Tell them apart, we dare you
Well, it didn't take long but we have our first long distance dedication die in a fire. Lindsey B. of Bethesda, MD writes:
Dear Die in a Fire Guys,
Long time reader, first time writer! My boyfriend is in the Army and is posted in Germany. I miss him so much. I write him everyday, but the distance is really hard. His name is Lorenzo but everyone calls him Icicles because he's so cool under fire. He's always wanted to see a cast member of the Jersey Shore die in a fire, and I think if I can make that happen that it will bring us closer together than ever!
Lonely in Bethesda, Lindsey B.
Well Lindsey, we here at Die in a Fire were moved by your blatantly fake letter. So much so that we've decided to set the tanning beds to Hiroshima. So from Lindsey to Lorenzo, this one goes out to you!
Snooki, Snooki, Snooki... what is left to be said about this wet bag of oatmeal stuffed in faux animal prints? What is there to be said that wasn't said more succinctly by the guy who punched you in the face during season one? Remember how no one came to your defense? For most people that would have provoked a moment of reflection. Most people would think, "Hmm...I got punched in the head (real, real hard) and no one unfurled the 'Violence Against Women' flags." Hell, the National Organization of Women released a press statement saying, "the bitch had it coming. We get that. We're cool." So one of two possibilities emerge. Either NOW misidentified you as a Shih Tzu or in a place she doesn't like to admit Terry O'Neill wants to douse you in gasoline and dance naked around your charred remains.
We think secretly even you know you should die in a fire. Some part of your ancient reptilian brain knows that if you were to breed there is a good chance you would eat your young, and let's face it the odds that you are correctly using birth control are fucking remote. Condoms don't go on your head, Snooki! Jesus. That doomsday clock that is your uterus is ticking, and a brood of cocobutter lagoon creatures suckling at your milky funbags is only a matter of time. Your uterus must be stopped, and deep down you know it. Hence the tanning beds! You're just trying to set yourself on fire one cancerous cell at a time. Sure it's slow, but so are you. We applaud you for that. Too few of our nation's biggest douches are willing to pitch in. And we here at Die in a Fire would have left you to complete your slow humbling self-immolation by UVA ray. That was until last Friday when we were greeted by the unsightly image of a drunk hobbit with a bad dye job getting dragged to the hoosegow.
The second season of the Jersey Shore, set in Florida, premiered last Thursday. Apparently, Jersey is so sick of you that they shipped you off to Miami (say hi to Zydrunas for us). Anyway, you celebrated in the only way you know how: getting obliterated at bars in Seaside Heights, N.J. and faceplanting on the boardwalk. That's fine, you're forty-seven years old and legally entitled to a little fun. No problem. Perhaps the pink, zebra striped t-shirt with the word "Slut" across the front is a little tacky but let's not nitpick. We think you need to die in a fire for the following outburst:
"You can't tell me what to do, I'm Snooki. Do you know who I am? I am fucking Snooki. You can't do this... I'm fucking Snooki!"
Yes, yes you are. And for the sin of thinking that being a national punchline is a good career move and for not knowing who Andy Warhol was you can die in a fire, Snooki.