Wednesday, February 4, 2009

My Last Blog about The Real Housewives of OC (for now)


I am so over the Real Housewives of the OC - yet every Tuesday like clockwork I turn the telly to Bravo, while my son shakes his head with a look of grave disappointment. Last night was the (almost) last straw. Below, just a few reasons why the housewhores of the OC need to go straight to hell:

Gretchen: It was so sweet of her to spend hours cooking a gourmet spaghetti dinner for her sickly, 90 lb fiancee and his adult children, because nothing says "love" like a dining on hamburger meat covered in Ragu and a few stray Lee Press On Nails while we listen  to you drone on  and on about your upcoming "girls weekend" in Vegas. Really, why would you want to stay at home and nurse your terminally ill sugar daddy, when Bravo is footing the bill at the Red Rock Resort in Sin City? I can only imagine the inner turmoil Gretchen must have felt when faced with the option of changing the bed pan for a man  who looks like David Bowie in The Hunger, or slutting it out with a "Hottie Whistle" while drinking Rum Coladas poolside in a string bikini. (On a side note, Gretchen's fiancee/personal ATM machine died in September -  I hope Vegas was worth it, Gretchen).

Lynn: The  newest  housewife is clearly a distant cousin of Cornelius from Planet of the Apes (except Cornelius was like a thousand times smarter). I'm not sure if I am more disgusted by her stupidity or her tanorexic bony body covered with aged leather skin that looks like it has been rode harder than Secretariat. Don't get me started on her unnatural  hacky sack shaped boobs, or her ungrateful alcoholic teen aged daughter who has the ambition of a slug after eating a marijuana leaf.

Tamra: You husband is in  his 40's, please stop buying his shirts from "Hot Topic". And by the way, you need to take a bath in a giant tub of Le Mer moisturizer, invest in a really good deep conditioner and teach your creepy son  how to treat a lady. 

Vicki: Instead of stuffing your martini olives with blue cheese, how about you stuff   those olives with 20 tablets of crushed Valium, so you can chill the f*&k out. 

While I'm  bitching and moaning about a show that I clearly don't have to watch (but continue to torture myself and my family by doing so) Bravo needs to stop putting the price of things on the screen every five minutes. For example last night when they checked into the hotel, Bravo felt it necessary to show us the following disclaimer: "Presidential Suite $5,500 per night". As if we are supposed to believe that these cheap ass ladies sprang for the hotel suite themselves. Sorry but I'm not buying it. The camera panned over the hotel name at least 75 times during last night's episode, it was practically a Red Rock Resort infomercial. 

God Dammit, I am so ready for the Real Housewives of New York to start, because the OC bitches are killing me. 



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