Dave on Demand: 'Shore'-ites, mangling 2 tongues

The fourth season of MTV's Jersey Shore premiered this week with the crew descending on Florence, Italy.

I don't think I've ever been more proud to be an American.

The kids conducted themselves with all the dignity, respect, and class we've come to expect of them. In other words, none.

Vinny was the only one who did his homework.

"I want to learn the language," he said. "I want to master it."

Of course, immediately afterward, Vinny also said, "I'm so much more better-looking [than the other guys]."

Jwoww wanted to learn only one phrase in Italian: "I have cramps."

When the guys got in their first taxi in Italy, they debated how to tell the driver to go fast. Ronnie had the answer. "Ciao," he yelled. "Ciao!"

As soon as the girls landed in Milan, Snooki started looking around for a currency exchange. "Is that where I get pesos?" she asked.

Once they arrived at the house, crossing what the Situation called, "da foyer of da castle," Vinny was appointed the designated translator. Which is kind of like making Mr. Magoo your guide up K-2.

I watched the auspicious debut the way I watch most shows - fast-forwarding through the commercials. I only slipped up once, dropping in during a trailer for Rise of the Planet of the Apes. At high speed, it really looked like the further antics of the Jersey Shore crew.

Sign on the dotted line. Speaking of MTV, the Village Voice this week published a copy of the standard 30-page contract for all Real World participants.

It's an agreement so constrictive and disadvantageous, not even Faust would sign it.

One clause stipulates: "I understand there are risks in any such interaction, including but not limited to, the possibility of consensual and non-consensual physical contact, which could result in my contracting any type of sexually transmitted disease, including, without limitation [there follows a horrifyingly encyclopedic inventory of STDs]."

Hard to say what is most disturbing about that provision. I guess it's the word "non-consensual."

Abandon all hope. It's the twilight of all the old TV gods. We've lost, in short order, Larry King, Mary Hart, Oprah, and soon Regis Philbin.

This week brought the most disturbing development yet: It was announced that Jerry Lewis will no longer be hosting the Labor Day telethon for the Muscular Dystrophy Association.

For devoted TV viewers, this is the end of the world as we know it.

Jerry's annual ordeal included the most reliably cathartic ritual in the annals of the medium.

It came in the 22d and final hour when Jerry, weary beyond all measure, would stagger onto the stage, his tie undone, to hoarsely attempt his anthem, "You'll Never Walk Alone." He would break down, usually by the second verse, into wracking sobs.

Beats there a heart so hard it did not bleed a little each time Jerry sang that song?

Everybody, sing. I have to admit, I'm a little disappointed in you. Last week, I began the column with the phrase "Everywhere you look." As far as I know, not one of you recognized that as homage to the theme song of Full House.

I admit I watched an unseemly amount of ABC's old TGIF lineup, but even so, is that reference too obscure?

I don't think so. Now if I had cited the lyrics from Step by Step . . . .