Romancing the Pugilist

In the left corner - weighing in at 200 pounds of incredibly dull/sexist shit speak - we have the countless scuba divin' minstrels of nuclear vacancy. In the right corner - weighing in at 110 pounds of shorefire tedium and impeccable bad taste - we have the countless stellar spritzer seekers of nubile vacancy. Your referee is Mr. Reality (not to be confused with the now defunct band of the crap same name), and the venue is the entire Jersey Shore...

Your host is sex and drugs and rock'n'roll (and by all accounts, lots of it).

By order of the committee, we're after a good clean fight for the duration of 12 weeks. No lying, no spying, no dying outside the ring. No lunches, no punches, no hunches below the belt. No spitting, no hitting, no shitting on the rules...

WHTG will crank out the toones, the Parkway will cater for the transportation of love-sluts, and the clubs will provide questionable enterfuckintainement while simultaneously ripping everyone off (including the bands). And talking of which, the bands themselves - ranging from the obvious to the condescending to the utterly awful - will take care of seductions and impersonations, along with the odd erection thrown in for good measure. Naturally, if it's a heavy metal band such as American Arsewipe, this ‘’good measure’’ will be paramount above all things, including love, God and family.

So as lovers huddle in dark corners in search of damp escapades (not to be confused with the Jersey City metal-club of the crap same name), bands huddle in dank dressing rooms amid a spirit of Bono's next move. Or the peak years of The Police. Or the superfluous years of Yes. Or who gives a fuck...

Surely not the club owners. Nor the patrons. Nor the radio stations. Nor the perplexed pagans in search of cheap wine, loose women and debauched song.

‘’Good evening everybody, we'd like to start off with a Prince song, but after four seconds, it'll probably sound like a cross between very early Jackson Browne and Adolf Hitler singing backing vocals through a wah-wah pedal...’’

Hey babe, can I buy you a drink and bore you stooooopid? Hey Jack, wanna buy me some clams and take me to the mall? Hey babe, wanna go to Bar Anticipation so I can ignore you all night? How about the Stone Pony, where it's always 1974 cause Bruce might show? Wanna fuck? Wanna go out on a boat and fish for compliments? Hey I know, lets go to Jenkinsons and pretend to have a good time. You're an octopus. You're a bitch. Don't you like me for my personality? What personality? Just because you bought me a Coors Lite during the Nerds show, doesn't mean you can rhumba my Victoria Secrets. Fuck you. Fuck you. No, fuck you. Son of a twisted muthafucka shitfuck. Wanna get engaged? Wanna go to Macys and choose a toaster? I love you. Baby, let's get married. Lets ask the Party Dolls if they'll play at the reception. How about Bryan Adams? How about a blow-job? How about the Allman Brothers? How about meeting my mother? How about some kinky flippers and some peanut butter? How about a hen party somewhere off route 18? How about getting a life and realising we despise each another...

Like sinners before the gates of Bradley Beach, they'll come crawling on back next year. And the next. And the next. And people say boxing’s barbaric...