Mike Sorrentino

Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino calls himself “The Situation” because his abdominal muscles, per his perception of them, are so extreme in their contour and firmness, that it has become, well, a situation. To refer to oneself in not just the third-person, but as an incident, is freaking awesome. I was immediately drawn to Mike very early on in the show because of his difficulty with women. Despite the hot tubs, Korbel, body lotion, and other courting paraphernalia, he never quite scored. Here, a neurotic man under a sheath of muscle. In the season finale, he makes out with roommate Snooki — a sad letdown to a season full of potential snatch, in which two scratched hearts (he was quickly rejected by Sammi after a brief window of interest) mend each other with the wet gauze of tongues. I was actually subdued by their awkward, tentative compassion, as it was very sad.

The ever optimist, Sorrentino has a way with words:

This is “The Situation” right here, my abs are so ripped up it’s, we call it “The Situation.”

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You can hate on me all you want to, but what can you possibly say to somebody that looks like Rambo, pretty much, with his shirt off.

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I mean this situation is gonna be indescribable, you can’t even describe the situation that you’re about to get into the situation.

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I necessarily didn’t want to bring home any sort of zoo creatures what-so-ever. I mean, these broads just probably smelled the food at the house.

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I wait till the last minute to shave, I wait till the last minute to put the shirt on ’cause you feel fresh.

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It’s obvious that Sammi has a crush on me, it goes back to the days of prehistoric kindergarten.

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I knew she was 18, that ass does not look 12.

The Situation

His free-style logic is indescribable, the quick, near insane associations he makes. While this might be the result of too much Vitamin D or energy drinks, I think Sorrentino is onto something. Our fallacy as viewers is our belief that we are smarter than him; we demographically dismiss Sorrentino as not being part of our cultural class. The ironic distance with which we “enjoy” shows “lower” than us (Rock of Love, Cheaters, The Bachelor, etc.) points to a deep hubris, as if we are somehow immune to the natural inclinations depicted. As if we are a better kind of human.

Perhaps Sorrentino — who got his heart broke; who became loud yet sullen around Ronnie, his male usurper; who tried to comfort Snooki, who had her own heart broke; who, excited by the free food made many meals; who just wants to be famous, needed somehow; whose lyrical take on the world is barely short of brilliant; who probably sleeps alone at night with the idea of a body next to him; who, tired and scared of being human, has grown a layer of defensiveness, a layer so slippery like bad armor — is much like us. I never met anyone on TV who wasn’t me.

An animal sees a face in everything. We are pulled towards that which most accurately depicts us, which is essentially what television is. Gentle people, literature is but a wordy band-aid on the flayed mark of the Jersey Shore on which we all reside. There are no dumb people, just people who don’t use long words. I see myself in the women on The Bachelor who just want a rose, an idea of a happier life. Put two TVs next to each other and you have a pair of eyes. Turn off the lights and you have a best friend. As for my situation, and its anatomical indicator, God spent that Sunday molding me; that he used his feet is just one of his tiny cruelties.

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