Welcome to the Jersey Shore, bitch.

Recently shot a segment for a New York morning show at the Jersey fucking Shore.

I am, for the most part, a staunch defender of Jersey. Hear me out: parts of it are really lovely. And it's not called the Garden State for nothing. The key is to get away from the highways. And, apparently, the shore. It is like another country. An orange, drunk, greasy country.

At the beach where we were filming, there was a concert going on to kick off summer and people were really getting into the spirit of things. Beer, mai tais, bad T-shirts, drunken antics. Sounds great, right?
This all took place before 9am.

For example, around 8:30am an older bleach blonde woman in a T-shirt with a catchy slogan on it sat down in the sand near us, giant sippy cup of booze in tow, and proceeded to pee her pants. "It's the Jersey shore, it happens," she said.

Lady, look at your life, look at your choices. IT DOESN'T HAVE TO HAPPEN.

Later, a guy in a T-shirt that said, "I'm not a gynacologist but I'll take a look" faceplanted after trying to run in front of the newscasters. He was ok, and we all decided we wouldn't cry over the spilled beer.

I'm not making this up.

And you want to know the weirdest part? I kind of had a great time.

Maybe it was because the people I was travelling with were such staunch New Yorkers that they were just as baffled as I was. But despite the freakshow around us, the two hours of sleep, the getting up at dawn it was sort of a blast.

The sunrise was gorgeous:

The diners were delightful.

And the children were terrifying.

Hell, at least this isn't true.