Saturday, June 11, 2011

Be sad for me...okay?

Because THIS... why I can't have nice things.
They get trashed.

But really, you should be sad for me because the above photo is what my computer currently looks like.

Sad, right?
Sad for me, but also sad for you because technology...and probably one of my charming little germ-infested host-monkey destroy-a-bots...
sassed my monitor up something fierce. 
And now I can't talk up all the crazy junk that I usually go on 
and on 
and on 
and on about.

I'm cut off from the world.
Kind of.
I commandeered a laptop from The Husband's office to finally get a post up and out to you: my very, very, very important blog-peeps.

I miss you.

Although I still have the iPad, 
but I can't blog from  that 
because it's not a full blown computer, now is it? 
When I tried to it threw all this
 java/language/shit-I-don't-know-about in my face.
Talk about a let down.
Curse you and your fancy gadgets Steve Jobs. Curse you.

What did you think of the finale of RHOC?
Throwing drinks in faces is exactly how I expect these women to behave, so I'm a little perplexed as to why everyone got so worked up. 
I found the behavior quite fitting.
I can't wait for Donn's tell-all confessional at the reunion. I really hope he's ripping shit up Lake Havasu-style. Did she just dump D-papers on him with out a sit-down of any kind? 
Because that's what it sounded like...

Jeanna is a cow. 
(And cows make for trashtastic TV.)

And so is LuAnn, aka The Cuntess.
She brought the cunty back HARD 
in the final HouseHarem episode. 
Do you think her cuntiness was jet lagged and it took a while to catch up to real-time? And then it just effing EXPLODED all over everyone in a massive time-zone delayed bitch-fest?

That camel knew exactly what he was bucking off his hump.

And by the way, it's possible I'm more sad
 for Alex's communication skills
 than I am for my effed up laptop.
But at least Kelly is crazy again.
Who's going to fix her henna tat? Santa?
Thank GAWD, now I can sleep at night.

Tomorrow the children and I are off
 to the Apple store to figure my laptop shit out.
And no, it's not going to be a cool, two-story,
glass-cube that leads to
 a subterranean nerd-explosion
 on 5th Avenue.
(Spoiled tech-hipster-dork-yuppies.)

We'll be going to our crappy-ass second-rate mall.
And I'll have to fight with them
 about why they can't stuff their faces at Cinnabon.

Damn kids.

Monday, June 06, 2011

S-O-S: A shout out to Donn Gunvalson...AGAIN.

To all my sweet Chicken Littles:
This is a post I did quite a while ago, before many of you may have discovered this little plot of cyber-depravity.  I feel that now is an appropriate, nay necessary, time to recycle said post.  Our skies may be just fine, but you know Donn's is falling all over again right about now.  And nothing says solidarity like the lyrical musings of The Crue. Poetic masters I tell you...poetic masters.
This one's for you Donn Gunvlson...
...see ya next tour!

A little something about yesterday's post got me thinking about
 The Crue of yore.

A long, long time ago...
...before Vince Neil jacked his face up and got preggers...
...before Mick Mars resembled a catfish-sensei*...
...back when Nikki Sixx had more lives than a cat...
...and Tommy Lee was snorting ants and banging Locklear...
...some crazy shit went down, stadiums were rocked,
and very wise words were belted out anthem-style:

Stay strong Donn; you're almost there.
PS. I'm thinking the chick in the red tank top at :55 is just what you need post-split.

*Turns out Mick Mars is suffering from a pretty significant degenerative arthritic disease. It's really bad news. He's shrunk 6 inches and that's just the beginning. I assumed it was the drugs and booze and sex and living like a crazed animal for 20's always the quiet ones who party the hardest, isn't it?  Turns out I was wrong. Also, turns out I'm a bit of a shit.  No one pointed his ailment out to me, I discovered it for myself so I guess there's something to be said for that.  I swapped out 176 year-old grandpa tortoise for the slightly less amusing, but much kinder, catfish-sensei...because there's no excuse for this facial hair:
The rest of the boys are still fair game.

Sunday, June 05, 2011

RHNY recap: Habibi mother-effers!

Yeah, I googled it.  And that's the English spelling of the Arabic pronunciation of darling.
Damn you Cuntess, damn you.

You know Habibi motherfuckers! was what LuAnn really wanted to say when she popped her little mug up over her bidness-class seat and gave a quick Arabic tutorial.  For whatever reason Morocco is LuAnn's turf.  This is her show. Her gig. The rest of the habibi Housewives are her guests.

And we're her guest too.  At least that's what it feels like. Eff traveling to the other side of the world to a beautiful and utterly foreign land. Our trip of a lifetime is watching these donkeys navigate each other while they're stuck in Morocco. Together. With no escape. I didn't quite "get" the genesis of this trip...I mean, who says: we're all fighting and wanting to kill each other so let's go to Morocco. I understand this was an evil genius producer's idea, but still.  No matter now, I'm on board. Forget Scary Island...maybe it's just an old fashioned mirage, but I'm seeing good things on the horizon of Scary Desert.

