WHAT WOULD LALA DO? (HINT: NOT WEAR A TURTLENECK IN A HOT TUB)

January 10, 2017

Here’s the thing about liars: after a while, they start to get really fucking boring. It doesn’t start out that way. At first, there is sort of this fascination with all that they say. Their tales are vivid, their anecdotes crackling. It’s the specificity of the stories that draws you in and you’re left with an impression that this life you’re hearing about – this life you’re temporarily and peripherally connected to – is a life far more interesting than your own will ever be. See, your stories have fewer characters weaving in and out. Your stories don’t sparkle like a sequined skirt rustling around a thigh gap. Your stories eventually wind down because that’s what happens in real life – and right there is your first clue. A liar’s story has way more chapters because they write it as they go along.

Still, there’s no denying the captivating appeal of being in such close proximity to an agent of deception. If you’re anything like me – and some of you are fortunate that you’re not and you never will be – you can’t help yourself. You go back for more and you become an even more captive audience as you attempt to take in all of the glistening fragments and organize them into something linear. You want it to make sense. You want to solve this puzzle of a person and there’s a big part of you that really thinks you can. But then time goes by and the moments you consume from someone else’s life begin to taste like flat champagne. And it’s when those bubbles no longer tingle on your tongue that you admit certain things to yourself, like the fact that every story this person tells goes into extra innings. The stakes involved in each story are higher stakes than any you've ever encountered. And every single person mentioned drives a really nice car.

I don’t quite know if every liar lives with the knowledge that one day he or she will be exposed, but I do know that one of the ways to avoid having to face the truth is through that tried and true method of escape. I suppose that if someone is skilled, she will initially try to project disbelief that she is not being believed, an act that could potentially cause the accuser to apologize and slink away, leaving whatever power has been gathered in a pathetic puddle the liar can then stomp through for extra impact. But sometimes there is no audience left – there’s nobody who even cares to find out if any of it was true – and that’s when liars become runners.

There appears now to be no way to deny that Lala Kent is a liar. Perhaps we would have figured it out much earlier, but she spent so much of her time onscreen with Jax and James and their abject duplicity is so pronounced that it was really kind of hard to focus on anything Lala said or did in their presence. But now that she’s been banished from the rest of the cast and only permitted to sit in small groups where she pretends to make amends or to offer a bit of digital penetration as penance, her ridiculousness has become clear. Look, the truth is that most of the people on this show are relatively awful and they have had five or so seasons to come off as sane and delightful and many hiatuses in which they could have done philanthropic work that would make me think that some of them are not truly dead inside, but that kind of shit never happened. When I say that Lala is entirely full of chunky horseshit, it does not mean that I believe the rest of them are as pure as the snow before Jax pisses his name into it, but – for tonight anyway – we need to focus on the fun bitch’s untruths. Her false tales involved minor things, like getting off of work to go on a modeling assignment when that modeling assignment didn’t actually exist and the only thing she really showed off was her clitoris while she was aboard some rich guy’s yacht. The stories then grew to include debatable facts, like how she is rolling in luxury because she lived at home for a long time and apparently the interest levels under her mother’s roof are more massive than anything the financial industry has ever witnessed. And then there are the accounts, the ones studded with holes the size of craters, about a boyfriend who may or not be married and could or could not be famous who does or does not break up with her every other day who loves her madly or doesn’t even know she exists in the first place.

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER NINE -- HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BOO!

January 2, 2017

As soon as the ball drops, the resolutions begin. Bursting like fireworks, they appear list-style in my mind: BE NICER TO MY MOTHER; SCOOT MY ASS LOWER TO THE GROUND WHEN I'M DOING SQUATS; DESTROY THOSE WHO FUCK WITH ME IN WAYS THAT ARE BOTH INVENTIVE AND PERMANENT. It's just the standard list, but it makes me realize I'm about to embark on a very busy year, what with the knowledge that there's more than one person I need to destroy. But rather than feel anxious, I am instead comforted by a wave of unifying humanity. I know I am not alone in making grand plans. I'm quite certain the cast of Vanderpump Rules just made some important resolutions, too.

