I'm officially going on record that the prosthetic leg toss on The Real Housewives of New York last night was not nearly as fulfilling as I had hoped. I've seen more thrilling moments during a water balloon fight that took place in a mud pit back in college during Greek Games, including the year my sorority was disqualified from the t-shirt competition for wearing a tee with the following statement scrawled across the chest in a bold navy font: 

"It doesn't matter whether you end up on the top or the bottom; it was still fun to come."

We cheered upon hearing that we were disqualified. Our job was done.

But back to Le Cirque. Back to the leg.

In my mind, here's what should have happened -- and I'm putting this out there in an effort to be hired as a freelance story consultant on this show, but my stipulations for accepting the job will include decent pay, the promise that I won't have to be left alone with Ramona for even a single second, and that I'll be given my own intern named Gherkin.

The ideas I would have brought to the table:

First, the event should have been held at The Four Seasons or SoHo House, a place with a pool so someone could have been drowned or at the very least held underwater for a brief moment.

The leg, once flung, would have shattered all of the glassware in the vicinity, including the front window of the restaurant.

The stiletto heel affixed to the leg would have, mid-flight, speared one of those pigs in a blanket like a less sterile form of a chicken satay -- and Sonja should have made her psychic feed it to her with the misguided notion that doing so would have brought her a paying gig as someone who eats food off of heels at parties, clearly the next step in Sonja's imaginary empire.

The knee part of Aviva's leg would have knocked Ramona fully unconscious, and she would have been brought groggily back to the moment by the smell of her husband applying copious amounts of cologne, figuring he could go see his young piece after dropping his betrothed lunatic off at a nearby hospital, making sure the paramedics didn't fuck up her blowout as they transported her to Sloan Kettering, because being cheated on is one thing, but mussed hair to Ramona is just unacceptable.

I did love that the other women laughed instead of reacting with the horror Aviva craved like I crave Twix some nights. The moment was clearly so rehearsed and it just fell flat, like a joke you have to explain and then explain again, eventually hanging your head in admission that your joke just sucked -- always a shitty moment, and usually one that's really embarrassing in a crowd if you're born with the ability to feel a sentiment like humility or shame.

Luckily -- for all of us --Aviva's been born with neither.

You just know that she had sat in her screaming-yellow-wallpapered home for days, figuring out just how to nail the moment. 

Should she plop the leg on the table and toss her hair at exactly the same time? (Her hair did look good that night.)

Should she heave it at a passing waiter?

Scrawl the name and phone number of the person she swears is Carole's ghostwriter on the shin in a black Sharpie?

Demand a village to reattach the thing, maybe the very same village that helped her write her own book? 

And obviously the biggest question: which shoe should she choose for both of her legs, knowing how much press that fashion shot would get -- and maybe she'd be gifted from the designer for showing off his product! 

Heels can be worn in Bellevue, right?

I loved the shots of the other party guests standing around, swilling champagne, watching the well-lit table where only the Housewives were apparently allowed to sit. They knew they were watching a complete shit show and they had signed releases to be on camera, but at some point, I swear I saw a few of Sonja's interns pass out cheap bags of Pop Secret microwave popcorn because the central action was happening at Table 1 and it was like watching the worst action scene from Iron Man: Part 11, and sometimes you just need snacks to enjoy one of those moments.

I liked that Carole returned the leg to Aviva, like I do after I borrow a friend's lipgloss. 

I liked that Heather is real enough to actually snarl when she gets angry.

I liked the shots of utter puzzlement on the women while Sonja read her speech because it really made no kind of sense.

I loved that the people on Team Sonja include a facialist and a dog groomer. By that same thinking, an event to celebrate Team Nell would have to include my dry cleaner and the guy who delivers my sashimi at least once a week. I'd also invite everyone from Amazon, Rue La La, and Gilt, companies, who if they don't receive an order from me in over two weeks, hold candlelight vigils on my behalf, praying that I'm still alive somewhere.

I'd invite my family and my friends to the event for Team Nell, but I respect them.  So, as a good person, I'd allow them to instead stay home and watch static on television while eating Nutella out of a jar with their fingers.

Listen, not every season finale can be fantastic, and I respect the promoters of the show for trying their damndest to turn this into an event that rivaled Janet Jackson flashing a golden-studded nipple at the Superbowl -- but it just didn't deliver, no matter how many hashtags were brandished across the bottom of the screen. 

I hear #leggate has been trending. I'm of the belief that it should be: #WhereCanIGetAviva'sInhalerBecauseI'mCertainThat'sSomeGoodShitThatMightAlsoBeLegal.

I seriously need to get on Twitter.

The glee on Andy Cohen's face during Watch What Happens made me uncomfortable, but not any more so than my own glee in writing about this. I guess my excited shame is my elephant in the room, and he's one that's got a detachable trunk.