Just call me Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Jr. because I too have a dream. I have always dreamt of being an Upper East Side socialite. Naturally, you can imagine the happy dance I did when I heard that Bravo was producing The Real Housewives of New York City. Finally, I could get a real look at the rich and fabulous housewives of this fair city! Well I’ve looked…and now I need to go to the nearest high school chemistry lab and borrow their emergency eyewash.
I feel like a young child who has sneaked downstairs on Christmas Eve to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus, only to see their father putting the gifts under the tree. No, I’m more traumatized than that. I feel like a young child watching the Easter Bunny get slaughtered and then forced to wear its pelt while eating the rabbit stew it is now a part of.
That’s right kiddies, mama learned a hard lesson this week: money can’t buy class or style, it can only shine the terd that is redneck white trash and give it an inflated ego. –Sigh- I once took a summer road trip with my friend Helena to Canada. What we learned on that trip was rednecks are everywhere; no Mason-Dixon Line can contain them. We met Canadians whom magically had southern accents and referred to Asians as “Orientals.” Rednecks have infected our neighbor to the north and now they have infected Manhattan society. These women are obnoxious trash. But worse than that, they’re obnoxious trash with money, and I am not impressed. I feel like if you took away their drivers, they would be any given housewives from my hometown. I would rather watch paint dry than The Real Housewives of Olney, Maryland.
Let’s go through each housewife and rip her a new asshole so I feel better about being horribly poor. Mind you the picture below has been airbrushed more than a plain white t-shirt at a Boardwalk stand.
On the left we have housewife Ramona Singer. This woman offends me more than any other housewife. Let’s start with the eyes. The only thing this woman and I have in common is the look on our eyes when I watch this show—wide in shock and horror. Seriously, how much plastic surgery do you have to get to look that intensely shocked at all times? What happens to her eyes when she is genuinely shocked? Do they fall out? Jesus. Next, run a goddamn comb through your hair lady. We just discussed how freak-show wide your eyes are so I know you see the cameras following you around. You’d think you would want to brush that Crayola-yellow hair of yours so it doesn’t consistently look like you just came from driving a convertible on the highway. I feel horrible for this woman’s daughter. Countless times they show her 12-year-old daughter cringe in embarrassment as her mother prances around calling herself a MILF wearing ensembles exclusively from the clubbing section of a Forever 21. Last time I checked you are richer than God and Chanel does not make spangly neon pink spandex/lycra halter mini-dresses. You do the math. The crème de la crème is Ramona’s jewelry. Oh Lawd Jesus where do I even start? ::Patsy sharpens claws and takes a deep breath:: I understand your husband is in the religious jewelry business and I understand that you want the world to know that Jesus died for our signs on the cross. That being said, there is no excuse to wear giant blinged-out crosses that look like the ghost of Tammy Faye’s style vomited all over them. Ramona is also seen playing tennis on her million-dollar South Hampton mansion’s tennis court wearing a cute tennis outfit and a diamond Playboy bunny necklace. In the name of Ralph Lauren, Michael Kors and American Sportswear, someone take this woman out back and shoot her in the head like Ole Yeller to put her out of her misery. And by her misery, I clearly mean my misery.
Next up is yentah Jill Zarin. My only gripe with Jill is her daughter and the fact that she scores a .02 on the Fabulous Richter Scale. I feel like I’m having dinner at any given Jewish friend from High School’s house when I watch her segments. Now I went easy on Ramona’s daughter, so I’m going to unleash on Jill’s. I had high hopes for Jill’s daughter—she’s 14 years old but looks 18, hates her rich step-daddy and is going to “detox” in Martha’s Vineyard. Holy Marissa Cooper, batman! Disappointingly, this is a watered down plot line. We’re forced to watch awkward just plain uncomfortable interactions between her and her stepfather that are boring and sans intrigue and she’s going to “detox” not because she’s a 14 year old alcoholic or something equally fabulous, but rather to lose weight for a week. Boo let me help you out. You a little curvy, but you don’t need to spend $10,000 to spend a week in Martha’s Vineyard with someone telling you to put the honey cake down and pick up an apple. Ain’t nothing wrong with a little extra meat on your bones. But stop wearing the Official Insecure Young Fat Girl Outfit. The Official Insecure Young Fat Girl Outfit consists of tennis shoes, socks pulled up and then folded over once, denim shorts and a t-shirt. That shit doesn’t look good on anyone. Those demin shorts will ride up and get trapped in the crotch of anyone and maybe your thighs aren’t an area we want a denim camel toe pointing to. Use that 10 grand you were going to use for “detox” in Martha’s Vineyard and get thee to Bergdorf’s and go one-size-up crazy, and then get a drinking problem like a proper 14-year-old Manhattan socialite.
Everyone bow for Countess Luann De Lesseps. I can’t be impressed with this piece of (married into) royalty because I think she’s impressed enough for the both of us. The Cuntess is seen in a preview for a future episode reprimanding a fellow casemate for introducing her to the help. Honey, you host “The Countess Report,” a cable-access television show in the Hamptons. Wayne and Garth had less of an attitude and were far more relatable.
Bethanny Frankel. Comparable to The Real Housewives of Orange County’s Jo, except Blade is bald and 99% less interesting.
Lastly we have Alex McCord. I can stand Alex the most out of all of the housewives. Sure her husband looks like Eddie Izzard if he got beaten with an ugly stick and we see her ass in a thong, a dish I don’t think anyone at this table ordered, but I think I like her. She lives in a nice area of Brooklyn (Blair has seen her on the subway!) and is pompous in all the right ways. She has a French nanny for her two ridiculously named children (Francois and something else equally destined to make him gay), summers in St. Bart’s instead of The Hamptons, and along with her husband is viciously trying to climb the social ladder. Now that is what I want to see. That is proper snobbery. Thank you Mrs. McCord. Too bad at the top of that ladder is a bug eyed woman wearing hot pants and pasties in the shape of Playboy bunnies asking her daughter if she thinks she’s a MILF.
Sha la la!