I think it all went down like this: One by one, our Vanderpumpers gathered together in the last moments of 2016 in a spiritual temple Jax built with his own hands out of empty boxes of steroids. This behemoth was bound together with his melted down breast tissue and even though the temple still leaned alarmingly to the left since Jax can't do anything right including building religious monuments, everyone who entered the 8th Wonder of the World still knew immediately that they were in a very special place. As The Chosen Ones, they began by singing songs about how much more satisfying it is to live life while being followed by cameras, their lilting voices rising melodically into the darkening sky. James used his cheap little keyboard to keep the rhythm going and Lala only slipped out of the temple once to properly suck the dome of the Range Rover rep who selected her to again be the recipient of one of the hundreds of free trucks the company gives away annually. Since everyone in the temple hates her, nobody even noticed she was gone.

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER EIGHT -- HOW OLD ARE YOU NOW?

December 26, 2016

On the night of Stassi's birth, all of the angels in the heavens gathered together every bit of sweetness and light they could find in the universe to form one perfect little girl – but then she left and we got Stassi. And tonight Stassi is multitasking like a champ, proving herself able to simultaneously pack a suitcase while plotting the destruction of whichever person’s name she picked out of a hat this week. Listen, I get why she hates Lala. They have zero history together, Lala has been nasty to Katie, and – while all of these people are somewhat shady – Lala’s shadiness is so massive that you can’t actually make out colors when you’re in her presence. (I feel terrible saying such mean things about Lala, but I think we’ll work it out after she offers to finger me.) Still, while I understand Stassi’s raging animosity in that scenario, I can’t quite get behind her burgeoning hatred towards Scheana. Her immaturity has finally done the impossible: it’s made me like Scheana – and now I’m concerned about what could happen next. Allow me just to say this: if something transpires on this episode that causes me to type the sentence, “James is terribly misunderstood and he’s the finest artist of this or any other time,” I will have to stop recapping this show altogether because I will have blown up my television set.

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER SEVEN -- A COVEN OF ASSHOLES

December 20, 2016

My friends, it has been one frenetic week in the muck-filled swamp that is Vanderland. Not only did we finally catch a glimpse of what's been hiding within the confines of Sandoval's ponytail. Not only did Kristen do an interview with New York magazine where she arrived with two – yes, two – publicists and a gigantic bloody knot in the center of her forehead that she got courtesy of walking directly into a glass door (it was so Ariana's fault), but Lala also very publicly announced that she’d left this show and all of the unfortunate looking people on it for good.

It's a fucking Christmas miracle.

While Lala’s tumultuous exit has yet to play out on the show, girlfriend (and the publicists her mother and her boyfriend pay for) have made sure to turn her upcoming farewell into as close a media frenzy as one can possibly be when more than half the population of this great nation has no idea who this person even is. But let’s give credit when credit is due, yes? After all, Lala has made sure to capitalize on the very feminist action of quitting a Bravo reality show where she liked to talk about her dome-sucking prowess in between calling other women fat by doing interview after interview with such illustrious outlets as The Inquisitr and TooFab.com. And in these hard-hitting interviews, she made sure to imply that she was certainly not shutting the door on reality TV forever, but there would need to be some clear stipulations in place before she would deign to act like a monster onscreen again. “If someone were to come to me tomorrow and say we want to give you your own show or we want to put you on a show where people are on your same level as far as talent and looks and everything else goes, then I would do both of those,” Lala explained. That’s right: according to Lala – a girl who became known not for her singing or for her acting but instead for being a hostess at a restaurant in Los Angeles where the ceiling is lined with klieg lights – the biggest problem she had with Vanderpump Rules was that her costars weren’t talented or hot.