Obviously a product placement deal was made with Royal Air Maroc.  The brunettes fly over together because that's what Andy wanted.  Or maybe that's how Bravo got all these crazies to agree to go on this trip in the first place; nobody had to fly with anyone they didn't like? Sounds good, huh?  That flight manifest was the ULTIMATE seating arrangement.  Can you imagine 'Mona trapped in a glorified tin can with Jill...or LuAnn...or Kelly...or Cindy, and it NOT being a total disaster? There are lots of good reasons why they lock those cockpit doors up tight these days...but I think I just stumbled on one more: high altitude 'Mona minus her personal pinot stash. Stuff of nightmares. 

The Bruns (as they will be called henceforth) make their way to the hotel/villa/oasis/harem/whatever the hell you want to call it.  The place is spectacular.  Kelly says something about luminous yellow light...maybe that's were the satchels of gold come from? I don't know. The Bruns ooh and ahh and drink some tea in little shot glasses and do their best to establish good relations with the staff and locals before 'Mona and Sonja land and blow it all straight to hell. They didn't have much time because The Blondes were hot on their trail.

Right out of the gate 'Mona and Sonja are putting out some pretty serious fuckface vibes on the plane.  They're pawing and kissing and praising each other. Plus, I'm pretty sure 'Mona's travel uniform included Jeggings.  Interview-'Mona says she's a little nervous about the trip.  She likes her cotton bedsheets and she must have pinot at all times. What a hick.   But I'm really thinking: don't worry 'Mona, we're all nervous for you, not for the same reasons you just listed but trust me, we're nervous.  There are so many ways this trip could go sideways that even though I'm only four minutes in, my head is spinning.  Spinning in a I'm-sixteen-and-I-just-inhaled-my-first-whippet kind of a way.  So a good way. I'm giddy. I'm not high, but I'm buzzed.

Some people travel and some people vacation. For the most part, I'm a traveler, but I'm not opposed to chilling out in the sun either...twist my arm, right?  Anytrip, 'Mona and Sonja are definitely in the latter category.  Those two want to sit someplace expensive, be waited on, and be pampered like the royalty they think they are.  They want barely bi-lingual servant-people to be at their beck and call. They view vacations as an opportunity to show someone, anyone!, that they're "better than". Of course I never thought about it before, but it makes sense doesn't it?  There is a fine line that must be towed between adventure and respect in order to get the most out of traveling...and Season Four Sonja and Turtle Time haven't got a chance in hell of even understanding where that line is.

Oh gawd this is going to be good and they aren't even on the ground yet!

Oh! I almost forgot: how much did you love it when Alex smiley-sighed and nestled into her seat when she got off the phone Simon right before the plane took off?
I totally got it.  No husband. No kids. Bidness Class to herself. Cool trip.  Too bad the company sucks so hard...

The Blonds land. And Ramona + Sonja = Ramonja kick the ignorance into overdrive.  "Romanja" saves me some typing and makes sense since these dingbats obviously share a brain stem at the moment. Oh, and the J is silent. Anytrip, these two really do love the sound of their own voices, don't they? Interview-Sonja is positive that Morocco is full of fabulous luxury because she has friends who have homes there...the obvious conclusion being that Sonja's friends' home ownership automatically means the locale is superbly fabuluscious and luxuritastic.  Duh. But once she gets an eye full, she's not so sure...
Sonja: We may as well be in Quogue.
Alex: and here I thought I left my kids at home to polish the piano.
Ramona: ...when Mario and I role play Sultan Sex Slave he 
loves it when I cinch my burka to accentuate my rejuvenated curves.
Of course the car ride from the airport is riddled with Ramonja's ignorant  and catty comments.  So predictable.  Alex was appropriately mortified, telling us it was as though they never traveled before and they don't care who they offend. My patience for Alex is running real thin...I mean does she really need to travel to the other side of the world to grasp the common sense fact that neither one of these nitwits ever cares about who they offend? Sonja of the pecking order? 'Mona of the...everything she's ever done? Wake up Alex. But then again, beggars can't be choosers.  'Mona starts tweaking because she  sees...dust and poverty. Dust, in the desert. Poverty, in a third world country. Amazeballs 'Mona, you ignoramus. Sonja eases 'Mona's fears by pointing out that that gardens are getting lush and the staff is out to greet us in the MOST high handed and demeaning (to the locals) manner. 

