my thoughts and my words.
Viewing entries tagged
Jill Zarin
In the densest layers of the muck-and-scum-filled reality television ecosystem, a few Bravolebrities have risen like deranged phoenixes to the tippy top. They bob there proudly upon the fungus-ridden slimy surface and take comfort in the asinine belief that the only thing that matters is that strangers know their name. The creatures currently crowding that swamp include:
During the years that our television screens – and our very lives – have been graced with the presence of The Real Housewives of New York, we have witnessed some truly batshit stuff. Off the top of my head? Well, we’ve watched Luann decide she’s a singer and then embrace her very own catchphrase, one she ironically doesn’t seem to realize has made her exponentially less cool. We’ve watched Ramona doll herself up in a silk teddy to give her philandering husband a massage while Avery probably sat in another room and filled out papers that might lead to her emancipation. We have seen Alex literally break out in a scarlet torrent of neck, chest, and face hives due to a confrontation she volunteered to have with Jill in an effort to spare a pregnant Bethenny from having to do it herself. We’ve witnessed Dorinda mentally swerve from seemingly calm to downright maniacal in two drinks flat and we have, of course, watched Sonja claim the following is all true:
She used to be exceptionally close to John-John Kennedy.
She spent most of her seasons in Gstaad – except for all the time she spent on the private jet that whisked her away to that private island she has recently started to reference in her hallucinatory anecdotes about yesteryear.
She speaks often to the Saudi royal family. (I believe her on this one. Those guys call me every Thursday just to say hello and to tell me they really enjoy my recaps. Such sweet people…)
She has an international lifestyle brand that is hugely successful and the fact that you can’t actually buy any of the clothing just means the demand for it has grown in imaginary leaps and bounds.
She is very happy.
Okay. So on the one hand, I feel absolutely fine making fun of Sonja Morgan and the delusions she spews out along with her breath that I’m guessing smells like wine that’s been left out overnight on the kitchen counter without a cork. She is a reality television star. She has made the choice to live what’s either a genuine life or a somewhat fabricated life while being filmed constantly. She has signed that Bravo contract year after year. She's seen ample evidence that's proved the show's editors probably do not have her very best interests at heart. She’s had viewers, fellow castmates, and Sir Andy Cohen himself directly ask if she really considers herself to be sane. She could have walked away at any time and instead she chose to stay and to make Reality Televisionland her permanent dwelling, one I'm guessing she dolled up by hanging some counterfeit art on the metaphorical walls.
It finally happened.
I feared this day. I lit an abundance of abundance candles and I recited incantations in shadowy rooms to stop this day from ever arriving. I contemplated how I could tunnel my way to another astral plane just in case this day ever appeared on the hazy horizon, much like those prisoners from upstate New York Shawshanked their way to freedom before they were shot. But I suppose a part of me didn’t believe any of it could really happen so I ceased my prayers and stopped my chanting and discontinued the exhausting practice of mailing out warning letters to publishing houses that were addressed with little letters I cut out of magazines in my own form of a ransom note and so part of me now blames myself for the single most horrible thing to ever happen to the written word since a Kardashian earned an A in penmanship in the third grade.
Please grasp the hand of the person closest to you – and if you’re currently alone, grab onto a wall – as I relay the hideous news that Ramona Singer has written a book that will be released into a world that’s still dealing with ISIS and global warming and relationships formed on The Bachelor that won’t even last as long as a penicillin cycle. The book is called Life On the Ramona Coaster. Ramona’s face is on the cover. There are people out there who will buy the book and then display it on a bookshelf. And if someone even thinks of buying me a copy, I will strap that person to a chair and make him listen to every single word of Ulysses as it’s read by Jill Zarin while her scrawny and shaky dog scurries around his feet.
