Mommy don’t likes to talk about fighting. Or Grammar. Gimme dat book.
Men are pigs. Lying pigs. Cheatin’, lying pigs I tell yous.
And dogs. Cheatin’, lyin’ pigs and dogs. (Bleepin’) hairy ones.
With tattoos. Hairy cheatin’, lyin’ pigs and dogs with (bleepin’) tattoos.
I ain’t gonna lie. I’m pretty (bleepin’) turned on right now.
So there are a couple of things I have learned over the years that have served me quite well in my lifetime.
Don’t run with scissors.
Don’t eat paste, unless it’s the really chunky cottage cheesy Elmer’s in the round jug with the brush attached to the lid.
Don’t ever stick your finger in a light socket.
Don’t ever blow dry your hair in the bathtub unless it’s Prom Night and you’re running late.
And whatever you do…never cheat on any of the Mob Wives.
Ever.
Seriously.
You’d be better off gambling your life away with a random combination of the above pointers than dissing the Wives, as we all just witnessed in this week’s episode.
The Wives took a little breather from all the Inner Circle drama to focus their attentions on Man Bashing, and their wasn’t one Mafia Ape who made it out alive without a few bruises.
You knew the men didn’t stand a chance when we started out with Drita and her Mission to Not Fight Tour at the local boxing ring.
That’s not a typo.
Drita is trying not to fight so much. She is working on turning over a new leaf in an effort to be a better role model for her daughter. But just in case she ever does have to go another rooftop round or two, she wanted to make sure she could completely knock the (bleep) out her opponent instead of simply yanking an extension or two from their skull. So she got herself a trainer at Evolution.
And you know that any joint with a wall logo scripted in the same font used on rocker tee shirts and tramp stamps has to be bad a**.
As Drita wailed on her trainer’s focus pad like it was Karen’s face, we got a little backstory about the first time she beat up a Dbag boy. It was in kindergarten.
Yeah. Kindergarten.
At the age when most girls were still wearing Disney Princess onesies to bed, it seems our Little Drita was already giving bloody noses to any boy who wouldn’t share his Elmer’s.
Let that be a lesson to anyone trying to hog the good stuff while making those construction paper chains for your Christmas tree.
Now that they are Big Girls and no longer eat paste, at least in public, Karen and Ramona hit up one of their old stomping grounds for what I like to call Snack & Smack.
Have some snacks. Talk some smack.
Put it on a tee shirt if you want, but I get half the profits. I thought of it.
Ramona is still not a big Carla fan, even though they superficially made up last week and agreed to disagree on the whole “Drita Said…” thing.
Ramona is like one of those bottle rockets that you light, and the fuse catches on fire but then it never goes off. Even though it’s burning and nothing is happening, you don’t dare get any closer. So you just quiver with one hand over your face the whole time and wonder when the thing is going to pop off.
She’s like that.
Plus she constantly does that tongue thing where I can’t tell if she is trying to get lipstick off her blindingly white teeth, or simply licking the blood of her last victim off her gums. I can’t be the only one who notices. Check it out on Hulu. I think I really like her, but she spooks me so much I can’t tell for sure.
Ramona is totally going to nail Carla at some point, but I don’t know when. But it’s coming.
While Ramona was tonguing her White Strips, Carla and Drita met up for their own S&S.
Carla, who I swear could do the poor man’s Cher Cabaret down at the Staten Island Community Theatre, wanted to let Drita know about her lunch with Ramona. She doesn’t really look like Cher, at least not in too much of a RuPaul kind of way. But there’s something about her ginormous earrings, fur accented jungle prints and cut out sleeves that make me miss Sonny Bono and Chaz when he wasn’t Chaz.
While Drita called Ramona a “manipulator” over and over and wore a big hippy hat, Cher ate pasta and sang Half breed. It was a total flashback moment.
Like any good hippy flashback, when you wake up you’re usually peeing on the floor somewhere. And sure enough…God’s Gift to Reality TV Big Ang and her newbie fuzzy puppy Louie were takin’ care of their bidnezz right there at the Doggie Boutique.
I love me some Mob Wives.
But I looooooooove me some Big Ang.
And so does everyone else, according to Big Ang. How could they not?
After years of receiving wads of cash, houses, clothes, cars, boobs and at least one set of injected lips from every eligible Wise Guy on the East Coast, Big Ang has recently gotten back into the dating scene. This time around though, it’s been a pool full of weirdos and the recently paroled.
But at least she got a redoinkulously cute puppy out of the deal, and Baby needed some gear.
After a mini fashion show of top hats and gangstah hoodies, Big Ang and Louie are Red Carpet Ready. Too bad he kept peeing on it.
