Tell me not to do something and I most likely will. Take the other weekend, for example
; I was at a wedding at the Mandarin Oriental and there were all these suspicious looking buttons surrounding the toilet.
I knew I shouldn’t have, but it was too tempting.
I pushed what appeared to be a frontal bidet and after getting a shockingly direct hit to my vajayjay, the spray continued to shoot out, soaking my outfit and making it appear that I had wet myself.
So when my friend warned me not to watch Princesses of Long Island
, urged me to avoid the discomfort and painful to watch show, I couldn’t resist.
My finger tethered over the play button while the title in my DVR list taunted me. I hit play. I knew it was going to be bad but I hoped that it would be bad in a Jersey Shore, Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, Date My Mom
(RIP) way. So bad it’s good; so bad I’m-embarrassed-but-I-must-rush-home-to-watch bad. But this show is just bad, in the most literal sense. So bad, that “bad” is too mild an adjective for this abomination of a show (the secret word of the day is “bad.” Take a shot every time you read it — oh, Andy Cohen, I still love you).
I grew up in the suburbs of New Jersey. Like so many young East Coast Jews do, I attended sleepaway camp in upstate New York. It was there, at the impressionable age of 10-years-old, where I was first exposed to this place called “Long Island”. Later, I went to college with people who referred to it as “Strong Island;” clearly they were jealous that NJ had a customized “Only the Strong Survive” Urban Outfitters T-shirt and their home had none.
I soon found out that Long Island was a place where kids ate sushi (before sushi was mainstream) and had it brought to them at camp on Visiting Day. A place where girls under the age of 13 had Prada, Gucci, and Louis Vuitton belts, bags, and shoes. All I had was a backpack with a monkey who could suck his thumb! Yet, out of all those Long Island girls I met at camp, thanks to the invasive nature of Facebook I know that none of them are still living at home. None of them are pathetic enough to go on a reality show where they ask, “Why am I still single,” and then every action that follows answers that exact question. The girls on this show are an embarrassment – to themselves, their parents, Long Island and the entire Jewish people.
To really know the horror of this show is to hear it. Every single girl speak with that nasal, whiny, is-Fran-Drescher-your-mother voice. If you want to talk about heroes, the editors on this show deserve a medal. If I had to listen to those voices all day long I’d Lena-Dunham-it with a Q-tip and poke my eardrums ’til they bled. I usually fast forward through the commercials when I watch something on my DVR but while watching Princesses of Long Island, I appreciated the break from the ear-rape that occurred.
The show opens with Chanel, one of the “princesses” telling the camera, “When you are 27, still single and living with your parents, it’s time to panic.” I congratulated myself on not living at home with my parents. See, no need for panic here, you’re not like those girls. Sure, I’m 27 (plus a year), single and Jewish, just like them. My fear was quickly dispelled though when I realized these girls are the most pathetic, coddled, idiotic group ever to grace the screen of Bravo. They make the Real Housewives of New Jersey look like the Real Senators of The Hill (a spin-off about intelligent woman – now there’s a thought. Never mind. I already know I wouldn’t watch that.)
Out of the crew, there is one girl, Amanda, who has a serious boyfriend. Her boyfriend’s name is Jeff and if he was next to you on the Long Island Railroad you’d get up, move seats, and then make an emergency call about the creepy pedophile staring at you. But for 26-year-old Amanda, this is how she found her much older (he’s 38), homosexual boyfriend, Jeff. The contrived drama of this first episode occurred when Sara, a girl from the South Shore (aka the trashy side) of Long Island told Amanda that she was Facebook friends with Jeff. Because everyone knows, if you’re Facebook friends, you’re also Fuck Buddies. Jeff was annoyed that Sara was bringing this up and in anger, Sara called Jeff a derogatory term for a gay person. It was offensive and wrong but also confirmed that even in a drunken haze, it’s obvious that Jeff is not straight. My favorite line from the epic battle scene was when Sara asked Jeff if he was serious and he replied, “No, I’m Jeff.” Classic one-liners from that guy!
Who else is part of the crew? There’s Ashlee, who is a tiny ball of annoying that you just want to shove into a Kipling backpack. Joey, who claims to be the working, down to earth girl from the South Side. Sorry Joey, but if these are your friends, you are terrible by association. The ringleader of the group, Erica, who peaked in high school, where she used to be the hottest and sluttiest girl in town. And Chanel, who has Jewish Tourette’s and every other word out of her mouth reminds us that she is a part of the chosen people (someone up there made a blunder on that one). She fabricates phrases such as, “It’s like shooting gefilte fish in a barrel.” You’d think a super Jew would know that gefilte fish would never be in a barrel, because it’s not actually a fish — you don’t wanna know… She sings Hava Negella as she dances like a drunken idiot. Just sing Rhianna like the rest of us! I know what I’d like to do to her if I had an umbrella, ella, ella, ella….And, no one brings Manischewitz to a dinner party. Especially, girls who act like they only have the finest taste. The B-roll shots of stars of David, Jewish scripture, Hebrew letters and religious Jews with yarmulkes on their heads are like anti-Jewish propaganda, subconsciously associating all Jews with these terrible girls — I’m pretty sure Hitler’s great-great-grandson must be an Executive Producer on this show.
Please, don’t let my mistakes become your own. I’ve endured this show so that you won’t have to. If you want a taste of what I’m talking about, here is the teaser for the show. Strong feelings of wanting to shove something up these girls’ tuchuses may occur. Uy, vey!