Our long, soon-to-be-national nightmare is over, Miami.
Finally, we can go back to our usual business of making South Beach ridiculous all by ourselves -- not that Snooki and The Situation and the others weren't helpful in that department in the weeks since they were first spotted in the 305.
First there was Snooki's arrival by sombrero, because we're Mexico, and all Mexicans wear sombreros, or something. Perhaps it's best not to dig too deep.
Then there were bans from clubs who'd prefer guns and drugs to abs challenges (sounds about right), and we found out Ocean's 10 was not one of them when Snooki got into the most pathetic "bar fight" we've ever seen.
There was also the desecration of holy gelato, which ought to be punishable by death (mmm...gelato), and an incident in which Sammi the Sweetheart may or may not have punched a local woman in the face -- but was also reportedly followed up by yet another full-cast fracas.
Cap that off with a proposed Chonga-themed copycat show only Miami could produce, and we'd say that's more Dade County destruction than the early '80s 'Canes could pull off after an 8-ball.
But we're not even done yet.
Perhaps, worse than any conceivable bar brawl or tanning oil-gelato mix cross-contamination, was this seizing horror, the most cliché-packed image in the history of mankind:
Yep. That's orange, nipple ring-ed, gell-ed out bro with a Scarface towel on Miami Beach, so kudos to you, Ronnie Magro. We may never recover, and that's almost admirable.