Ode to a Guido

As our brave Snookis and DJ Pauly Ds prepare to wash up on Italian shores for season 4, let us celebrate them in verse:

With hair looking all gelled up and spiky
your name is probably Joey or Mikey

or Cousin Paulie or Anthony
(Though you pronounce it Ant + Knee).

Everyone else calls you a guido,
but you think you’re all pretty neat-o.

Your tan’s slathered on, your T is too tiny
and for some strange reason your jeans are all shiny,

and by the way, nobody believes the jacket’s Armani;
it’s made in a sweatshop by an Azerbaijani.

You keep protein powder over your fridges
and come Friday, cross Manhattan’s tunnels and bridges

to hit the clubs and Gallagher’s 2000
before returning to your house and

ordering up some eggplant parm;
you’re a simple guy, you mean no harm

catcalling to every girl within earshot,
telling her what she needs is what you’ve got.

She’s getting away! There’s no time to be subtle!
Better yet, on to the next before her rebuttal.

You’re oblivious to the city’s despise
and second-person plural is always “Youse guys.”

Wow oh wow, your friend has on a nifty striped shirt
and if someone spills beer on it, they’re gonna get hurt.

Hey look at that! A fancy gold chain!
Does the 7-pound cross cause you neck strain?

Does it remind you of Jesus’ cross?
Was it a gift from a Mafia boss?

Come summer, you’ll be at the Jersey Shore
causing a ruckus with girls dressed as whor…nevermind.

But you just want to meet a nice gal
to make her your wife. You’ll find her! You shall!

She’ll have bangs so high and nails like talons
and she’ll spend half your paycheck at the local salons.

She’ll send four kids down her birth canal
before leaving you for your cousin Sal.

But tonight is for partying, hell yeah muthafuckas
and inspiring jealousy in the rest of us suckas.