Credit: Photo courtesy of MTV © and TM MTV Networks Photo: Ronnie Butt Problem on Jersey Shore, February 3, 2011

"It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood." — Shakespeare, Macbeth

"He's, like, ready to do moves on me. But really, I had my frickin' period." — Snooki, Jersey Shore, Season 3 Episode 6

What a thing of infinite gore! What a macabre collection of quotidian desperation, and angst, and violence! Yes, the latest Jersey Shore truly was a bloody awful mess, friends. It was a bloody awful mess, indeed.

The wreckage began with the plight of poor Ron, who had drank one, or two, or 12 too many shots of Patron. The room was spinning for the big guy; and no matter how many chicken parm cutlets his sometimes girlfriend, Sammi Sweatpants, dangled in front of his tequila-crackled lips, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that his life, and stomach, were spiraling out of control. Nauseated from the overwhelming stench of marinara sauce, Ron finally ejected a night's worth of binge drinking into a nearby bebeTM shopping bag — ruining all of the new, elasticated sweatpants that Sam had recently bought for herself.

The next morning Ron was greeted, not with the familiar pain of a killer hangover, but with a surprise visit from Aunt Flo. "Blood!" he warbled to his blank-faced girlfriend. "There's blood in my poo!" An emergency trip to a shockingly under-qualified looking physician proved that Ron's diet, rich in grain alcohol and vitamin booze, was the main cause of his rather grizzly condition. The other main contributing factor, which Ron foolishly neglected to mention to the good doctor, was the fact that, despite her recent apologies, Sam remained an enormous pain in his ass. The constant whining, the petty put-downs — these things weighed as heavily on Ron's posterior as they did on his mind.

Credit: Photo courtesy of MTV © and TM MTV Networks Photo: Snooki at the Bar With Jeff Miranda on Jersey Shore, February 3, 2011

Later that day, after systematically destroying the local pharmacy's toy department, Snooki brought all of her friends out for a night of hearty fist pumping to Karma. Tagging along were Ron's chums from back home — Lughead, Meathead, and Dario. Deena and Dario struck up a kinship (seemingly over a mutual appreciation for cheap alcohol and bad house music), and inevitably — and despite Deena's protestations to the contrary! — ended up smooshing the night away back at the beach house.

Meanwhile, Snooki found karmic bliss with a cookie-cutter guido named Jeff. Jeff was everything that Snooki ever wanted in a man: tall, muscular, and endlessly swathed in gaudy jewelry. He was even the perfect gentleman when, back at the smoosh room, Snooki realized that her own visit from Aunt Flo was going to prevent the two from becoming fully acquainted. But Jeff was a trooper. He was happy to just spend the evening holding little Snooki in his arms, blissfully basking in the night-cam glow of his 15 minutes of reality-TV fame. And for that one magical evening, with her back firmly pressed against Jeff's seven silver necklaces, Snooki thought to herself, "It's finally happening. This is what love feels like. This is it."

The happy pair spent the next morning much like any other young couple in the throngs of new love: they played on the stripper pole together; they strolled the boardwalk together; they even discussed the omnipresent reproductive fluids of the mighty sperm whale together. Things were progressing beautifully, until Jeff mentioned a personal story from his past — a dull, throw-away tale about Iraq and a broken engagement. Suddenly, Jeff's 3-dimensionality overwhelmed Snooki. The very idea that this man had a past, or any sort of definable identity, sent her into a sort of adolescent, existential tailspin. Overcome, Snooki irrationally demanded that Jeff never contact her again. And as quickly as it began, Seaside Heights' greatest love story came crashing to a halt.

Credit: Photo courtesy of MTV © and TM MTV Networks Photo: Sex Shop on Jersey Shore, February 3, 2011

The next day was Sunday, which, of course, meant that it was Manson Family Dinner night. And while the boys slaved away in the kitchen, all four of the girls treated themselves to some luxurious retail therapy. At the local sex shop. Preening in front of the mirrors, the girls tried on a variety of different outfits: there was "sexy nurse," and "sexy school bus driver," and "sexy garbage collector." And because it was Manson Family Dinner night, Snooki purchased the "sexy Squeaky Fromme" costume in honor of the occasion.

Back at the Manson compound, things weren't going nearly as swimmingly. The boys, frustrated by the girls' outlandish lack of gender conformity, were up in arms over having to cook and clean. When the girls arrived back home, Ron singled-out Sam (who had changed back into her usual "unsexy couch potato" sweatpants) for not cleaning the kitchen. The pair's frosty confrontation resulted in a family dinner so stale and awkward, that even Deena's recount of a gay Vinny/Pauly sex dream barely elicited a response from the group.

Credit: Photo courtesy of MTV © and TM MTV Networks Photo: Pauly D's Stalker on Jersey Shore, February 3, 2011

Like barnyard animals sensing an approaching storm, the wiser housemates bolted away from the stable, and into the loving, open arms of Karma. Mike flirted with girls, Deena Jersey Turnpiked ("Yo', face down, ass up. That's the way I like to have a good time!"), and Pauly reconciled with his drink-tossing stalker, Danielle. Oh, Danielle. Sad, clueless Danielle. Pauly donned the insane "I Italian-Flag/Star-of-David Jewish Girls" t-shirt that she'd made for him last year; Vinny (who's kind of turning into a bully this season) mocked her to her face; and yet, like a loyal spaniel, she clung desperately by Pauly's side.

Meanwhile, Ron and Sam spent the entire evening bickering. They fought over Miami, and hemorrhoids, and sweatpants; over sperm whales, and closure, and bebeTM bags full of vomit. They fought about everything, and they fought about nothing at all. And as the credits began to roll, the pair resolved that, finally, yes, this was it; that this latest bust-up, this nonsensical non-fight, spelled the end of the road for them.

We'd love to remain optimistic and believe that this latest breakup is it — that this is the one that will stick. But we've had our dreams dashed a thousand times before by these knuckleheads. They may not know better, loyal readers — but by now, we sure do.