And speaking of nervous pee…in preparation for the release of her Mob book and press tour, Karen met up with her Media Consultant Patricia to get some pointers on not flipping out at every interview when they diss her father.
The scene was pretty uneventful. At least until poor Patricia asked if there were any Hot Points that may come up in interviews that could potentially set Karen off into orbit.
Karen casually mentioned that…umm…well…maybe her father kinda sorta murdered 19 people and…well…check it out in reruns.
Patricia basically swallowed her gum and then slowly…verrrrrry slowly…slid her hands off the desk and into her lap, where I assume she either pressed one of those bank robbery panic buttons, or was fumbling in her purse for some unlicensed Mace.
Either way. Classic television. Right up there with the finale of M*A*S*H.
If someone had shot the helicopter down, I mean.
Anyway.
Moving from awkward to exceptionally awkward, Renee had somehow managed to coerce Junior into Couples Therapy at that odd double/triple decker looking house where her therapist Mikey works. In my head I always think that therapists work out of hospitals, not multi family homes with a two chair salon on the first floor, but I guess I would know better if I ever kept one of my appointments.
As Junior and his crazy cool soap opera scar sunk deeper and deeper into the couch, the world’s worst dressed therapist tossed out a few questions.
Seriously, this kid is probably 20 years old maybe? Dude dresses like he just wrapped a game of pick-up basketball down behind the Y and forgot his gym bag at home. I couldn’t tell which sweat spots were from the hoops and which were from Junior staring him down.
Basically Junior didn’t stand a chance as he started reliving their courtship, and the whole thing spiraled out of control to the point where I expected Mikey to burn some rubber in those untied Adidas and just bolt down the stairs.
In what has to go down as one of the most uncomfortably creepy moments in recent television history, Renee called out Junior for finally allowing her to be face up during their…umm…knocking of the boots, as they say in all those rap songs kids listen to nowadays.
Yeah. Doing the nasty. And finally not face down after all these years.
Turns out Junior only recently allowed her to flip the R-burger over on the grill because she was finally skinny enough to look at during the Grind.
At that point, I literally put on my own Adidas and ran out of my own house into traffic.
By the time I caught my breath and came back inside, Junior had already gone into some comatose, vegetative state and was refusing to talk. He looked like that robot in Lost in Space whenever someone pulled out his battery pack and his Slinky arms went numb.
Like that. But with a scar, and a nagging ex-wife.
If he knew what was good for him, Mikey should have joined Louie at the Doggie Park and they both could have run around in circles to burn off some stress.
Wearing their best strip mall Jlo sweats, Big Ang and Drita took Baby Louie out for a little squirt and some more Man Bashing.
Big Ang was styling in some majorly oversized Carol Channing paparazzi shades and a velour number that had to have been held together with the same powerful metal they use on those stunt man Zip Lines. How that poor little zipper contained all of Big Ang’s Big Angishness is a mystery to me, and probably to modern technology. I have no clue where she kept her smokes in that outfit.
Gah. I love me some Big Ang.
For a quick Family Moment, Drita was trying to help out her daughter Aleeya with some kind of school looking homework, when Aleeya asked Mom if she had ever been in a fight.
Seriously, kid?
Do you not own a TV?
Drita fumbled her way around one of the school books, basically holding it upside down and praying for a miracle, when the phone rang. Saved by the bell.
It was Lee calling from the Big House, and he was pretty gosh darn nice this time around.
He basically confessed to his cheating misdeeds and tried to get back on her good side, which messed with Drita’s head even more than the long division problems that Aleeya had handed just her.
The rest of the episode was Man Bashing Super-sized.
Ramona had to take her 4 kids to the park and let them know that her boyfriend (bleep) was in jail. (Why won’t they say his name?! This is just Google torture.) The kids basically sat on the grass looking bummed, but I think it was because they thought they were going for ice cream and Mom pulled a downer. She also told the kids to pray to God when one of them asked her about bail.
Pray to God for bail money? Does that work with rent, too? Sweet.
Karen got on her cell with her ex-boyfriend David and immediately went a few rounds regarding who was going to take care of their daughter and why Karen had bailed and gone back to Staten Island, leaving him fresh out of prison with a kid to feed.
David (bleeped) her out a few times and said he was “still the same G!”
G? Geoffrey the butler from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air? Shut up. Will Smith always called him G. I knew I recognized that voice.
To finish off the week, Drita, Carla and Renee sat around the kitchen and…you guessed it…Man Bashed like they were on The View. The Staten Island local cable access one.
It was a crash course in cheating men and prison dads and pregnant strippers and enough (bleepity bleeps) to guarantee that at least one of their kids can now go to college on the Swear Jar scholarship change alone.
Oh. And Renee started to have another breakdown.
Men are pigs.
(Bleepin’) pigs.
Except me.
Duh.