The opposing bottled-hair-colors reunite, and meet and greet at the harem..  New-Hairdo-Jill tells the camera that she needs to have a talk with Ramona.  Really Jill? You had to come to Marakesh to talk your shit through with 'Mona? And this isn't even Manhattan 'Mona, this is Vacation 'Mona which is a different ball of wax all together. 
Finally, we're in the same city. Let's tawk.
Then Ramonja unpack.  What a clusterfuck. 'Mona called ahead to make sure that her sheets had the proper thread count and a maid was waiting to unpack for her--she doesn't shut up about her independence, about how making her own money is an aphrodisiac and she can't handle unpacking? But then I understand why when I watch her pull shit out of her suitcase like  Mary effing Poppins pulled junk out her carpet bag in the nursery.  Literally. Jewelry stands of her crap costume jewelry...the little velvet ones like they have on the counters in department stores at the mall.  What is she going to do? Head down to the local bazaar to peddle her wares while she's on vaca? You think I'm joking, but I wouldn't put it past her.  Do they have pyramid schemes in the Middle East? Something's telling me: no.

The maid/personal assistant instantly understands 'Mona's sanity is non-existent ...eye rolls are a universal language and that poor woman was throwing  her eyeballs around in a pretty spastic manner.  I am for real when I say this excursion to the Middle East may have actually set back the Muslim population's opinion of Westerners.  Mona's rants have gone global and they will  reflect poorly on all of us. 
Then the maid, who at this point might actually be suffering from a 'Mona induced epileptic seizure, gets an earful from her evil mistress about hangers.  Fast forward to Cindy marching into the heart of darkness and accusing 'Mona of stealing her hangers. Did someone take my hangers? I know someone went into my personal space! Look Cindy, I get what you're saying and all about your space. And I get that you're currently the "boring normal one", but you're on a trashtastic reality show about wacked out, rich-ass broads soooo we're ALL in your personal space more or less.  But I'm going to let you pick this fight with 'Mona cause you're a good shit.  Ramona flits around like a half maimed moth to a flame and crazy bug-eyes her accuser, per usual. Cindy rushes back to the Bruns and, with more passion than I've ever seen from Dead Pan Barshop, warns her crew to put their hangers on lock down: Ramona's got it all over Joan Crawford.  There is an overabundance of sUriously? sUriously Ramona?! but Cindy settles down eventually.
LuAnn! Look. At. Me. I'm wearing a kaftan! I changed at the AIRPORT!
So can you take me with you? Isn't that what a good hostess would do?
I'll bust a tube of Nice N' Easy: Chestnut if that's what it'll take!
LuAnn floats in on a bed of gauzy kaftans to ref the hanger junk.  She makes light of it and moves on...she's a veteran. She knows you have to pick your battles with Ramona...and it's not going to be hangers.  Is it just me or is Travel LuAnn less cunty than Manhattan Cuntess? Or is just all the luminous yellow light that's messing with me? LuAnn does take issue with the fact that Romonja get all sketchy and transparently try to ditch the Bruns by going for a the desert.  Of course we know that the dust and poverty freaked 'Mona the eff out, but the Cuntess doesn't know that.  No matter, these cows need to have something to fight about so it may as well be Romanja's fake ride in the desert. 

The Bruns say eff it and go shopping. Where they just happen to run into...Jill's gay husband from seasons past, Brad Boles! You know, the whiny, flamboyant kiss-ass who turned Jill and Bawbee's Manhattan apartment into a metallic-seafoam and champagne NIGHTMARE? Remember...

Brad. In a random shop. IN MOROCCO.

It's kisses and dahlings...excuse me, habibis...and I-can't-believe-its! all around. Apparently Brad spends oodles of time in Morocco with his French friends.  That's a lie, I'm sure of it. But we'll go with it.  He says he has a house in Marakesh, and he has a birthday...sooooo that means he's HAVING A PARTY! Tonight.  And of course the HouseHarem is invited...including 'Mona even though she was rude to him once up on a time.  Brad, you're talking in tongues my spazy friend. 'Mona? Rude? Never. 
What are the odds, huh? 
What. Are. The. Odds.

Sidebar: Where the hell was Alex all day? I know no one cares, but in a foreign land shouldn't  they have implemented some sort of buddy system, right? I mean, safety first bitchez.

That night, whilst primping for Brad's soiree, LuAnn announces she has a surprise for everyone.  She's pissed  Romanja is three sheets to the wind and not paying attention to her surprise...instead Sonja and  'Mona are sloppy-drunk curling each other's hair in their rooms like a bunch of prissy teenage whores who nipped from their dads' liquor cabinets for the umpteenth time.  But the Cuntess doesn't fret for long, because 'Mona blows through the doors shouting where's my wine?!? WHERE'S MY WINE?!? Sonja brings in the caboose of the wasted cougar train and starts slinking and winking and rubbing up against anything and everything. Vomit.

LuAnn's surprise is...'Mona is going home. Bon voyage Turtle Time!

