Well, when we left off last week, I was just getting on a roll about my observations so far of the summer of 2013. I mentioned the Jersey invasion and how our troops were outnumbered. They flanked us with hundreds of clones. At least I assume them to be clones, as they all looked and talked exactly alike. They attempted to confuse us by using some primitive, mono syllabic language that only they fully understood. I may be off on the spelling, so I’ll spell it phonetically. Their battle cry was something like this: “Yo Yayguh Bawms!” I never quite figured out exactly what that meant, but it must be some type of war chant because any time it was shouted, everyone in the area started grunting loudly, and pumping one fist in the air. They attacked us with multiple weapons, and used various intimidation factors which we were not accustomed to seeing. In many ways, they had even altered their appearances to mind freak us I think.

For example, many of them had freakishly engorged upper arms which seemed totally disproportionate to their otherwise diminutive 5 foot, 3 inch frames. I can only assume that it’s their height, not their physique which permits them to shop at Baby Gap. I’m pretty sure that’s the only place they could purchase a shirt which is this tight on them. I can’t think of anywhere else that would possibly be selling horizontally striped tank tops in size 3 Toddler to men in their twenties and thirties.

Another piece of their arsenal was the headgear. Though they didn’t actually wear hats, or helmets, their dome pieces were like armor and resembled a frightened porcupine puffer fish. I can only assume that if they bowed their heads and charged that their quills could penetrate appropriately fitting clothing and pierce the flesh. I didn’t know if such a high concentration of hair gel would act as poison, so it was a risk I was not willing to take.

Next thing I noticed was the freakishly protruding frontal lobe. At first, I thought this anomaly to be a canopy over the foyer to a brilliant and cunning brain. The fact that its’ façade was adorned with freshly waxed eyebrows (yes, I mean the dudes) led me to briefly believe that a superior cerebral cortex stood posing before me. But I would quickly realize that it was just an unfortunate side effect from being a friend of the needle. I guess it’s cheaper than a personal trainer. Apparently it causes certain body parts to grow, while others shrink. At least that’s what I hear. Which of course prompts me to think, what’s the point?

The next thing you notice is their abnormally darkened skin. This is not caused by all the time they spend outdoors in the sun, as many of them do not even awaken before 3:00pm. It’s the direct result of spending enough hours in the carcinogenic sarcophagus known to many innocuously enough as a tanning bed. By the way, I have a cousin who’s a dermatologist and she says thank you. I can only assume they artificially darken their epidermis to blend in with the evening landscape because as I mentioned earlier, they are nocturnal hunters. And don’t think for a moment that this skin tone is reserved only for the summer months. No sir, it’s a year round thing. You bump into one of these guys on New Year’s Eve during a blizzard, and he’s still going to look like Magda in Something About Mary.

You would think that such perpetual abuse of the flesh would render it leathery, but it’s too difficult to tell under the far beyond generous layer of some type of oil which coats their entire, artificially altered bodies. It could be olive oil, it could be baby oil, it could be motor oil, or it could be bacon grease. I can’t really tell because these guys have so much going on that I’m on sensory overload. Particularly where my olfactory is concerned. This mucus-like layer serves two purposes. The first is to provide a protective barrier for the radiologically charred skin. The second, and probably more important purpose is to make them slippery like an eel. This is used as an escape mechanism so that the grips of people like bouncers, jealous husbands, the kid behind the counter at the bowling alley, and security guards at middle schools slip right off.

Maybe I’m weird, but it was always my understanding growing up that unless you are an Olympic swimmer, men generally don’t use a razor from the neck down. Let alone, start at the top of your feet and don’t stop until you’ve reached the apex of the cranium. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Perhaps all of these guys were in town for a triathlon the next morning that I just hadn’t heard about. So I won’t judge. Yeah, right!

Now let’s move onto the accessories, and presumably protective gear. At least, I hope it’s for protection, otherwise, I can’t imagine why anyone would leave the house like this. Many of them have opted to wear some of this apparel around their steroid bloated necks. They appear to be chains which had previously been used to hoist monster trucks out of mud bogs with near surgical efficiency. They are now the color of gold and have a practically life-sized crucifix hanging from them. Basing this on a scale of human evolution over the past two thousand and thirteen years, it should be just about right on. This of course is an estimation, not an actual scientific equation. This shield will protect a good portion of freshly waxed torso in the event someone starts throwing cocktail straws at them.

The next accessory is one that I’ve yet to be able to wrap my head around. I believe many refer to it as the Man Purse. To me, the phrase itself is oxymoronic, but what do I know? These young men, apparently now require enough apparatus with them at all times on a night out on the town trying to “pick up girls” to necessitate carryon luggage. When I was their age and hitting the bars, I could fit everything I could possibly need in my sock, and most nights were successful. But again, what do I know? Maybe now it’s fashionable to carry a parachute and inflatable life raft with you to nightclubs. This accessory fits perfectly into your super masculine world. I mean, just today in preparation for your night out with the boys you got a manicure, pedicure, a full body wax and forty minutes in the tanning bed. Nothing says “I’m a man” like that kind of a day.

Don’t get me wrong, guys. I admire the fact that you are so comfortable with your masculinity that you go out on a Friday night with a pony express sized makeup bag on your shoulder. I don’t think I could do it, so you have my respect. I opted instead to have a hot wife on my arm. Let me give you a little piece of advice boys, and please trust me on this. If you really want to look comfortable with your masculinity and be appealing to the opposite sex, lose the fruit satchel and strap a diaper bag on your shoulder. For some reason, to any woman actually worthwhile, this look works better than pulling up in a Ferrari. But yet again, what do I know? It’s not like I have a trophy wife, four perfect, gorgeous kids, two great jobs and a house on the water in a beach resort town. Oh…wait a minute, yes I do!

And this brings us to my favorite part of the Jersey shore army’s protective battle gear…the eyewear. I touched on this one briefly last week, so I won’t belabor it too much. But I’d be remiss not to once again bring up the fashion travesty know as white sunglasses. Now keep in mind that I’m waiting on these people late in the evening, well after dark. Which poses the obvious question: why the hell would you be wearing shades to begin with?

I think that’ll do it for this week. You just read the rant I was about to embark on last week when I rightfully decided to pull the plug on myself. If you happen to be from the great state of New Jersey, don’t read anything into this or be insulted. This is nothing more than a harmless, humorous jab at a small group of individuals perpetuating a silly stereotype. Besides, I’m reasonably certain that anyone who would be offended by this column or with whom it would have struck a chord, more than likely is NOT reading my stuff. They’re probably deep into a coloring book. I hope you all enjoyed. Thanks for playing along.

Until next week,

Syd Nichols