Bash Compactor: Cover Girl

Written by Evan Mulvihill on . Posted in Bash Compactor, Posts.


The New York Times has called her the "breakout star" of Jersey Shore. She’s
got over 2.5 million followers on Twitter. (Vinny comes in a distant
second at 1.3 million, and supposedly "most profitable" The Situation has
a paltry 964,000.) It was big news last year when The Situation was
allegedly able to cash in on his celebrity to the tune of $5 million. If
the corporate sponsorship and media frenzy at a party hosted by Snooki last week is any indication, though, the one they call Nicole Polizzi is about to outdo him in a big way.

In her newfound diva style, Snooki showed up to her party an hour and a half late, by which time pop star Jason Derulo had
already come and gone. The perennial Z100 favorite, known for singing
his own name at the beginning of every hit he has on the radio, told me
that, between Snooki, Sammi and Deena, he couldn’t pick a favorite Jersey girl. "I’d like to have all three." In one sitting? "Absolutely."

While
Derulo may be "as single as they come," Snooki probably won’t be
engaging in any foursomes anytime soon. The pickle-loving lady came
family-style, toting along current boyfriend Jionni LaValle, best friend and fellow pint-sized cast member Deena Cortese and her dad to celebrate making the cover of Yellow Rat Bastard (YRB) magazine.

Snooki
is known for her funny taste in brand allegiance—LifeStyles Condoms
sponsored her birthday party last year. Partnering with YRB, an urban
clothes retailer that notoriously paid workers less than $5 an hour back
in 2006, was probably as easy as: "Hey Snooki, want to be on the cover
of our magazine? You get to play dress-up with Deena, Sammi and five
really built male models."

Sunkist,
owned by the Dr Pepper Snapple Group, showed up on the marquee, too,
but nobody was ordering Sunkists and sodas so I have no idea what their
deal was. The alcohol sponsor made the most sense: Pinnacle vodka, which
comes in flavors like cotton candy and whipped cream.

I spent most of the night upstairs in the open bar VIP section, avoiding the media
swarm below. Instead of exchanging war stories with freelance reporters
accustomed to clawing desperately for boldfaced sound bites, I enjoyed
Jell-o shots from girls outfitted in rhinestonestudded bras, Rihanna
hairdos, sparkly leggings and gold heels. Also on hand were sausage,
pepper and onion sliders, served on trays that had epilepsy-inducing
rotating blue lights around the outside, and a cotton candy machine.

The
reason for the media clusterfuck could’ve been Snooki’s new paradigm
shift. Instead of an overtanned drunk who does gymnastics in a thong at a
club, it seems Snooki wants to be… a mom? Earlier that day, she had
been on Good Morning America with LaValle and announced she
doesn’t hook up anymore, hinting that she’s ready for marriage, family
life or something like it. In the same publicity swoop, she announced
she’s coming out with a fragrance. When they herded the reporters
downstairs to a basement room, the most common question was what the
perfume was going to smell like.

Whipped cream vodka on the rocks in hand, I stumbled down to the basement just as a publicist barked, "Interviews are over!"
I gave it the good old college try and called Snooki’s name, asking if
she’d been affected by the market crash. She ignored me, so I tried
again. Still no answer—just like a real celebrity. 

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