NO. That's a lie.  The real surprise is that LuAnn brought in Morocco's foremost kaftan designer to the HouseHarem and he's going to rig something up for these Western ingrates.  With the duds LuAnn has  been sporting since her arrival I don't doubt that her connection to this dude is real, and not some Bravo jerry rigged coincidence.  Or maybe it is.  Eff it.
No Sonja, this isn't a special man-kabob for you to gnaw on,
this is a d-e-s-i-g-n-e-r that I''m willing to SHARE with you all.
You hear that 'Mona? Share. A. Designer. 
'Mona tells him outright that she doesn't like kaftans. She prefers to squeeeeeeeze into the same clothes as her 14 year-old daughter.  Sounds about right, huh? Luckily the poor designer only speaks French and isn't fluent in Turtle Time.  
Kaftan this, motherfuckers!!
Drunken-slutty-Sonja instantly morphs into a full on sexual predator when she catches a whiff of the kaftan designer's man-stink. Sadly there's no language-barrier for her body language.  Her lips pucker uncontrollably and her nipples point when he is forced take her measurements. Hazard of the job I guess.  THESE are my boobs, she tells him triumphantly while she wiggles her saggy fun bags in his stunned, culturally conservative face. Where's your mouth Sonja? Huh? Found it yet? Now SHUT IT you piece of trash. She's giving women a bad name and that pisses me off. No joke.

For the second time so far on this trip Alex is dismayed by Romanja's mind-numbing ignorance and tacky behavior. It must be hard for her, because of her hair color and all.  Interview-Alex tells us she was mortified by them and couldn't believe her ears when Ramanja dismissively asked the designer to put another log on the fire because none of the house staff was available to do it. Would you ask Marc Jacobs to put a log on the fire?!  I don't know if that's quite the point Alex, but you're headed in the right direction. 
say wha?
Alex tries to capture the teachable-moment by getting the log (from 15 feet away!!) herself and putting it on the fire.  Alas, Romanja has the attention span of a sand flea and they've moved on to discussing the size of the house: IT'S UWGE says 'Mona. Not huge, but rather: uwge.  

Does the fun ever start?

Well since you ask...
One time lapse later and the HouseHarem is lamely marching through the streets of Marrakesh Sex-and-The-City-style on the way to Brad's birthday party at his Morocco house. Or rather his KINGDOM, as he kept referring to it. Welcome to my Kingdom!! to everyone who walked in the door. Kingdom, kingdom, kingdom...who else has used that term recently? Where have I heard that before? Oh yeah:
Looks nice.

But  that  was Jesus's Kingdom...and this is just Brad's Kingdom. BIG difference: it turns out that by my kingdom Brad really means: my bed and breakfast. And it's not so much his bed and breakfast, it's rather the bed and breakfast that he's staying in while he visits Marrakesh at the same time as the Housewives. He has no house. None. Jill points out that Brad has been know to exaggerate so the oversight is excused. Whatever.

These fucking people.

'Mona is a drunken mess. And Sonja has turned the humping and sexual wink-wink-nod-nods up to levels only previously found at The Best Little Whore House in Texas. Sooo...Defcon One.  Understand? To be blunt, it was pathetic and sad and gross and wrong.  At one point some poor soul tried to take the HouseHarem's picture, the button on the camera sticks.  Sonja's solution to the problem? Presssssssss hhhharder...pressssssss hhhharder...she tells the poor man over and over and over again.  And the whole time she's giving him old-lady-sexy-eyes and twisting, turning, and contorting her body and face in the MOST unbecoming manner. Of course she thinks it's sexy.  Ugh.  This act of hers is getting really old.  

Then there's a brew-ha-ha about the van ride over to the Kingdom. Seems that Sonja and 'Mona ganged up on Cindy...and Cindy's a little worked up about it. Why she's pissy, I don't know because I can't believe she hasn't figured out the deal with Ramonja yet.  But once again, Cindy's all sUriously? sUriously?!? to Ramonja because Sonja made fun of her veneer-tragedy that sidetracked their shopping/lunch date once upon a time...who gives a fuck? 

However the best part of this whole deal is sober-Interview-'Mona defending Sonja and herself: it was just a funny antidote, I mean...lighten up!

Wait, what?

A what? And ANTIDOTE??? You mean: it was just a funny "something that counteracts or neutralizes an unpleasant feeling or situation"? Because that's what you said. Or maybe, just maybe, you mean ANECDOTE. But then again, maybe she really did think that harassing Cindy and her veneers in the van on the way to not-Brad's-house in Marrakesh would somehow counteract an unpleasant feeling.  Come to think, it's possible she really did think that.  Wonderful.  Please keep in mind this is Interview-'Mona who made this mistake. This is as coherent and lucid as she gets. This is it.  Her Pinot-soaked mind is maxed the eff out. Maxed out like the Bellino's Black AmEx card.  
Akeelah and The Bee
Moving on.

Brad busts out some entertainment: snake charmer! It's pretty cool. I loathe snakes, but this was pretty damn cool.  The HouseHarem is entranced.  Brad tries to kiss the snake but is too much of a pussy to completely pull it off. The snake starts spewing some junk all over the place, so of course somewhere in the back of not-Brad's-house Sonja takes her head of Aalam's crotch and asks is that venom or semen? Okay, the first part was a lie, but she did ask about the venom like an old drunken 50 dollar hooker taking her last gasp at bringing sexy back.  

