First of all, the book is a "collaboration" with Valerie Frankel, so Snooki, the greatest literary mind of our generation, probably didn't even write a word of it. She just scribbled on a napkin with some crayons and texted her friends while Frankel typed away on her laptop and said, "Is this good?" Then Snooki would make a "Whheeeeee" noise of approval, throw her hands in the air, and then go back to scribbling.
And anyone who claims to want to use their given name because of their literary aspirations better not write a book that contains a passage like this: "Gia danced around a little, shaking her peaches for show. She shook it hard. Too hard. In the middle of a shimmy, her stomach cramped. A fart slipped out. A loud one. And stinky."
Now, look at the book cover. The only thing more prominent than her poof on it is the word "Snooki." It's not "Nicole" which is relegated to the side in smaller type. It's "Snooki." If you think anyone wants a book with a giant "Nicole" slapped on the front, you'd better guess again.
Yes, Snooki, you signed your deal with the reality TV devil using your nickname, and that is the name you will be forced to use as long as the contract is enforced. You can win a Pulitzer, you could be elected to Senate, you could cure AIDS, cancer, and male pattern baldness all at the same time and you will forever and always be known as "Snooki." You made your bed, now Snook in it.
[Image via Getty]