if we are a higher quality form of human.

Perhaps Sorrentino — who became heartbroken; who became garish yet morose around Ronnie, the alpha-male; who ventured to console Snooki, who had also been heartbroken; who, thrilled by the free edibles made plenty of meals; who just wants to be famous, compelled somehow; whose rhapsodic take on the world is just short of outstanding; who most likely sleeps alone at night with the thought of a girl next to him; who, exhausted and fearful of being human, has developed a blanket of defense, a blanket so thick and close to skin like a carapace — is much like us. I never watched anyone on television who wasn’t me.

A beast sees a face in everything. We are drawn to that which most accurately portrays us, which is fundamentally what entertainment is. My fellow kind people, literature is but a loquacious plaster on the excoriated  wound of the Jersey Shore on which we all inhabit. There are no stupid people, just people who don’t use smart words. I see myself in the young girls on The Bachelor who just desire a rose, an idea of a more satisfying life. Place two TVs adjacent to each other and you have a pair of eyes. Switch off the lights and you have a BFF. As for my situation, and indication from its structure, the God we all call TV spent that Sunday  off shaping me; that he used his feet is just one of his minute cruelties.