Jill gets into it. Big time.
What? It's like a belt!

And she's pretty funny about it too.  Jill's been quite tolerable thus far this trip.  Maybe she just seems normal by comparison to the ragging rants of Ramonja.  That's probably it, right?  Just like LuAnn. And Kelly too. 

Ramonja has turned HouseHarem reality on it's silk-turban-clad head.

The last gig of the night is a fortune teller.  And she's got it going ON.  She may be the real deal.  But then again it may be the fact that she doesn't speak English.  And that she's wearing a a full-on head-to -toe midnight-black burka.
I'd believe her.
She tells Jill that she has a big heart, and thank goodness because she talks too much.  Fair enough. Then she tells Sonja that money isn't life, don't look for the money. Interesting. 
And by the way, it's at this point that I notice that Sonja appears to be speaking with some sort of European accent.  Totally random, but it just adds to her immense sexiness...don't you think? Anyharem, the fortune teller tells Kelly that she will have a third child.  There are 324 jokes to be made about Kelly's fortune, but we're (FINALLY) getting to the end of this post and I'm dead tired.

But wait, best for last.  Next is 'Mona.  Kelly is supposed to translate for her.  But the fortune teller speaks and Kelly freaks, grabs her jelly beans, and bolts.  No translation.  

Have no fear.  LuAnn is MORE than happy to translate for 'Mona.:
You think of your husband, but there's another woman.

Eff me.
And Mario too.

So there you have it kittens.  My pathetically late recap of the HouseHarem's first week in Morocco.  Don't hate. I haven't even watched week two yet, but I will soon.  As soon as I'm done with the OC...which is on in about 30 minutes.

I can't get away from these women.  They're everywhere. 

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

This weekend I think I got an inkling
 of what it may feel like to have a penis...

Now I know some of you are saying: oh Brassy! How could you?  Genitalia?  How vulgar. How far beyond the boundaries of decency and discretion that we've come to expect from you.

And to that I say: Fair enough. You are delicate flowers. Now go away.
(And I'm sorry in advance Mom.)
However penis envy is a legit disorder, and I think I have found a cure.

And PLEASE remove all thoughts and images of strap-ons from your dirty little minds.

Instead, allow me to introduce...

The Blue Clean Electric Power Washer.
$69.99 at your local hardware store.

It's powerful, fun, obviously phallic, and it shoots stuff.
It's awesome.

Buy it. It'll change your life.  

Now, what is the point of this post? 
(Beyond ridding the world of penis envy...or at the very least satisfying the curiosity of a whole bunch of women.)

It's to let you know that I haven't dropped off the face off the earth.

I'm working up a helluva recap for RHNY. I swear.
And by the way, I totally take back what I said about Morocco. Brilliance. Pure genius.
I'm holding off on recapping New Jersey until we're done with Orange County...I just can't recap three at once.
I can barely watch three at once.

Andy's GOT to learn how to play hard to get...but that's a post for another time.  

Although I will warn you: I'm already sick of Mama Bear Manzo's highly selective meddling ways.
I get it, she's got a good relationship with her kids. Her husband isn't a freak.
But if you're going to hang with Teresa Giudice, you've got to stow the sanctimony. Now.

But enough of NJ.
Why don't you have my RHNY recap in the palm of your grubby little cyber-paws?
And WHAT does any of this have to do with my beloved power washer?

Stay with me.

All weekend long, The Husband and I worked on the front our house.
We dug, we planted, we watered, we wheelbarrowed, we composted, and we mulched.

We also got on each others nerves...just a little.
We were tired. It was hot. And he dug a TON of holes. Like a cute little mole...or not.
And I planted things like an adorable hobbit from the shire.
We made a mess. A big, dirty, loamy mess.

And the Blue Clean Power Washer saved the day.
MAN! did it feel GOOD to fire that thing up.
I'm telling you, check one out if you ever can.
You'll know what I'm talking about with the whole penis thing... meet the front.
For shizzle, welcome to our hizzle.
(Obviously I need some planters and junk to soften it up a bit).

 And yes, those are granite pavers laid in a herringbone pattern.
Pretty sweet huh? I did that myself last summer. Holla.
(Ignore the random hanging plant, pachysandra that I still need to put in,
the whiffle bat, and my dogs' asses).

Look at my blooming crab apple trees! Finally!
(I told you Spring takes a while to get here.)
And don't look at the scraggy grass...I'm getting on that.

So there you have it.
Another excuse.
Another promise for a killer recap...on which I usually deliver.
And another tiny little peek into my little, Brassy world.

I hope you had a fun, and productive, Memorial Day weekend.

And P.S.
I'm not watching Platinum Hit. 
I got enough of Jewel the first time around when she yammered about yodeling in Alaska when she was a little mini-Jewel,
 and then when she didn't shut up about living in her car when she was trying to make it.

I am watching Million Dollar Decorators.  And I can't effing wait!
Can you?
Are you watching?

