What does one call something that so transcends all things doucherelli that even yours truly-- everyone's favorite toothy wordsmith--is rendered nearly mute?
Are they an oily abomination? A Paisanic crime against nature? The beginning of the end of Jersey Chic? One of these Godless Hellspawn?
I submit that they're all of them and none of them. They're everywhere and nowhere. They're born of man but not of this realm. They have the same external carapace as you and I, but are devoid of anything approaching a human soul. They are the second incarnation of the Dog Brothers. Beggin'. Beggin'.
Look, I'm originally a Jersey boy myself (shout out to Cam-Den), and if I ever run across a Chachi like this at the car wash where they work, I'll manhandle them until they call me Horatio Dandypants with a saggy, apoplectic jellyface. And then I'll firmly but lovingly turn it into a teaching moment, while making sure that they don't leave any streaks this time when they dry Bello Mona. My first love always deserves a good handcloth finish.
Now, I must run. I have to go watch a good show about wasted youth.
Very Truly Yours,