I was born in Ridgewood, New Jersey, and I lived in the Garden State for seventeen years before heading off to college. Since then, I have lived in Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, and Hawaii. I have traveled to France, Italy, Switzerland, Spain, Portugal, Ireland, Mexico, Canada, and to most states in the U.S. And I can honestly say that the State of New Jersey, the state in which I presently reside, is one of the very worst places in the world in which to live. Here are five reasons not to move to New Jersey.
(1) The Jersey Shore. This is where I now live, in a small town community called Point Pleasant Beach. Today, now that it is 58 degrees outside, I can freely step onto the beach without some teenager examining the costly badge on my swimsuit to be sure I paid my money to sit on a filthy stretch of sand with thousands of other people (just about all of them from Northern New Jersey), debating whether or not I want to enter the water and risk a syringe to the ankle. Now that the summer is over, the beach is finally free. And Point Pleasant and its surrounding communities are finally free of the cheesy, gold chain-wearing, open-shirt, eighties-style guidos with their Gotti boy haircuts and IROC-Z pimped out autos with neon lights underneath.
(2) TGI Fridays. For a quick bite and a beer, I have no problem with these chain restaurants, Bennigans, Houlihans, Chilis, and TGI Fridays included. But they are everywhere here in the Garden State, and that’s where many New Jersey folks actually choose to spend their Friday nights.
(3) The City. I worked as an attorney in New York City for five years. During that time, I lived in Hoboken, which isn’t so bad as far as living in Jersey goes. Yet still, when someone in the City asked me where I lived, I’d give them an address in Murray Hill or Battery Park. Because while people from New Jersey love the City, people from the City hate New Jersey. Manhattanites cringe when they hear you are from Jersey, which is often referred to as the armpit of New York. And frankly, I can’t say I blame them.
(4) Diners, Diners, Diners. How many twenty-four hour diners does one state need? They are everywhere here, all conveniently located near a popular watering hole. So, at two, when the bars close by law (there are lots of stupid laws in Jersey), the drunks can file out and hit their favorite diner for cheese fries and omelets. It’s disgusting.
(5) The Jersey State Troopers. On the rare occasion when the Garden State Parkway is not a parking lot and you can finally put the petal to the metal, there are the Jersey State Troopers cleverly hiding in some bushes, pointing their little radar gun at you, waiting to pull you over if you go two mph over the speed limit. They have their quotas, so fine let them ticket us and we’ll be on our way. But no, they insist on being pricks about it.
Sadly enough, I have lived most of my thirty years in New Jersey, and I’m here now (albeit temporarily). So, please don’t get your fancy black boxer briefs in a bunch when you read this, Mr. New Jersey. It’s meant to be a humor piece, so please don’t leave me nasty comments or tell me how great Jersey is. I might get pissed off. After all, I am from New Jersey too, so I’ve got a bad fucking temper. Capiche?