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

RHOC recap: The beginning of the end . . .

The second to last episode of Season Six RHOC started and ended with the pitiful misery that has become Vicki and Donn Gunvalson's marriage. Not fun. Not funny. Hard to mock and a little bit of a challenge to satire. It's pathetic and a little sad--because as I've said before, even assholes can be sad. I'm an equal opportunity pity-er. I don't like anything much about Vicki, but I don't have such a short and selective memory that I can't recall a time when she was the kind-of normal one. When all this madness began, she seemed okay. Not my bag, but still "okay".  Obviously that ship has sailed, along with her marriage to Donn. 
Most of us have always liked Donn--and the nuttier she got the easier he was to like. And the easier it was to understand why they would crash and the midst of all this rare Brassy-pity let's not lose sight of the fact that Vicki is self-serving, grating, vapid, and ignorant. Not exactly the headlining traits of a successful marriage partner. Really, we all want Donn to be able to wash his cars in peace and hang out on Lake Havasu (what a shit hole) with an adult lady-friend who appreciates his simple, yet seemingly sweet ways. But this season he's been a little dick-y, hasn't he? A sign of how shitty things are at home? Probably. 

And as I've said before, Vicki's obnoxious, nails-on-a-chalkboard WOOO-WHOOO's have seemed desperate, forced, and lackluster. That's what we're dealing with here folks: Vicki Gunvalson's emotional barometer is easiest to gage by the intangible oomph and chutzpah she puts into her after-hours, party-time, battle cry. Sad (in a very different way than divorce), but SO true. And revealing. What a simpleton.

Of course with the delay of filming, editing, and production, we've known for quite some time that the Gunvalsons were on the express train to Divorce City.  Woot woot, all aboard. But let's dig into the final footage of their doomed union. And all the other extraneous crap that defines this bat-shit-show...can you tell I'm way over OC? Truth be told I'm ready to rip into NJ with the ferocity of two hunnert [holla at'choo SGM] table-flippers, and all the critical snark my Brassy self can muster...god I can't wait. Those Jersey girls are the low hanging fruit, if you know what I mean...

Anywife, we start the OC with another quasi-generic shot of Donn and Vicki bickering about god knows what. Folding laundry maybe? It doesn't matter. Snot-nosed Michael chimes in with some mediocre commentary about his mother and step-father's relationship....time together...blah blah blah.  Vicki is sad...[she] wants to be be's like [they're] strangers.  Well Vick, more often than not you get what you give. But that's not a narcissist-friendly concept, now is it?

There are only so many of Vicki's sad, generic marriage-analogies we can take, so it's off to another doomed relationship: Sletchen. I know, I know... lame name-combo, but I'm keeping it. It amuses me; it sounds like a poisonous reptilian shapeshifter, don't you agree? AnySletch, she's home from Texas and happy to see he can help her with her bags and she can call him Tubba Wubba. The monotony.  She talks about her ass-ugly sweat-shop handbags and Slade's broke self.  The monstrous support payments he owes for his terminally ill child are really bringing her down. Aaaaand, I'm done.

Peggy and Micah pack up their "MATCHING OUTFITS"  for Micah's birthday trip to Las Vegas.  Of course these two coordinate. Douche. I note that Peggy's tits are glandular saline behemoths.  Micah got his wish: I'm pretty sure her bolt-ons really could hold a wine glass...or in the Tanous's case a wine cooler is a more likely beverage.  Or a spritzer at best. I'm seeing good things in the future for these two: they are astoundingly tacky people, even by OC standards, they could get pretty trashtastic with a few seasons. 

I lost track of how many times Peggy said Vegas baby! and What happens in Vegas...

Such a clever girl. Boobs and brains. So rare. 

And guess who's joining them in 'Vegas?

Let's get to hookin'
Three whole sets of tits that could definitely act as some sort of alcoholic beverage koozie.  Micah looks pleased.  This is shaping up to be quite a burfday.

They chat about the withdrawing from Iraq without a secure political infrastructure in position, and consequently touch on Pakistan's obvious allegiance to the Taliban as a safeguard against the looming boarder war with India. If only Benazir Bhutto wasn't assassinated before she could make a real difference in the geo-political climate of the Middle East.  When they've beaten that dead horse they move on to the Bellinos and the no-brainer that is OC money management...Peggy is pretty sure Alexis is jelly belly of Pegster's up and coming position within the OC organization....who could blame her? Peggy is a force.  And then the golden nugget: Micah spews a bunch of piss shit about less savvy OC couples failing to  live within their means...keeping up with the Joneses...being something they're not.  Of course he could be talking about himself, but he's not.  And there's the gift. He's on the brink of foreclosure, spends money he doesn't have, and talks like he could teach Warren Buffet a thing or two about fiscal responsibility. Forget Alexis versus Peggy; I think Micah is going to give Jim a real run for his money as resident OC donkey.  

