It was information overload this week on The Real Housewives of Atlanta.
I don’t remember reading any disclaimer in TV Guide, but this was definitely an episode that proudly left my television screen a little sticky. Whether it was an unborn baby’s fat head pushing on Kim’s bladder like that top chute on a KitchenAid food processor, or NeNe doing her best Open Mic Night imitation of a porn shop vibrator, there was no doubt that these girls are shameless.
Rich. And shameless.
New money buys you a lot of shiny lip gloss, but it don’t buy you no filter when you talk, girl. I hear dat.
After tossing attitude (and Donald Trump’s name…) all over Atlanta last week and coming dangerously close to a patented Real Housewives restaurant table flip with Sheree, NeNe had to get outta Haterville asap, so she wrangled up her one remaining friend Cynthia, and her emergency spare Kandi and they all headed to Miami like three Cougars on a delayed Spring Break.
From the first moment they pulled up to the check-in desk, these three were on the prowl. Or at least two out of three. Cynthia still hasn’t paid off that ginormous Flintstone’s wedding, so she was a little preoccupied with her newlywed status. But NeNe and Kandi were loud and proud and started talking the nasties before the Bellhop even showed them how to operate the AC unit.
NeNe’s goal was to find Kandi a man as they both compared notes on who has been pulling legs up and throwing legs back and wantin’ some and wantin’ it and gettin’ some and gettin’ it like they were back in 9th grade Study Hall. Cynthia sat back like the good girl at the other end of the cafeteria table, while the horrified Bellhop stood frozen in place.
Whatever amount of bank Kandi tipped him, I can guarantee you it is not nearly enough to cover the therapy that is going to be required to get some of those visuals out of his brain. Dude is scarred for life.
While NeNe and her lady parts were terrorizing Bellhops, Kim was looking forward to her 33rd birthday.
Yeah.
Thirty three.
I know…don’t even start. Let’s just call it a hard 33 and move on.
While she was laying in bed with Chanel, the half dog/half bear cub puppy with the shaved junk, Kim’s own chew toy Kroy Biermann and Sweetie were downstairs planning her surprise birthday party.
I’m not really sure what kind of party you throw someone who is turning 33…again…so it’s no wonder they were struggling a bit.
Kroy, who still hasn’t figured out that the faux-hawk is over…and Sweetie, who still hasn’t figured out that Lincoln freed the slaves…are the most perfectly mismatched set of dishes in that whole kitchen. Kim has both of them so whipped that they don’t know which end is up, and they both jump whenever she bellows out their names.
Kroy is total backwoods skin-a-moose redneck while Sweetie could blind you with her blinged out cell phone, and yet together they are still not enough to handle Kim.
The only thing louder than Kim screeching “Sweeeeetieeeee” every time she needs her feet rubbed is the sound of Kim in the bathroom trying to relieve some baby head pressure. I could have lived without some of those sound effects.
I’m never going to be able to fall asleep listening to rain water pouring down the storm drain again. No wonder Chanel chewed his own fur off.
Thank goodness Phaedra was up next to give us some normalcy.
After burying her Great Aunt last week, Phaedra suddenly got “the calling” to become a Funeral Director.
I mean…who wouldn’t want Phaedra to help in the transition to the Great Beyond?
I’ve already clearly stated in my will that when I go I totally want the lawyer who represented Bobby Brown back when he tried to stiff Whitney Houston on child support to make sure my funeral goes off like Showtime at The Apollo.
Puh-leez. That qualifies her, right?
Like the gospel version of Luke Skywalker, Phaedra searches out the Yoda of the Rebel Funeral Alliance, Willie Watkins, to assist her in this new venture. In an odd combination of Funeral Home solemnity and House O’ Weave head bobbing , the two of them meet up and discuss Phaedra’s new interest.
When Willie took her into the Coffin Room, which looked eerily like the Bose Speaker Room in the back of Best Buy, Phaedra had a difficult time imagining that some people may need to down-size to a less expensive box in their time of grief. After last week’s slam against Chevy Impalas when NeNe called them “ghetto” and now this week when Phaedra compares a tin coffin to a Pinto, I don’t think this show is going to be receiving much support from the United Auto Workers Union anytime soon.
With one hand firmly on the Bible and the other on the family’s checkbook, Phaedra is certain that she would have exactly what it takes to succeed. Willie, in his best black Yosemite Sam voice tries to explain that she also needs to show some compassion and drop the hem on her skirt about 6 inches. Luckily she always carries her Prayer Cloth in her Louis bag just for such occasions, and she is quick to cover her sultry legs.
The compassion part might take a little more than a lace hankie. Oh Lawd.
Back in Miami, the three girls are using up all their food and drink tokens as quickly as they can.
I’m not sure who they used to book this trip, but they neglected to mention it was Lesbian Pride Weekend in Miami which would explain the extraordinarily large number of chicks on the beach, and all the motorcycles at Home Depot. That seriously cut down on Kandi’s chances to score, but now they could shovel down fried chicken and fries guilt free.
It also gave them more time to bash Sheree and Kim, while they all tried to analyze each other. New Money. Old Money. Trump Money. And so on. NeNe insists that she is filthy rich now and that everyone is jealous of her sudden wealth and new teeth, which were put to good use as they grazed through nearly everything on the menu.
Hind site being 20/20, I’m thinking that they may have wanted to hold off on some of those fries. At least that is what came to mind after the girls hit the beach and seductively unleashed all o’ that in their swimsuits.
No wonder Mom always warned about putting on your bathing suit and swimming until 30 minutes after you ate lunch. And it was all in yo’ face…in HD.
We got another round of nasty girl talk as they shoveled down even more snacks, all while making fun of Kandi’s big “playground” thighs and men who won’t…you know…down there.
Back in ATL, we finished up with Kim’s party and a little bit of Sheree. Almost forgot about her this week.
Sheree’s contract must have required her scenes, because they were pretty unnecessary and took time away from the naughty girl talk. We learned that her son has enormous feet and that she still thinks NeNe is trash. If Kandi and NeNe were there at the Sports Authority you know that those size 14 sneakers would have gotten their lady parts all giggly.
I swear someone needs to take the garden hose to those two. Like cats in heat.
Kim’s party was a big success. It was hard to keep it a secret, but Bubba Biermann managed to keep his huntin’ trap shut until the Big Reveal. Both the guests and Kim’s physically impossible breasts were about to bust out all over the kitchen by the time everyone screamed “Surprise!”
Kim got an understated $22,000 chocolate diamond bracelet and a Louis Vuitton cake that looked better than the real thing at Neiman’s. All the girls, and the salon girly boys, were there for the festivities. NeNe was a no show, which made Phaedra smile in that crazy big mouthed jack-o-lantern way she does. Momma is fierce. And don’t you forget it.
Since everyone was gathered around the table, food was uncovered and there were kids in the room, what better time to debate the pros and cons of knocking boots while pregnant? Since Phaedra apparently has no shut off valve on her indoor plumbing, if you know what I mean, she was all about it while she was pregnant with her Baby Daddy’s child. Kim felt like she was missing out on something and Bubba just blushed and got a sweaty forehead.
Kim’s daughter looked like the Bellhop in Miami.
Shoot me or tip me. Just make it be over.
And then it was. Until next year when Kim turns the Big 33…again.
Time to close the lid on another week.
And your legs, please.
