I’d like to thank all the Wise Guys who made these two Wide Guys possible.
Seriously. Carrying a sawed off .38 snub nose would be less dangerous than running with those.
Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you, Mister. This goes into this.
Next week on VH1. Toddlers & Tiaras: Where Are They Now?
My eyes! Just poke them out. Poke. Them. Out. Now!
If there was ever a Public Service Announcement for why all weapons, regardless of caliber or cup size, should be handled with the utmost care…it was this week’s episode of Mob Wives.
For a show whose (bleepin’) legacy is built on (bleepin’) chick fights and the ever present possibility that (bleepin’) Staten Island strip mall restaurant gunfire could erupt at any minute, they may have outdone themselves on this one. Everywhere you turned there was another reason to duck and cover.
There are some things in life that just can’t be explained.
One. Why I love this show. Dunno. I just do.
Two. How Renee hasn’t had an aneurysm yet. Dunno. Must be the medicinal unfiltered smokes.
Three. Big Ang. I can’t explain her. I don’t even think that the Laws of Physics could really explain Big Ang. She just exists, even though her existence seems to disprove the Laws of Gravity. But the world is a much better…and bigger…place because of her.
And I love me some Big Ang.
This week the Wives, minus Drita, were still landlocked in the Poconos.
After a bit of a heated rumble during Karaoke Night at Shenanigans Bar & Rough House, everyone woke up the next day feeling a little more relaxed. And what better way to chill out after going head to head with a backwoods drunkard with one nibbly than shooting guns?
As Renee, Carla, Ramona and Karen headed off to the local rifle rang to take out their aggression on some empty soda pop cans and a disoriented squirrel or two, Drita was back home checking in on our Reality Queen Big Ang, who had just undergone some thyroid surgery.
Poor Big Ang. Turns out that when you have thyroid surgery they require that you wear the same brace that you wear if you snap your neck hitting a tree during a ski trip.
Between the foam neck brace and bulky sweater, it would have been less cumbersome if someone had just strapped Big Ang into one of those Don’t Lick Yourself Petco collars that you shove on a puppy after you clip his junk. I wanted to go online and order an Edible Arrangement I felt so bad.
But our girl was taking it all in stride. Let’s be real. In all honesty, it’s not like she has ever looked down and seen anything besides boob since puberty, so she was handling her situation pretty well. Not being able to move her neck didn’t really cut into her daily routine, and most of her shoes have got to be slip ons. I mean, really. Do the math.
What Big Ang was lacking in mobility, she made up for in hilarity as she kept Drita in stitches with hospital stories. I’m pretty sure that milk came out of Drita’s nose at one point while Big Ang did her stand up shtick.
Did I mention that I love me some Big Ang?
Then it was back to the shooting range where the Wives were getting their Gun Moll on.
As poor Billy the GunBoy nervously went over the rules of firearm warfare, Renee listed off the name of each weapon like she was at a Flea Market buying Beanie Babies.
Seriously. Girlfriend knows her sniper s***.
Renee probably can’t remember to turn the iron off when she leaves the house, but she rattled off every street name for every pistol on the table. I give Billy credit for not just running in the opposite direction. Would you want to hand over a weapon to Renee Graziano and then stand in front of her while she tried to load a clip without flicking her Marlboro? Show of hands?
I give him credit, but you know the field smelled like wood chips, ashtrays and nervous pee. I wasn’t sure if he was going to last through the whole practice session.
For all her (bleep) talk and artillery knowledge, Renee couldn’t hit the side of a barn. As the other Wives sat back looking like something out of L.L.Bean’s Fall 1995 woodland gangstah catalog, Renee shot out every gopher hole in the field until she finally hit a target.
As they piled into the Mercedes and headed off to Staten Island clutching their target sheets, I’m fairly certain I heard one last lone bullet go off back at the range.
Billy. We hardly knew ya.
I’m betting that Renee’s son AJ wished he had one of those guns when Mom came home, because Renee felt it was time for The Talk.
Yeah. That Talk. About girls and stuff. Gross.
AJ has started seeing Sydney, and things are getting fairly serious with this girl. She seems like a nice enough kid, and looked pretty tame. She kind of has that Sorority Sister look with the whole straight blond hair/headband thing going on, until she opens her mouth and then she’s all Staten Island Orange Julius at the Mall Girl.
But Sydney is pretty…and a girl…so Renee wanted to get a jump on the Birds & the Bees before AJ tried anything behind the bleachers.