Next is more of this:
What part of EARN YOUR KEEP don't you understand?
Sletchen sitting by the fire pit sussing out their relationship.  Shut the fuck up you two. Gretchen's at a crossroads because Slade's broke and she's a gold digger.  He's served his purpose as a controversy-catcher and got her more airtime than she now knows what to do with. Nice ROI. He's turned out to be a really great bellhop too...a role Gretchen didn't see coming and will now make it that much harder for her to let him go.  By the way, what's the going severance pay for a Bi-atch? She's running her sweatshops on a shoe string, so she's thinking one day of pay for every year served.  Sounds fair. Moving on.

Oh, and she cries about wanting a kid with Slade, but reminds us that although she's madly in love...she's not madly in love AND stupid.  That's some quality word-smithing Rossi, someday when you do find Mr. Right Rich I'd be sure to get that engraved on the inside of your wedding band if I were you.  Words to love by. Truly.

Back in Sin City (Peggy coined that term herself and is looking to trademark it), Micah receives a custom made wack-off book filled with pictures of his lingerie clad wife. 
Will you look at that, the pages are laminated so my spunk won't stick.
Good times.

But soon it's time to bring it down a notch, or 20, with a Bravo produced video montage of why the Gunvalson marriage is a big, fat, saggy-faced FAIL. It's narrated by interview-Vicki and accompanied a super-sad instrumental...just in case some of us didn't grasp the gravity. There's no life in's not there anymore.  Can you imagine anything more...I don't know...HORRIBLE than watching basic cable fast forward through your marriage to the get to the juicy meat of your divorce?  

Now it's this one's turn:
Look at the jaunty angle of my hat Frenchie. Look!
I know style, and I know delicatessency...delicatel...delicatcy? What?
Alexis sits down with Pascal, the French owner of the bistro where she's having "thepremierofmydressline!!".  Please note that from this point forward "thepremierofmydressline!!" is newly coined and often used word (no, not even a phrase) by Alexis.  When spoken it must be accompanied by a full-body mini-hop, a squeak, and a hyper-extended-knuckle too-happy-sorority-sister full-palm clap.  Just one clap; you don't want to over do it.  The theme of thepremierofmydressline!! is: Fabulous. I love this woman's vocabulary and the manner in which she chooses to implement it. She wants thepremierofmydressline!! to be calm and classy. She also wants a few life-size cardboard cutouts of herself placed strategically through the room. Perfection.
Unamused and shellshocked.
Alexis doesn't want Pascal's fancy French food to fuck up the class of thepremieroffmydressline!!. He ignorantly suggests a few items: foie gras, brioche, and the like. Watching Alexis try to wrap her brain around these very basic and recognizable foodie terms is laugh out loud funny. She shuts Pascal down with what she thinks is a reasonable option: croissant sandwiches.  Sound French enough, right?

Classic. And painful.

Next we go out to dinner with Vicki and Tamra.  It's a real departure, because for the first time all season we see Tamra driving herself --instead of bombing around the OC in the back of limo while she humps Eddie on the fine Corinthian leather bench seats.  And it becomes painfully clear as to why Tamra usually opts for the limo: she can't drive for shit. She's a legit menace to society. I never thought about it before, but of course she's a horrific driver.  It just makes sense, doesn't it?

Anyroadrage, the besties go out to dinner and Vicki drops the long awaited bomb: Donn and I are having problems. Tamra isn't surprised. Vicki starts to ugly cry and spills her guts. This is it folks, the moment from which one can not turn back.  This isn't some  Love Tank running on E bullshit. Here's what she shared...with Tamra...and the rest of the world:

  • Donn called her once in four weeks when he went out of town. I didn't know Donn traveled too.
  • They don't fight because they don't speak. At all. Like bad room mates...which sucks because living with a silent room mate is rully rully awkward. At least with a fight you get make-up sex.
  • She's not completely miserable, she can continue to exist. Like if there were kids involved they'd tough it out? Yuck.
  • She wants to be touched...IT'S BEEN TWO YEARS SINCE THEY'VE BUMPED GUNVALSONS!!!!  Two years. No sex. Quick question: not even anal? Because some people don't count that... (Too soon? Too graphic? TOUGH.)
  • She wants to pray with her husband and have a biblical man in her life. Tamra, who can not  be a church-goer, doesn't know what to say to that.  And to be quite honest, neither do I.
  • She doesn't want to live a lie anymore. You don't have to worry about that Vicki, you just outed your shit marriage on national television.  The band-aid has officially been riiiiiiiiiiped of the Gunvalson union.  They're done.
Welp, that about covers least according to Vicki. You can't spill that kind of personal toxic sludge on camera without knowing you're tagging yourself out of the blessed union. Vicki is crying. Hard. She looks desperate and miserable.  And super saggy-faced.  The one bright spot? Vicki is super glad she didn't pull a dumb-ass move like this:
Tamra swears she'll help her Vick anyway she can...and I'm thinking: T, you've got enough goin' on, don't you think gurl?

