“Did she just say she wants a juicehead gorilla?” the beau asked, in reference to Snooki.1

“Yes. Yes, she did,” I replied.

“Fucking Jersey. At least they have a place where they can congregate,” he muttered.

Two years after everyone else first furrowed their brows and uttered WTF? at their television screens, we finally watched Jersey Shore for the first time. I told you I’m slow to adapt to pop culture. I will say this: that show boasts a very high number of people I would be horrified to actually meet in real life. Like, as in all of them. Clearly, I’m going to have to start recording it.

In much more timely news, I AM ON THE COVER OF THE FEBRUARY ISSUE OF ESQUIRE MAGAZINE!


Oh, her? Ignore that chick. I am talking about MY NAME!

This is huge. You don’t see many Lyns out there, guys. As evinced by some of my coworkers’ steadfast refusal to learn how to spell my forename. Whatever. My parents couldn’t afford two Ns, okay?

TRUE STORY: I physically leapt in the air when I saw this cover. I may have even shrieked in glee. I mean, picture me opening the door to a camera crew, a bouquet of flowers, and a giant check from Publisher’s Clearing House. Picture me holding the Vince Lombardi trophy, tears streaming down my cheeks, as I yelp joyously into the microphone, “I’m going to Disney World!” It was like that, but with a magazine cover instead. I was elated. Me and Lyn Decker, whoever she was, we were finally making solid advances towards casting off the oppressive yoke of totalitarian Lynn rule! Together, we were going to make the world safe for all one-ENNed Lyns everywhere.

It wasn’t until half an hour later, when I went online to look for an image of this cover to use in this blog post, that I noticed the “BROO” hanging out on the other side of this lady’s naked bod. Turns out her name is actually “Brooklyn.” That doesn’t fucking count as “Lyn.” I’m sorry. NO DICE.

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1 Wikipedia tells me Snooki and I were born on the VERY SAME DAY in different years, which clearly means that we have some kind of soul connection. Insert unfunny joke about my burgeoning bronzer addiction here.