While AJ squirmed in his seat and texted “Help Me” on his iPhone, Renee discussed the various forms of contraception available to teenagers at Cumberland Farms and how it doesn’t take a trained Bloodhound to smell some Nasty on a girl.
Again. Gross.
I mean. She’s his mom for crying out loud. It was a boy’s worst nightmare. Fresh off her trip to the Poconos, Renee wanted to make sure that her son’s little pistol stayed in the holster as long as possible. Probably until it was shooting blanks, if she had her way.
But when it turned out that AJ couldn’t even spell the word “sex” without stumbling (…for realz…check it out…) I don’t think that Renee needed to worry too much just yet.
Besides, there were more important things to worry about.
Like spray tans.
Drita’s cousin Jackie, a real cousin for a change and not the “Girl…you’re like a cousin to me” cousin everyone in the Mob seems to have, was launching her latest swimwear line and had asked Drita to model for the catalog. So that meant that Drita needed a tan before she slipped into those website bikinis, and lucky for us it was Big Ang to the rescue.
Complete with a garbage bag spray tent and Maaco paint compressors, Big Ang had rearranged her living room into a disturbingly grown-up, jungle printed version of the Ramada hotel rooms where those crazy pageant moms hose down their baby girls before the Glitz portion of the competition.
And speaking of grown up…
Big Ang. Bikini.
Close your eyes and imagine.
It was everything you could possibly hope for, and more. Like something that flies over the Superbowl at halftime. Times two.
Literally, when I came back from the kitchen after getting a snack I honestly thought someone had broken into my house within the last 30 seconds, stolen my plasma television and replaced it with a brand new Sony 3D. No lie, I had to move my chair back another 18 inches so I wouldn’t get that hysterical blindness they always get on General Hospital.
And she has a tattoo. Under all that boobishness, waaaaaay down there.
Yeah. And it’s not a temporary one. So that means that somebody had to stay down there long enough to create that masterpiece. I’m kinda jealous if you really want full disclosure.
Did I mention that I love me some Big Ang?
Every week I swear I’m going to make her laugh my new ring tone. This week I mean it.
No pun intended, but everything else after the tanning tent just paled in comparison.
Drita unleashed her newly tanned torso for the photo shoot, which was an odd mix of Speedo meets Soft Porn and created a catalog portfolio worthy of any prison wall. When she’s mad, Drita has no verbal filter. When she poses, she has no body fat.
Bar fights and Boxing are paying off. You go, girl.
Carla’s ex Joe was finally released from the halfway house, and he came over to hug the kids and eat pasta. Other than that, you didn’t miss much.
There was also a downer of a scene with Ramona and her daughter Melina. The only thing that cute little girl wanted for her birthday was to be able to go visit Ramona’s boyfriend in prison, and Mom finally caved and took her to the Big House. I’d rather have a pony. But she’s a Mob Kid, so I guess they have different priorities.
I’m starting to think that when the elusive boyfriend was pulled over by the cops a few weeks back it must have been for more than a broken tail light, because Ramona had to explain that he was in a really rough place. Unless he’s still in line at the DMV then he must have done something really bad, though they always gloss over exactly wassup with this dude.
Melina got really bummed and cried, and the whole thing got a little real. This is the Mob. The real Mob.
I wanted to slap Ramona and tell her to grab her White Strips, scoop up that kid and go work at Kohl’s or something to give that little nugget at least a chance at a normal life.
Later on Ramona, who I’m also starting to think might be a little bit of a manipulator, managed to get Renee so tightly wound over Carla’s connection to Drita that I thought we might finally see that aneurysm.
After hashing over the details of yet another one of Drita’s she said/you said/she said emails, Ramona had her shaking so violently that Renee almost set the couch on fire with her cigarette.
It wasn’t even a slow boil. Renee just popped and suddenly started screaming to the heavens that Carla was a beeotch. A (bleepin’) beeotch, of course. This is Mob Wives. Der.
As Renee melted down, Ramona smirked, threw in a few more Carla digs, poked at Renee and licked her glossy lips like she was hungry for some fresh Drita blood. I swear if she had a Snidely Whiplash mustache Ramona would have twirled it like she was tying someone to the railroad tracks. (Again, if you have to ask…you’re too young to be watching this show. Go find you library card.)
The last thing we saw was a crazy eyed Renee bolting out the door, as Ramona sharpened her claws and whispered “Be well.”
Muuuahahahahahaha.