Oh by the way, this all went down in a very crowded bar.  Gold stars for style.

Moving on, and speaking of style, the big night has arrived: THEPREMIEROFMYDRESSLINE!! is here! Alexis is bubbly and excited, and even kind of...cute? Whatever. She wants it to be an event void of evil eyes and mace, and I can't say I blame her.  All the usual bitchez arrive, and then some. Lynne Curtin is there too. Sidebar: in one of the episodes that I didn't recap (bratty Brassy!) Lynne showed up and revealed that her sad sack of a pushover husband, Frank, now works for her...making her cuff jewelry.  And they've decided to disown their daughters, Alexa and Raquel. That last bit about the daughters is a lie, but since we're on the subject...Lovely girls, remember them?
The reason Britney Spears thanks the
Lo-ward every-motherfucking-day
 that she didn't give birth to daughters.
Poor Frank, as if dealing with his two horrific daughters wasn't enough, now he's so hard up that he's making homemade jewelry for his brain dead wife? Yeeesh. Not good.

Anyway, the stage is set for Alexis's big night (or mid-afternoon, but whatever).  She makes a speech. Tells Cavali to move over! and rolls out her dresses.  It doesn't matter that Vicki isn't there yet, the show must go on. After all, this is the high stakes world of sweatshop couture.  Of course it's ugly and all the housewives make passive aggressive remarks in their interviews.  Tamra crassly but correctly wonders who can wear this without your cooter falling out?! Raaawwwwk! Even Gretchen comments that Jim might be mad about that one when a non-existent bikini, that would make even Leann Rimes blush, saunters by.

Oh, and each dress has a name...such as: Walk in The Park, Cinderella's Slippers, Slip It On, Sex In The City, Dancing With The Stars, and my most favorite name for anything ever: Paparazzi Love It.

Paparazzi. Love. It. This woman really does have a way with words, doesn't she?

But guess what? There's an undercurrent of tension that builds and builds and builds, until it crescendos and we learn from Tamra that her Vick is in the hospital.  Vicki! No! Don't go to the light! It's all a little mysterious and uncertain; of course Tamra goes on and on about it...and of course it's right in the middle of thepremierofmydressline!! so now these housedogs in drag have a bone to fight over.
Vicki texts Tamra her medical issue to diagnose: bleeding from the asshole. Yikes. Yucky, probably painful, and could be a symptom of any number of issues. Tamra panics because she just got Vicki back.  Lynne Curtin advises Tamra: don't get all worried for nothing, it makes more wrinkles...have a glass of wine.

Classic Curtin.

Anyass, the issue at hand becomes the fact that thepremierofmydressline!! is being upstaged by Vicki Gunvalson's bleeding anus.  Alexis doesn't like it, but keeps quiet because she's a good Christian.  But you know who doesn't keep quiet? Gretchen-fucking-Rossi.  On and on and on she goes about the irony of Vicki finding a way to upstage Alexis's event. If she's hemorrhaging I'm sad, but the timing? I'm so sick of those two's shenanigans. Lord, I love her trashy grammar. Tamra whips out her phone and show everyone a photo of Vicki's IV...which is of course so strange and laughable and bizarre it just adds to the genius of the moment.

So here's my take: of course Tamra was tacky about getting the news her friend was in the hospital--we all know she should've left the room discretely and gone to the hospital if she was so worried.  But that's in the real world, and this is Housewife-akstan. And Tamra is the tackiest broad I know so that makes her the ruling warlord of Housewife-akstan. She is dripping in tacky gold-stars. Vicki sending texts and pics from her death bed? Totally predictable; I wouldn't expect anything less from ma'Vick even if she was dealing with an emergency triple bypass. Alexis's reaction? Spot her immature, space-cadet world she was sorry any one of the Lord Father Jesus's children was bleeding from the rectum, but she had a mediocre, home-made fashion show to put on so she and her family could fall further into debt,! just! wasn't! fair!! (stomp foot now).

Now Gretchen--who by the way looked more over-the-hill-showgirl-tranny than ever.

Here's a close-up of her make-up:

The outside matches the insides on this one folks. Ugly.

Gretchen was a straight up spiteful, spoiled, nasty, shit stirrer. Smirking, smiling and gloating all over thepremierofmydressline!! like a grade-A mean girl.  At one point Tamra's phone rang (for the umpteenth time) and Gretchen cracks Is it Vicki calling from the ER? Ha! Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.  Apparently she felt totally justified because none of the Housewives visited her in the hospital when she was there with Jeff.  Good logic fuckface. Gretchen even asked Tamra if she thought Vicki was purposely bleeding from her asshole at the exact moment in time Alexis opted to reveal Dancing With The Stars and Paparazzi Love It.

Bravo ladies, well played.  All of you.  You are the Pinocchios to Andy Cohen's Gepetto.  You are the basic cable ratings gift that keeps on giving.  And thank GAWD I am almost through with you.  All of you.

Brassy out.