Postcards from the Champagne O’Clock: Real Housewives Foibles from my Vulture Vault

Here are some of my random meanderings on the Real Housewives of All Perdition of seasons past, brought to you by my mainlining on Vulture magazine boards and a word from one of our sponsors: “Depends”.

These ramblings took place in a world where Bowie and Prince were still among us. Needless to say, it was the best of times on an entirely magical, other planet where we thought we could stay forever-ever-ever-ever-ever…

What was I thinking in those days of wine and roses–and two supernovas burning to extinction under the Milky Way those nights–about Kim Richards, whose unhinged drug problem was stupidly being masked as the worst kept secret in Real Housewives history? And what of those other Housewives from the fabled Hills of Beverly and their real or much imagined betrayals, cloying ploys and kerfuffles? What of they, of silly tempests in petal pink tea cups the very lofty Lisa Vanderpump might have had Rocio serve to us on a diamante studded, silver platter–with tea roses–in her opulent, shrill-pinks-to-purple, ultra sheeny closet that would still be haunted by the ghosts of Liberace or Prince–had it not burned down? Let’s have a gander.

This is beyond awful and unforgivable–but it is, after all, why I’m here, so, has anybody wondered why Kim figures so significantly with people that are faced with serious ailments in their lives? Don’t they have strong pills? There was mention of the fact that Kim took care of her dying mother in the desert. (OK, I’m going to leave that sentence as it sounds ‘coz it makes me laugh and I’m beyond help today). That might not have been the genesis, but could it be the revolving pinnacle of her addiction, no?

Also, along with the great Dame Brian Moylen’s magical and literary heart-wrenching tail-end spins on the Vulture recaps and a fresh faced, dewy take from Bravo editing, Kim does emanate the most relatable humanity of them all this season. That, in and of itself, should be cause for great alarm for not only the other cast members, but the collective state of the world population at large.

As for another tenebrous and twisted aside, metaphorically speaking, it seems that Kim has been riding Disney ponies all her life–with Yolanda’s flatulent white horse in front of her, through one too many meandering Malibu canyons only to late-crash yet another rodeo, or mistime Wassailing on Halloween while bobbing for clowns.

As for the ever reigning Queen Bee, Lisa Vanderpump, what can I say? Go for it LVP! Scorch that earth and throw salt on it, for good measure. Who doesn’t remember the coup on Isla Perdida, aka Portovarta? Thanks for that one, Mumbles (Kim Richards). It will perpetually stick in my geographically altered mindscape where Puerto Rico can no longer be, thanks to this here great shared experience at the Real Housewives’ Institute of Wee Willie Wankery and Waffle House.

So, who can fault LVP for keeping it real, reigning it in and continuing-to-continue to be be the Uber-Reticent queen bee with that quick Brit wit and IQ that easily blows dust in the rest of the cast’s surgically deformed cat faces? Not I, beautiful people! And although our beloved Dame Moylen has helped us all don rose-tinted shades where Kim is concerned, she’s still a sputtering mess and a tad of an imbecile. As Judge Judy so philosophically waxed poetically–and with whom I so heartlessly and gleefully concur–stupid is forever. And wouldn’t LVP be stupid to forget all the insults-to-injury that this nest of vipers sharing-one-reptilian-brain tried to obliterate her with?

YoFo (Yolanda-Hadid-Foster-Once-Removed-And-Perpetually-Insufferable) was one of the unpardonable offenders. And Kyle–Et tu, Kyle? Always! Brandi: what can I say about her without resorting to a NeNe-ism: “Trashbox! Plop!”

Sorry this is not just off topic, but self revealingly juvenile: I just can’t help inserting an image of Lisar’s (Lisa Rinna) ostrich looking face–albeit a strangely gleeful and endearing ostrich face, that is–at the mere mention of the word “Depends”. Let that be that word from our sponsor brought to you, once again, by Bravo TV right here and now–unless you all prefer “Troutsnatch” which is better slated for a Real Housewives of New York days-of- future-past episode where Sonja’s weirdo gyno is looking for her withered sexy “J” with a mini-scud-missile-probe up her twat.

If as if one has to take a slow nacht–a non yacht–to Mallorca to find bootleg Chanel!? Oofff, already, Kyle. Poor, squat, little wannabe-rich-bitch, Kyle! Et Tu, Always, Kyle, with that obsessive knack–on and off that nacth–screaming to channel the sublime Elizabeth Taylor, Puerto Vallarta, circa 1973, with your diaphenously gaudy caftans, only to hit the mark with the daffy Mrs. Roper, circa 1981, instead.

And if as if we’d wanna sail at all with Kyle, all the live long days in that azure lull of the Mediterranean sea on The Champagne O’Clock!? I’d forgotten the cringeworthy name of the nacht. How could I? Isn’t that what stereotypical, chain smoking Eurotrash would think that Americans–particularly from land locked states–would find refined–or precious? I’m offending myself from both sides of the pond now–and it’s a good thing that Martha Stewart can’t hold against me.

As no guffaw is sacred, let’s mention in passing, or mere jest, Gigi (Hadid) who looks exclusively like a Guess jeans model that is storing a whole bunch more assorted nuts than the controversial two-almonds-once-daily quota–in her cheeks for the winter and away from YoFo’s scrutiny. These Guess girls don’t easily cross over (sans YoFo’s Kardashian-world-domination-plot, sans MoMo (Mohammed Hadid)’s self-rising, crusty dough, and least of all, sans Bravo TVEye-ya-yay!) into the ethereally and other worldly realm that can walk an Armani or Karl Largerfeld runway. Especally Karl’s! He’s got a laser eye for strange and utterly demanding perfection, made all the worse by his maintained weight loss and the fact that he no longer looks like he’s hiding the sweet and iconic Andre Leon Tally under his coat.

It’s no secret I’ve been known to throw away all dignity in exchange for a cheap joke, and I’m chasing myself into a figure eight from a dichotomy to an oxymoron all across this forum. As for MoMo (Mohammed Hadid), I do think he can build rather massive, and massively missive, ornate Turkish bath houses. And as for models and their intellectual properties–well, it’s back to that figure eight, all over again.

Meanwhile, in a galaxy far, far away, in the state of New Jersey and denial, sequined orange leopard is the new black for Teresa Giudice.

Yolanda’s fridge is Carmen Miranda’s final resting place and Mumbles may be an imbecile, but she’s not a recovering one! Just saying.


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