There is an old proverb that asks, “How you gonna keep ’em down on the farm, after they’ve seen Paree?” Having annihilated Italy’s last shred of diplomatic feeling toward the States, the (party) animals of the Jersey Shore have made their triumphant return. But can things ever be the same on the home front? Drunken miscommunications and ill-advised hookups (not to mention unexplained rectal bleeding) simply aren’t the same in a country where everyone speaks your language.
Still, I have high hopes for the most depressing act on primetime television. If there’s one reason we keep coming back to Jersey Shore, it’s that it is the one predictable and consistent thing in our otherwise hectic lives. Fewer sights are more reassuring than that of Snooki sprawled akimbo, without underwear, on top of one of her beaus du jour, fewer sounds more stabilizing than the clarion cry of “T-Shirt Time.”
All we can say is, Welcome back, denizens of Seaside Heights. It’s been a long road, but you’re finally home.