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER SIX -- LEGITIMATE STAKES

December 13, 2016

I was talking with some guy I know a few days ago and since we can’t possibly spend all our time disagreeing over whether or not Donald Trump is a demonic entity created by scientists strung out on PCP in a frigid laboratory in the wilds of Siberia who were tasked with birthing something that would one day bring about the total extermination of civilized society, we eventually moved on to the topic of Vanderpump Rules. (For the record, I think my Siberian laboratory theory makes quite a bit of sense. It certainly makes more sense than a president-elect waving away intelligence briefings because he’s decided that he’s already smart.) Anyway, the gist of the conversation I had with this person was about how long Vanderpump Rules could possibly stay on the air with this particular cast and I laughed hard when he asked me this question and then replied that I was relatively certain the only way some of these people would ever leave this show would be in a straightjacket or in a body bag.

I get what he’s saying, though. I understand when he wonders aloud about how many more lies about dick-sucking Lala can possibly tell and how many more pairs of sunglasses Jax can potentially steal and how many more ways James can act like a half-witted troglodyte who’s been stricken with scurvy. Surely, this guy posited to me, viewers will eventually stop tuning in to watch the same idiots doing the same idiotic things – and, he added, wouldn’t this cast want to walk away from this reality television purgatory at some point? It was that last question I spent some time considering, even before I saw a link to an interview some very brave person did with Kristen in which she revealed how she would love to be on this show for at least five more years. Stop and think about that for a second. Kristen has already been on this show for five seasons and she’d like to go ahead and double that time and she seems to have absolutely no hesitation about remaining on a program that has already gleefully captured her doing the following:

· Admitting she slept with Jax (Sandoval’s best friend) while her boyfriend (that would be Sandoval) slumbered peacefully in the next room, totally unaware that his best friend and his girlfriend were boning on the couch. Oh, and Jax was Stassi’s boyfriend at the time – and Stassi was one of Kristen’s dearest friends.

· Upon finally coming clean with Stassi that she indeed nailed her boyfriend – the same awesome guy who screamed “You came three times!” at her while they all stood in a crowded bar – Kristen got backhanded hard across the face in public and on camera. At least Stassi’s a necklace kind of girl. Had she been wearing statement rings, Kristen would’ve been sliced in three.

· Once Sandoval finally harnessed the good judgment that allowed him to cut the bonkers-crazy woman from his life, he chose to move on with Ariana. Did Kristen accept his choice with anything resembling dignity? No, my friends, Kristen is allergic to dignity because someone once told her it has gluten in it so she instead all but drew maps showing the exact location of where she would eventually bury Ariana’s body. She begged to go on vacations with people who hate her. She flew in some random chick from Miami who claimed she hooked up with Sandoval while he was in a relationship with Ariana and then she brought the girl into SUR and sat back to watch the carnage she so jubilantly created. She probably slept atop a pillowcase that was covered with some of Sandoval’s petrified semen. She showed up at her old apartment where Sandoval still lives to “pick up her mail” while outfitted in some plunging halter dress that was the color of emerald green desperation.

· Not having inflicted nearly enough harm upon society with her own bullshit machinations, she then brought James into our lives because the lunatic living near her cerebral cortex once whispered late at night that nothing says “perfect rebound guy” like some scrawny loser who tells himself hourly how special he is because he knows deep down nobody else will ever say it to him for as long as he lives.

· She fucked James on the hood of a car after he called her a whore and spit a gigantic ball of phlegm on her front door.

· She finally got herself fired from SUR after recommending that one of her managers go suck a dick.

· She apparently keeps a fake engagement ring in one of her dresser drawers at all times.

Can you even imagine what the next five years will involve? (Just so we’re clear, anyone who has their money on a séance that ends with rivulets of blood dribbling out of Ariana’s eyes while a raven wearing a romper crawls out of a cauldron and nestles itself against Kristen’s bony shoulder needs to get in line. I made the call first, motherfucker.)

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER FIVE -- SUCKING DOME FOR CASH & PRIZES

December 6, 2016

We're already five weeks into this season of Vanderpump Rules and I think we can all agree that watching this show is nothing short of an edifying experience. Sure, it’s possible that you have to view it while being somewhat high in order to suss out all the hidden messages revealed so very subtly by the show’s pretend stars, but as someone who happens to be just a little bit high, I can personally attest to the fact that I have learned a great deal of important life lessons in this last month alone from a group of people who are not just servers, bartenders, and horribly flawed human beings; they are teachers, too, dammit.

