Before anyone loses their shit too completely because Meghan and Shannon did not immediately teleport themselves to a hospital in the desert so they could hold the hand of a wounded liar, allow us to consider some of the many reasons that perhaps prompted them not to go:
1. They needed time to make a casserole.
2. Meghan gazed deeply into her husband’s eyes, saw what she believed was a sparkle, and realized the glistening shimmer covering his pupils meant there was a possibility he was going to attempt to be kind to her for fifteen whole minutes that day. Since such an event happens even less frequently than an eclipse, there was no way she was gonna miss it to go hang out with Vicki fucking Gunvalson.
3. Shannon – though she was blessedly not a passenger on the Vomit RV to Hell where some shit-talking about her vow renewal ceremony went down – knows Vicki well enough to realize how emphatically not happy Vicki is that Shannon’s life is improving and therefore doesn’t want to extend herself for someone who recently shrieked, “You’re a cheater!” into her husband’s face at a party Vicki was lucky enough to be invited to in the first place.
4. Vicki sucks stringy antelope balls.
Think about it really: how many co-workers have you jetted off to visit in the hospital? I work in a place with a lot of people. I’m very good friends with some and I’m cordial and collegial to the rest. Those who I no longer qualify as “work friends” are people I’d do anything for, and that includes making hospital visits where I will show up with a bag crammed full of their favorite candy and a Cookie Monster stuffed animal because dammit if that furry blue monster doesn’t just make everything all better. For the rest of the people I work with, I kick in some money for the “Get Well Soon!” fruit basket and I sign the card someone shoves under my face while I’m trying to make photocopies. What I’m saying here is that Vicki Gunvalson is essentially Meghan and Shannon’s colleague and they owe her nothing. Not only that, but Vicki was rude as fuck to Meghan upon meeting her because Vicki harbors bizarre delusions of grandeur within her mottled mind and she sees this series as her show and she has somehow yet to grow out of the eighth grade mentality that whispers to her hourly that it’s up to her to haze the new girl. As for Shannon, Vicki lied to Shannon’s face for well over a year about her boyfriend having cancer in order to get some sympathy. Ergo, no matter what Tamra and Vicki’s BFF Jesus might say, Meghan and Shannon are and should be going nowhere. Vicki can stay in that hospital until one of her children shows up to get her. She can lie there until someone builds her a cross made out of tongue depressors that she can nail herself to with used Q-tips. I realize Vicki hates being alone more than any living being on this or any other planet, but perhaps being alone with her ravaged and selfish thoughts will finally be the punishment she deserves for having been such a self-righteous asshole for more seasons than I care to count.
Sure, sometimes I allude to the possibility that the crazy cruelty, incessant idiocy, and stomach-churning hatred heaved out into the world by our Real Housewives of Orange County could bring about the kind of fiery day of reckoning Tamra studies with her personal trainer/spiritual guru while she's doing burpees. Yes, I've suggested Vicki pantomiming the act of nailing herself to a crucifix during a party in Newport Beach might very well lead to Catholicism as a whole shutting down just so the religion's followers do not have to be in any way associated with a creature I'm pretty sure was thought up by Satan himself after a particularly rough week. And okay, fine -- I've called some of these women morons and lunatics and Mephistopheles' asshole. I've giggled uncontrollably just glancing at the hideous purses Gretchen once thought would make her a millionaire and I've gone on record saying I'd rather drink the urine of a possum in heat than ever so much as taste Vicki's Wines By Wives. I stand by those comments; they're entirely accurate, but none of it means I wish personal harm to come to any of these women. Watching the accident go down on tonight's show was scary and I'm glad everyone is safe. That's not to say, however, that I would have objected to this accident knocking some sense into the heads of the truly senseless, but I suppose it's best I don't get greedy. Besides, I've already used my allotted three wishes on praying Bethenny gets herself ordained and shows up in Palm Beach to perform Luann's wedding ceremony in a long white dress and a veil.
