Space Pirates Ltd. - If SomethingAwful sucked, it would be us.

New Jersey Is a Blankin' Blank Hole

A town represented by a red dot has a swirling vortex of fire and wheelchairs.

Ever since I left that place of infamy in the heart of America’s backside we call the East Coast, no flaw has been left unranted, no memory has been left reiterated, and plus I hate New Jersey. The Garden State is home of very few gardens, and an excess of pollution, adult bookstores, and boardwalk carnies. Let’s see, New Jersey is home to some of New York’s best sports teams, because it can’t fucking man up to the task of entering a cleverly titled football team like the “Missiles” or the “Raccoons” or even the “Child Pornographers.” Dammit…

The essence of New Jersey is that it’s okay to be a gigantic asshole because they live right under New York City. Sure New Jersey has beaches, but they aren’t nice clean killer octopus-free ones; sure New Jersey has…ummmm… See my point? There is no upside! What the hell? Damn you New Jersey! Why must you look like Pennsylvania’s misshapen trouser snake? We have a big one! We swear! It’s just cold, that’s all! If you have lived in New Jersey, and you liked it, explain to me how you can stand the feces covered shores, or the abundance of white trash in New Jersey’s chewy chewy center. Let’s see, New Jersey is home to some of New York’s best sports teams, because it can’t fucking man up to the task of entering a cleverly titled football team like the “Missiles” or the “Raccoons” or even the “Child Pornographers.” Dammit…

I was actually not born in New Jersey. My mother, decided to make an excellent choice and birth me in style, at the baby-birthing-style capital of the world, Bryn Mawr. She was visiting my ol’ grandfather when I came exploding out of her infant window, and there I was, on the upper main line, with nowhere to go but down. So after the hospital, we drove two hours to our real home, in Jersey. There we lived in a house that resembled a cave, only less elegant. In the kitchen was a gigantic hole, which was thoughtfully covered over with the oven. Throughout the house lived venomous killer rats that were trained by the police department to hunt and eat babies. Our neighbors were more than class-act sons of guns. Quite often the local S.W.A.T. team would drop by for a surprise visit. I think they all sat down to tea and crumpets, but the crumpets were made of a violent, violent batter.

I made this in 10 minutes. Shut your face.

We eventually moved from that awful mess to a nice luxurious trailer park right outside of Atlantic City. There, I shared the company with children who enjoyed the activities of stealing, pummeling one another, laying in the street as to block the paths of oncoming cars, and watching Ninja Turtles. If I were still living there, I would most likely be one of the following: dealing drugs, dead, or the third jackpot choice of being Donald Trump’s apprentice and heir. I had good times too, and my childhood there was not lost.

So now what? Here I am sitting in the middle class paradise of West Chester, a place full of whiny emo kids and migrant workers. How did I climb the ladder? No one knows. What I do know is that people like stereotypes! New Jersey has a stereotype that everyone loves: the barbaric Italian mobster. From television shows to your local hair grease store, these colorful pasta-loving roughnecks are seen all over this wonderful state. These failures of the human race tend to speak in broken English using phrases like: “eh, lil’ bit,” “whatsamattayou?” and “that’s a spicy meatball!” The car of choice for a stereotypical I-talian is a Cadillac that always has power everything, leather interior and a dead hooker in the trunk. To tell you the truth, I have never met an actual Italian that matches up to the aforementioned description. I just needed material, so I banked on the Deggoes.

A popular urban legend that has arisen out of the trash dump state is the story of New Jersey Devil. I’m not very sure on the details so excuse me if I take liberties on the entire story. One day in the pine barrens of New Jer“We Suck”sey (a mess of trailer parks and evergreen trees in the state’s fiery belly), there resided some pregnant chick. She was living with her family in an extremely unhaunted area of woods. All of the sudden: bam! Whizzo! Calamari! she goes into labor. But the baby she gives birth to ain’t no regular baby with a soul and stuff. Nope, it’s a gigantic winged demon, and it sure is pissed. So the pseudo-devil kills and eats everyone in the house, and is said to still be running around in the woods eating and attacking things. My sources tell me that this “devil” was merely a “gigantic winged satanic baby” that “killed and ate everyone in the house” and is said to still be “running around in the woods eating and attacking things.” So folks, I don’t blame you if you take this story with a grain of salt.

This picture further demonstrates all my theories.

Kapow! New paragraph! And it’s the concluding one too. What was learned in the past 3-5 minutes that you read this? That the only good thing to come out of New Jersey alive is me? That this state has an abundance of topics that Dan didn’t touch on? That you are some nincompoop that wandered onto this site and this is the first article you’ve ever read from this site, and you really need to be looking at porn rather than reading these words on a fucking pathetic internet website? That the only good thing to come out of New Jersey alive is me? That Steve has pacing stripes painted on his genitalia? That Dave should return back from Rome and whatnot so he can continue to be Ethan’s Chauffeur and man lover? That the colors of the rainbow can be made into a clever anagram known as “ROY G BIV”, with the “I” standing for indigo and not for “Intermultifuncionaltacticastalism?” That the only good thing to come out of New Jersey alive is me? Just trust me on this one: when New Jersey’s on the town, lock up your daughters and wives.