In no particular order of importance (because every last one of these lessons is as essential as a fucking proverb), here is what I have internalized in only thirty days’ time:

· While I have been a bridesmaid several times, I very clearly now realize that not one of those brides ever truly cared about me. Never once was I asked to be in a wedding party courtesy of some inflatable craft project! And don’t even get me started about the way my “dear” friends didn’t even consider shoving protein up their coochies before serving it to me as part of a meal. What, I ask, were all of my years of loyalty even for?

· When it comes to power rankings, things have shifted seismically. It used to be that Presidents of Production and CAA agents and venture capitalists once ran things around Los Angeles, but times have changed. These days, nothing has more clout than being a DJ in a mediocre restaurant. Also, simply holding earphones against your scalp means you’re a rock star. (Important caveat to consider here: In order to buy this theory, you must be a fucking moron.)

· Don’t worry if your controlling and blatantly judgmental behavior once caused your entire gaggle of friends to slice you out of their lives like you were a walking melanoma. Not only will your banishment not last forever, but once you scuttle and slither your way back in, you will eventually get to dictate who is allowed to remain in the group! (Important caveat #2: Such a rule can only be put into effect if your entire group of friends still behaves like the kind of middle school girls MTV would happily create a show around.)

· When you’re out at a bar and you want to get – and keep – a man’s attention, start quoting lines from Caddyshack. (I realize this little suggestion has nothing whatsoever to do with Vanderpump Rules, but as it does fall under the umbrella of important life lessons I’ve learned since this season began, I’ve decided it counts.) Anyway, if the guy in front of you is sort of cute, feel free to mention something about gophers and it’s almost a guarantee that he’ll lean in. But if the guy is full of scruff and hot as balls and you’ve already swallowed some vodka that was served to you in a science beaker instead of a regular glass, just own it and tell him, “It’s in the hole.” (You’re welcome in advance for the breakfast you will not have to pay for the following morning.)

· Back to what we have learned about life from the Vanderpumpers: Camouflage is very important when you feel exposed and that’s probably why every single time Lala makes yet another enemy, she reacts by piling on even more makeup. I mean, you can practically chisel into her skin by now. If she ever fully loses James, my guess is the chick will start wearing prosthetic noses and chins.

· Kristen can appear relatively sane so long as she’s sitting beside a bride positively riddled with rage issues, potential alcoholism, a completely petrified fiancé, and a very tragic nose ring. In fact, Kristen should probably only go places with Katie from this point forward because she’s looking almost lucid in comparison.

· There’s an excellent chance that if you announce early in the season that you and your newly-sober husband are happier than ever and that you arrived together at a party by riding a unicorn over a rainbow of bliss, you will also probably be announcing your divorce before even half the episodes of the season have aired. This, you see, is the reality TV equivalent of Chekhov’s theory about waving around a gun around in Act I. Just like that gun’s bound to go off before the final curtain descends, the marriage in question is bound to implode sooner rather than later – and we all knew it would happen, even before Scheana gave TMZ an exclusive quote.

THEN

November 30, 2016

I come from a generation of girls who wanted Jordan Catalano for a boyfriend even though he couldn’t read.

I knew the names of the biggest models in the world and I slept in a bedroom with their faces plastered across the wall, aspirational black and white imagery that would become both inspiring and crippling when the day finally arrived and I realized I’d never clear 5’4” without heels and I’d never be able to describe my body as lanky. But sometimes when I couldn’t sleep, I would look up at those pictures and try to figure out what it was precisely about Christy Turlington’s mouth that made it so unique. I thought it might have something to do with the way her lips turned up even when she wasn’t smiling and I practiced smiling that way in the mirror, but my smile was always too wide and I could never pull it off. It was Linda Evangelista who was my favorite, though. In spite of all the rumors that she was the biggest monster around, I found the sharp angles of her face almost otherworldly and arranged the way they were somehow made her almost magically beautiful and besides, there were more than a few days when her haughty bitchiness was what I aspired to the most.