Oh, Kelly. You are such a tragic moron. First of all, you managed to convince yourself it would be nothing short of wise and incredibly fun to go on this show, even though you claim to have been a multimillionaire for eons and therefore must not need the money. Secondly, you waded into these (well publicized) rage-filled waters although you've diagnosed yourself with the very broad and convenient ailment of Anger Issues. Thirdly, you bizarrely chose to align yourself with perhaps the only human lady in the entire stratosphere less appealing than you are and you actually then had the idiotic gumption to raise the millionth glass of alcohol you've swallowed since you've been on this show and toasted to the fact that everyone else must simply be devastated that they can't BE you, even after it's been made alarmingly clear that to be you means to be ostracized because most decent people refuse to even attempt to stomach your hideous personality. Cheers, Kelly! Here's to your eyes growing ever wider in surprise that everyone besides your ill-chosen mentor thinks you're psychotic -- and not even psychotic in an interesting way like the Countess on The Real Housewives of New York has continually proven herself a psycho with her never-ending delusions of grandeur. You, Kelly, are just a generic psycho and I'm bored with your antics already. Who do I have to blow at Bravo to make sure you don't return next season? You might not be willing to suck dick to get what you want, but I'll make an exception and go ahead and open wide if it means I never have to lay eyes on you again until I see you on the eventual commercials for Marriage Boot Camp.
It takes a very special form of bile-spewing creature to make it into the Top Five Worst Housewives of All Time in less than a season, but Kelly Dodd – asshole extraordinaire – has managed to reach that pinnacle. She's already proven she has what she so succinctly coins "anger issues" that rival the table-flipping rage of felon Theresa Giudice. She's also mastered the fine art of furious projection previously made famous by Professional Victim, Kim Richards, in that she strikes out both blindly and cruelly at anyone in her airspace just to take the focus off her own disgraceful behavior. (Kelly might also drink as much as Kim did in Kim's sickest heyday.) It's difficult, actually, to choose the very worst thing Kelly has done so far this season since her behavior thus far has mirrored that of a third grade sociopath stricken down with both a superiority complex and insanity, but I suppose it's nice that we have a choice. So which terrible action was the very worst? Was it when Kelly shrieked "Cunt!" and "Dumb fuck!" across a dinner table while proclaiming herself "an amazing mother"? Might it have been the moment she told Shannon she was ugly with a sick smile smeared across her face? How about the way she's decided Vicki Gunvalson is awesome and just slightly misunderstood? These are, of course, all excellent options for anointing Kelly with a crown made out of dogshit and her own broken dreams, but the single grossest thing I think she's done went down in the final two minutes of last week's show, after she'd already made Regan in The Exorcist sound like a Disney Princess. Yes, Kelly insulted half the people at the table with filthy epithets, tried to then hug her victims, announced she doesn't need to suck dick because she's a multimillionaire who's never had to develop a gag-reflex, and smiled serenely at Vicki, her soul sister. All of that was despicable, but the worst of it was in the aftermath, when she decided it would be hilarious to make fun of Heather's mannerisms and voice because all that action proved was that this very sick woman has not – and may never – learn a single thing. She's shown herself to be as idiotic as the black stools upholstered with muppet fur lining one of the twelve bars in her home and I fear nothing short of an exorcism that comes with a complimentary brain transplant can save her now.
I've been so consumed lately with focusing on how much of an asshole one of the Presidential candidates is that I've almost forgotten about that other raging asshole, Kelly Dodd. I suppose I'll worry tomorrow about my newest affliction – Asshole ADD – but tonight, I'm just going to appreciate that the closest I'll ever get to this awful human specimen is through my television screen. The other Real Housewives are not so fortunate. They're contractually bound; they must interact with the seething monster in the terrible clothing until someone finally slays the beast.
Where last we left off before the Olympics conquered Bravo, Kelly sneered that she'd never be friends with Shannon because Shannon is "ugly" and then invited Shannon to lunch to apologize for being such a dick. That apology did not go so well since Shannon insisted she did not, in fact, throw a party with the express purpose of setting up a woman she barely knows. Luckily, Kelly can drink away her pain in one of the twenty-three bars that line every nook and cranny of the lovely home she lives in with a man she hates.
Much to my constant dismay, I am the forgiving sort. I’m not quite sure where this little trait of mine comes from, but since I have a few fond memories of my father staunchly holding some grudges, I’m just gonna go ahead and claim that my forgiving nature was bequeathed to me by my mother, along with an almost identical face. I don’t much enjoy this aspect of my personality; there’s just something fiercely narcissistic about staying furious with someone and I wouldn’t really mind a bit more fierce narcissism running through my body. Alas, I was apparently not built to cut someone from my life completely. Just in case you need an example, how about the time I forgave a family member for refusing to congratulate me for writing a book that was in no way about her? Her reason for withholding the congratulations? I hadn’t told her I was writing a book and she refused to be proud of me because she wasn't included in the process from its genesis. Save your time and don’t even try to make sense out of it. It makes no sense, but I forgave her anyway because having to be in the same room with both her and my inner inferno of bubbling fury left me feeling short of breath and feverish and I was far too worried about my health to stay angry.
