We’ve known from the very beginning that the Jersey Shore was just too much. Too much drama and silliness contorted by the inebriated and raucous ramblings of the eight people stuffed into a shore house in the buttcrack of New Jersey’s Wendigo realm called Seaside Heights. It has all been too much; the braying at the top of their lungs, the fights, the smushes, the showing of kookas, the living in a mini-hoarders wet dream, the sometimes psychotic repetition of the same people doing the same things, expecting different results, but ultimately pooping out shoulder-shrugs and continuing on their merry way toward lunacy and an enlarged liver.
These are all things we know. What we didn’t anticipate was the eventual toll this would take on one of the participants. Continue reading
