GTL + Crestor

I don’t get Jersey Shore. No, not the majestic beaches of the Garden State, the TV show.

I admit it – I may be the only person in the world who has yet to watch an episode of the iconic MTV reality show. I’m pretty sure my grandparents are hooked on it, and my grandfather is 89 and my grandmother has Alzheimers.

I’ve seen the cast on TV talk shows and on Ellen. I can tell you that there is some guy called The Situation who has a rock hard oiled six pack and hair-do one might call original at best. Snookie looks like an oompa loompa escaped from Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory with a pouf that accounts for half of her height. Oh, and there’s somebody called J-Woww who is “just like me” according to US Weekly - although I don’t have a superfluous consonant at the end of my name. And there’s some guy called Pauley D, who has the most normal name out of the bunch. They apparently spend their days doing GTL (or Gym, Tan, Laundry (or as I like to call it, Torture, Melanoma and More Torture)). I’m not sure what else they do for a living. They honesty don’t seem all that bright.

I’m pretty sure I know way too much about Jersey Shore than is good for me.

I was young and in my twenties once, and while I don’t choose to partake in the hijinks these guys engage in, I understand where they are coming from. They have a show on MTV after all, not PBS, so some drunken antics are to be expected.

What I really don’t understand is the latest entry in the reality TV genre, Sunset Daze, a Jersey Shore for the over 70 set. Full disclosure, I haven’t actually seen an episode, but I’ve read some reviews and I’m scared. I thought age brought wisdom.

According to some of the latest statistics, the senior set make up for one of the fastest growing groups of people contracting and spreading STDs. And thanks to Sunset Daze, apparently we get to watch it too.

Thanks Viagra.

My grandparents idea of a good time is a road trip to Shady Maple, or perhaps a rousing game of bingo at the church pot luck dinner. Not doing body shots off of one another. And if they are, I so do not want to watch it. I’m frankly still trying to recover from walking into my grandmother’s hospital room to find her naked from the waist down (nature was calling) but still, it’s an image I really want to forget. I certainly don’t want to see her participating in a wet t-shirt contest or jumping out of a plane in tandem with my grandfather.

I’d like to propose to the Reality TV show producers of America that they leave Reality TV to the young. I’m flexible with the age, let’s say under the age of 40. After that point, the odds are good the participants may have children (or grandchildren) who are old enough to watch it during the first run.

Until I get them to agree to my terms, I’m putting parental controls on the computer lest my parents get any ideas of Reality TV stardom.