But even a forgiver like me would never just shrug and think, Well, it’s all in the past, had someone decided to sneer, “I’d never be friends with you because you’re ugly,” directly to my face in the middle of my own party the way Kelly did to Shannon on last week’s episode of The Real Housewives of Orange County. That's a comment simply meant to be as hurtful as possible, one said by a person who doesn’t have anything more damning in her arsenal and thus decided to take her anger out on your face. My face rejects that sort of bullshit. Will Shannon and her face end up forgiving Kelly? I have no idea why she would, but we’re still early enough into the season that I suppose it’s possible. Plus, we all need something to focus on besides praying for Jim Edmonds to be kinder to his fetus than he is to the wife who is carrying it.
The thought came to me while I scrolled through my Twitter feed and saw all of the unironic cry-face emojis reacting to Theresa Giudice’s reunion with her square-shaped husband after spending some time in jail: I’d make a really terrible Real Housewife.
To be fair, I did not watch Theresa’s triumphant return home because I’ve sworn off the Jersey ladies in much the same way I’ve also sworn off carbs. As I see it, the only real difference between the two – both of which are terrible for you and leave you feeling sluggish – is that I still crave one of those things desperately, though I can promise and swear that the thing I miss did not create an offspring I’m fairly certain is from another species entirely. What I’m trying to say (besides that I think little Milania will one day help to usher in the apocalypse) is that my reaction to hearing about this woman coming home was different than I think it was supposed to be. I did not cheer her homecoming. I did not pour myself a celebratory glass of Fabellini. I did not tear up and I did not tune in.
I’m sure Theresa would say I don’t like her because I’m jealous. Calling someone who hates you “jealous” is a very Housewives thing to do. Over in New York City, Luann is all but making commemorative tees that proclaim how jealous everyone on the planet is of her joy and she will shoot those shirts from a cannon while she performs one of her hit songs at her upcoming wedding. It appears that you cannot be a Bravo Housewife and not wholeheartedly believe the root of someone’s discontent with you is always predicated by a hungry green-eyed monster. It also appears you cannot earn a paycheck from the network without having to continually associate with the very people you can no longer stomach and you must do it while wearing a rather hideous jewel-toned cocktail dress.
Being on a reality show means you have to get dressed up and go hang out with people who plot against you like you’re all still in the eighth grade. You have to attend theme parties. My standard answer to a probing question I don’t much feel like answering Yeah, I’m not talking about that – probably wouldn’t go over all that well at one of those parties and definitely would not fly at the Reunion. However, using the answer I employed the other day when speaking about someone I know well – She’s behaving this way because she’s an asshole – might very well get me a raise on one of these shows. That line would probably be used in the coming attractions for the season, but it would be misleading because I’d never actually get into it with the asshole. Assholes, you see, very rarely realize they’re assholes, even when provided with a color-coded flowchart that maps their asshole behavioral history. Not being on a reality show means I get to ignore assholes most of the time. But if I were an OC Housewife, I’d have to endure that never-ending conversation (yet again) as the asshole before me mimes the crucifixion (yet again) while both of us wear the closest approximations of polyester chic we were able to locate so we can fit right in at the seventies party neither of us particularly wanted to attend in the first place. It all just seems exhausting.
Speaking of total assholes who exhaust me, I look at Vicki Gunvalson and I cannot believe she has been on this show for eleven seasons and has seemingly learned so little about herself and rational human behavior in the process. It also stuns me that she hasn’t started to dress differently or mastered a new way to shriek so every Schnauzer in the neighborhood will not begin to howl whenever she gets angry. And it’s most difficult to believe that after going through a divorce and watching her friendships implode into a smoldering pit of ruins, she still doesn’t long for just the tiniest bit of privacy.
Vicki is the perfect Real Housewife because she never learns a blessed thing.
