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The Rachel Zoe Project Sing Along: Come Mister Girly Man, This Whole Show’s Bananas…Literally.

By Danthatscool @DanScontras


The Rachel Zoe Project Sing Along:  Come Mister Girly Man, This Whole Show’s Bananas…Literally.


Proof that animals eat their young.


Pop Quiz Time.

Q.  What are the fifteen words you never want to hear in an operating room, an airplane or on a crowded subway car?

A.  Literally.  I’m dying.  And I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.

That’s right, people.  She’s baaaaack.  The Rachel Zoe Project is ready to dress you up and mess you up as another frenzied season of over the top catch phrases and air kisses rains down on Earth from the Bravo Reality TV Mothership.

A-mazing.  Literally A-mazing.

And speaking of Motherships, this time around Rachel is hatching her own Fabergé Egg.

That’s right, all you size zero Fashionistas.  You may want to look away, because it’s not pretty.  Rachel is breeding the next generation of stylists to carry the torch and make certain that no one ever has to go without Dolce and Gabbana in their closet.  Proving that Fashion is important, but Family is…well, almost as important…Rachel somehow found the time in between frantic texting to get herself pregnant, not realizing until it was too late that it would mean giving up skinny jeans to prevent giving birth to a baby with a flat head.

This season the Stylist to the Stars is going through some other changes as well.  As fast as her belly is expanding in her Dior sweater, so too is her Empire.  Rachel Zoe I’mGaggingOnChanelWorldTakeOver Inc. has expanded to four divisions which obviously multiplies the quantities of both dresses and drama in the office.   She is desperately trying to grow her staff while fretting over the launch of her own designer line.

Husband Roger had previously given up whatever his other real world job was to go into full partnership with Rachel Zoe Megalopolous Inc.  (Working 24/7 with your spouse…you do the math.)  I’m not really certain what his exact title or position within the company is, but I’m thinking it has something to do with seeing how many different ways you can wear a scarf.  Dude does not leave the house without his aviators and Amelia Earhart throat wrap.  I challenge any salty sea dog sailor to come up with as many knots as Rog’ works around his neck.  I dare you.  I’m thinking he does it to distract you from his Muppet hair.  Roger is the only man alive who works so hard to purposely give himself Hat Head.  Seriously, sometimes I’m not even sure if it’s on backwards or not…but it’s always Hat Head.

Since Rachel has a habit of driving people beedonker bonkers, the woman seems to have a difficult time keeping the old office fully staffed.

Awhile back Miss The World Hates Me And I Want To Die Taylor took her crazy side swept vision obscuring bangs and hit the road after years of feeling that Rachel didn’t respect her, and was favoring newbie prepster stylist Brad.  Brad put the Drama Queen in…well, Drama Queen…and between last season and now also jumped ship.  If nothing else, that kind of thing gives Rachel a great chance to talk serious smack on screen about the former employees that she used to freak out on every time a button popped off Ann Hathaway’s Oscar gown.

Taylor just had a Taylor fit and left.  Brad had given some whiny story about needing to spend more time with his puppy when he left Rachel last year.  It appears that what he meant to say was he needed to leave, steal her clients and get his own show on Bravo in 2012.  That’s what he meant to say.

So now Rachel has to regroup and find a whole new batch of wide eyed wannabe stylists to get her coffee and swerve off the road while using their Blackberries.  Mandana is the new Taylor.  You say it almost like Madonna, but I guess Bravo didn’t want any flack from the Material Girl, and tweaked the spelling a little.  I thought it was Taylor in a black wig, but she smiled too much.  While we are on the subject…one thing that has always bugged me.  For people who make their living matching outfits and dressing red carpet celebrities, everyone either has hair in their eyes or wears sunglasses inside the building all day.  How do they even know what color the clothes are?  For real.  It’s not like Alexander McQueen comes with matching Garanimal tags.  How do they do it?  It must be a gift.

Since Brad is gone and Bravo TV contracts require a token gay stylist (DVR any episode of Real Housewives of Atlanta if you don’t believe me…) Rachel had to interview Jeremiah, who was a slightly cuter, butcher Brad but with no glasses.  Same Calvin Klein updoo, but less nervous red face blotching under stress.  Otherwise, Brad The Sequel.  He came with no resume, no portfolio, no experience and no jacket, but was styling in his denim shirt so naturally he got the job. And probably Brad’s photo ID to get into the building as well.

Everything is drama.  Everything.  The End of The World.  They need two dresses for the Awards, not one.  Oh. My. God. Oh. My. God.  I can’t do this anymore.  I’m exhausted.

Luckily there is shopping to snap them back into reality.  Rachel is always one brown paper bag away from hyper ventilation whenever a new outfit or accessory is within her radar.  I can’t breath.  When she gets overly excited or over worked, she breaks into her best William Shatner staccato speech patterns, with drama filled pauses for effect…between…literally…every…word, all while clenching the biggest coffee cup in LA.

Between all the caffeine and photo shoots, Rog and Rach are looking for a larger home to raise their Stylist Spawn Child.  Go big, or go home is Rachel’s take on the whole thing, and she shows signs of draining both her bank account and the life out of Roger by the time this kid is born.  She had her heart set on a girl, but found out it was a boy.

Since she couldn’t send him back like an Armani Sample, she has decided to keep the little nugget and smother him in designer wear.  No Baby Gap I’m guessing.

Can’t wait till the first time that little Baby Zoe yaks up his food on her Chanel blazer.

Puréed Ba-nanas.


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