Real Housewives alert! They’re getting closer! Though still in the Hamptons, the wan, gauzy summer is drawing to a close and soon they’ll be back in our beloved Manhattan, shedding wrinkly skin like first snowfall.
Ohhh where to begin with this cavalcade of chemical warfare agent-injected miseries. I guess we’ll start with my least favorite housewife, the Countess Shitburger de Fartscape. LuAnn McCarnahan or whatever her dumb name is had some of her festering friends to a dog birthday party at a dog store in the Hamptons. Ramona began speaking backwards and her hair stood on end and then brought out an eerie white lizard that immediately pooped on her. Cryptically, Ramona said “it’s not the first time something entirely white has pooped on me.” She then jumped into her hot air balloon and said “To Antarctica, Admiral Whitepoop!” Then she fell out of the basket and lay on the street, meowing softly.
After, or likely during, the stupid dog birthday party, Alex and her gay gamekeeper Simon du van der beef went shopping! Simon loved it because he could see various fabrics lashed across the stork-like mound of skin and wispy hair that is Alex. “She’s basically naked with a slight bit of cloth over her,” he said. Which is like saying “She’s basically alive except with a thin shroud of death over her.” They spent a staggeringly stupid $8,000 on ugly clothes, while their fake-French children sat back in their crumbling shack, weeping softly for the future. Then Simon couldn’t get the trunk on his ugly Toyota Camry open and the world, once again, course corrected.
OK, let’s haul the cameras and our bleary attention over to Jillothy and Beth, who were flopping around Jill’s manse like house cats. Jill basically said “Hey B-town, stay here in H-ville for the sizzy.” So she did and cooked for them and they oozed around Jill’s enormous bed. At one point Bethenny put on a wig and did her Jill Zarin impression, which basically involved wearing a sparkly dress and shrieking. Horrifyingly accurate!
Ummm…….. Alex and van der Beef went swimming! Simon sucked his stomach in and Alex planted her face into the sand, as is the true nature of an Easter Island statue made animate, and they stared at the merciless, frigid North Atlantic with weary abandon. You see it wasn’t the calm, urine-filled-kiddie-pool warm of the Caribbean seas, where they spend a lot of time, on St. Barth’s in the pathetic off season, bracing their rickety, scarecrow-like bodies against the cruel cold winds of utter failure. But despite the Hamptons water being full of poor people, they shouldered their huge, rumbling debt and trundled into the water. van der Beef shed his well-appointed garments to reveal an aquamarine Speedo bathing costume not seen since that wild Labor Day party at Greg Louganis’ house in ’89. So the world became miserable and the moon frowned and several children bled from the eyes and fell over dead. Luckily van der Beef brought some actual swim trunks and yanked those over his leathery, minnowy frame to prevent even more bloodshed.
Ramona sang a song to the Three Winds and rode her flying dolphin over to a restaurant where she met Bethenny. There she revealed a terrible secret: back in the “early to mid 90’s” she’d written two articles for Cosmopolitan magazine, a publication for Cameron Diaz in The Sweetest Thing and the Bebe-clad zombies who adore her. Basically the articles made strange Kevin Costner references and involved a picture of Ramona greased up and holding barbells, her moon units thrust toward the murky heavens like so many lonely, confused nighttime people. Bethenny looked at her strangely and then Ramona said “Congratulations, robot time!” and did a long choreographed dance to the sound of a distant accordion. A few more children eye-bled and fell over, perished.
Back at the ranch, Jill was sending her well-fed daughter off to Paris, where we all hope she meets a dashing young lad named Jean-Claude or Pierre Le Ladydude who will sweep her off her cloddish hooves and whisk her away to a world of eggs Florentine farts and afternoon lovemaking. In truth she’ll whine about everything and eat only McDonald’s and will meet a boy named Mike who is round and potato-ish and was also sent from the States to Paris for the summer by his rich Kansas City parents so he could lose some weight and find some tiny horcruxy sliver of a personality. Instead he’ll drink warm beer from glasses in his Left Bank garret then turn over and make sweaty, wheezy sex to Jill’s daughter and they’ll both feel the exact same sensation they felt after watching a movie like Hancock—the stale buttery taste of popcorn lingering in their mouths, a vague dissatisfaction with the ruddy old rock of an endgame that all this heaving action was leading towards. It will be the best summer of their thigh-filled lives and, when older and weighted further with a crushing bouquet of stony compromises, they’ll stare off down the lawn at the older kids whispering grassy secrets to each other and remember that one summer in Paris when they mashed into each other like two yawing starships, adrift in a dying, echoing galaxy.
While this terrible Hot Pocket future was being knitted, Bethenny was receiving lovable counsel from Jill’s even more lovable Jewlady mother. This woman could talk sense into a serial child murderer. She is that talented. Basically Bethenny was sad about being alone and, hell, who isn’t, so Jill’s mother talked some sad, nutty sense into her and we all, all of us, every last one of us, wept bitter tears of truth.
The Countess Fartbox McLeerytits shared her (sincerely) sad cancer story about her father, then meat-rolled herself into a skinny white gown so she could be feted by the American Cancer Society. She invited the girls along so they could all bask in her glorious success. Kelsey Grammer was there and he made fun of her for being a countess but she didn’t realize it because her head is full of Winston cigarette butts and the carburetor from a 1978 Chevy Nova. So Countess Poophammer O’Bannion talked through all the presentations but then got upset that people were talking over her introduction so she ran up on stage and yelled at everyone. The Countess!!!!!! Demands!!!!!! SILENCE!!!!!!!!! But whatever, in the end everyone goes lonely and alone, gripping the sides of their hospital beds, hoping to hold on. So what can we do. A glass raised and whatnot to you, Countess LuAnn De Lesseps. A lonely, noble sailor you are.
OK, this is getting long-winded and dumb. So let’s wrap up. Kelly Killoren Bensimon Humperdinck went to a party for “work.” She writes a column called “The Socializer” which is tacked up on her refrigerator every Tuesday morning. And, I dunno, people were nice to her and she declared “I love the Hamptons!!!” and somewhere from beneath the soft-dirted ground, a low and quiet rumble went up and it said “The feeling is not mutual…” but no one heard it over the sound of Kelly’s creaking rope-and-pulley body lurching over a small embankment towards her car. The sun spun like a top and three more children had bleedy eyes.
Next week the Countess Arli$$ Qualityinn gets her maid back, who was being a selfish bitch by going home to see her family. Also, sadly folks, Ramona dies. Yeah, see she’s doing an experiment in her garage/lab to see what happens when she sets herself on fire. It turns out that what happens is you die from fire. So that’s pretty sad. But don’t worry! Ramona has infused seven crystals with her life essence and they lie hidden around the globe. The minute she is engulfed and expires, one of the crystals will be activated and she’ll be born anew. Fear not, Admiral Whitepoop. You shall see thy beloved again.
OK, I apologize for this. Good night.