A procession of D-List talent will invade our television screens tonight, but unfortunately I won't see it because I'm not able to tune in to the Republican National Convention. While I’m devastated that I will miss the prime time speaking slot awarded to Scott Baio – who is, very sadly and very apparently, the very best the party can offer – I’ve made my peace with the fact that I will instead watch something really important, like The Real Housewives of Orange County. (Who else wants to bet that Vicki will totally vote for Donald Trump?) Of course, watching the OC Housewives is similar to watching the RNC anyway; there is an air of conspicuous consumption that almost seems palpable and white people as far as the eye can see. I do feel a little sad that I will miss hearing the pearls of wisdom spoken by one of the stars of Duck Dynasty, but that sadness can be assuaged somewhat by realizing that this episode could very well begin with Shannon cold-clocking Vicki across the face! Truth? I rarely believe that violence is the answer to a problem with a fellow human being, but I’m no longer convinced that Vicki Gunvalson is of this species and nothing short of DNA testing that’s been done by a team of experts that Brooks never even claimed to work with will satisfy my suspicions.
Here are some places I’d rather be than inside of a car with Vicki Gunvalson on a long road trip:
· A hot yoga class that I’ve run to in order to get a brief respite from the brutality of a humidity-drenched heat wave in late August, one that caused a cataclysmic weather crisis that simultaneously led all air conditioners in the region to explode at the very same moment that Duane Reade and CVS ran out of every form of deodorant including carpet deodorizer.
· Sitting in Biology class on my first day of 8th grade when my hair was newly lobbed into some hideous asymmetrical style, all the better to show off my frosted pink 44 lip-gloss. It hurt just looking at myself in the mirror.
· Standing on line in Nordstrom when I’m in a massive hurry while the person in front of me returns a dress so awful that, not only should she never have purchased the item in the first place, but some designer should have thimbles rammed into his ears and nostrils just for creating it. By the way, this return will be conducted by a Nordstrom employee who just started working at the store an hour ago and nodded convincingly when her supervisor asked if she understood the return process because she didn’t want to appear like an idiot on her first day and now the supervisor has left and the new girl has no fucking idea what she’s doing.
· Hell.
Fortunately, I can see no scenario – including one that takes place in the fiery confines of Hell – in which I will have to ride shotgun as Vicki Gunvalson literally drives me to a full mental breakdown. Briana doesn’t have it so lucky. She is heading from Oklahoma to California, and it’s all because Vicki prayed so hard to her BFF, Jesus, for Briana and her family to live close enough that Vicki can pop by to borrow some brown paint, should she ever eventually run out. Actually, the truth is that Briana wants to be close to her team of doctors because there’s a lot physically going on with her. It’s a shame such a young woman is facing these medical issues. Her husband has to stay behind for a while and Briana cries as she says goodbye to him and to her house and to any future privacy she ever hoped to achieve now that she lives just a hop, skip, and a whoo hoo from her lunatic mother.
For those of you too caught up with watching the recent scuffle between lunatics who want to continue to allow people on a No-Fly list to purchase automatic weapons and decent people who desire some change and chose to squat on the House floor until a vote could transpire or the chaos rumbling through the financial cosmos because of the Brexit vote, I am very sorry to tell you that you missed some other essential news this week. Yes, it was reported just the other day that Vicki Gunvalson – a woman who makes me want to secede from the human race in general – claims to have lost over twenty pounds! And how did she manage to shed one of those thighs? Well, she used a wise diet that included gnawing on grapefruit and lettuce for breakfast (because who doesn’t crave lettuce at dawn?) before skipping lunch entirely and then tearing into an ounce of chicken when it grew dark outside. In other words, Vicki used a diet plan called “Starvation” to achieve her goals and though I’m repulsed that she put such information out into a world where impressionable people might decide to follow in her bullshit footsteps, I’m even more upset that her dramatic weight loss did not result in her vocal cords depleting to just a hanging thread of nothingness.
Turns out that Vicki can still speak because the world is just not fair. It also turns out that we start this week’s episode still on that boat where Heather would like to know why Vicki didn’t call everybody immediately after the Brooks-faking-cancer-and-doctoring-medical-records debacle to say, “Holy shit, you were all right! I was dating a lying sack of total horseshit who was so repulsive that he lied about having cancer.” I feel the need here to say that, whatever Vicki’s response to Heather's question, that answer matters far less than the fact that she waited until the motherfucking cameras were following her again before she even attempted to craft an apology to any of these people and that kind of scheduling tactic makes me scoff at any of her impassioned pleas for forgiveness. By the way, in this context, “scoff” means flinging something at a wall and wishing the wall was Vicki’s face.