In an adolescence where Google searches didn’t yet exist, the only porn I ever saw was through static. I often wondered if I was the only person in the world who sometimes turned to that snowy channel in the dead of night. Since I was certain I must be, I never discussed it with anybody else.

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER FOUR -- HEY JEALOUSY

November 29, 2016

I realize there are a bunch of people who are tremendously busy right now counting the millions of votes that were apparently cast by illegal immigrants who are in fact so magical that they don’t even exist outside of the confines of our President-elect’s deranged mind, but when those recounts are finally complete, I have another quick assignment I’d like this detail-oriented group to perform. I’m not all that savvy when it comes to knowing things about geography, but I’m hoping it won’t be too inconvenient for a couple of them to hop from Wisconsin over to California and find some definitive answers that can be backed up with empirical data to finally explain the reason for James Kennedy’s very existence on this already-suffering planet. Seriously, I want to see graphs and shaded charts as part of the explanation process because otherwise it will be very hard for me to believe that this idiot wasn’t created in a laboratory by a group of reality television producers who were coming down from a night filled with strippers and blow and accidentally engaged in an experiment that sadly went fucking berserk.

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER THREE -- THE CURIOUS CASE OF SCHEANA SHAY

November 22, 2016

An article appeared on US Weekly’s website this weekend entitled, Scheana Shay: 25 Things You Don’t Know About Me. Someone posted a link to it on Twitter along with the words, “#1: WHO SHE IS” and I laughed and briefly mourned a life that might have been mine had I not allowed myself to be seduced by Bravo, the most beckoning and alluring of all the cable sirens. I clicked on the article and learned the scintillating information that Scheana has a birthmark on the iris of one of her eyes and that she loves tacos, but what wasn’t explored in that kind of banal list format was anything about who this girl actually is or what it is that she really longs for in life. Yes, I will go ahead and agree right now with those of you who are screaming, “She wants FAME, dummy!” at your computer screens because nobody would go on one of these shows if he or she didn’t crave attention and I think we can all definitively say that Scheana was one of those people who stared hard at herself in the mirror every night back when she was in high school and wondered if just being pretty would lead to people across the globe knowing her name or if she’d actually have to work really hard and develop some sort of a talent. Luckily for her, she came of age during an era in which talent hardly even matters anymore.

NO REGRETS

November 22, 2016

During my early twenties, I went through what I now like to call my I-prefer-that-he-appear-homeless phase when it came to men. It was purely an aesthetic thing. After all, I wanted whatever guy I invited home to actually be gainfully employed and I definitely wanted him to have a home of his own to head back to once I was finished with him – I’m just a girl who likes herself some solitude. But when it came to what turned my head in a dark Manhattan bar, it was always the same: longish hair, sexy scruff, a tissue-thin cotton tee that I figured I’d end up sleeping in one night very soon, at least one tattoo that wasn’t some bullshit tribal vine wrapped around his bicep, and a hint of spicy cologne that smelled like mystery basted in swagger. Only once did a man wearing a suit and tie cause me to stop and gape like someone who was tragically born without the ability to stop drooling, but that rather undignified moment did not occur at a bar. No, that guy was a Secret Service Agent who used to show up at Yankee games when George Pataki was Governor. This stunning male specimen would stand in the aisle behind home plate while Pataki and Giuliani chowed down on hotdogs. (This was back during those days when New Yorkers cheered Giuliani’s presence instead of wondering about which year it must’ve been that the man lost his entire mind and started ranting and raving on Sunday morning talk shows.) I sat right near them – I was blessed with a stepfather who has really good seats for Yankee games – and whenever that Secret Service guy was around, I could not take my eyes off him. I have literally no idea what happened during the games he attended because I never so much as glanced at the field. In fact, I easily could have been knocked out cold by a fly ball on any one of those crisp autumn nights because I paid attention to nobody and nothing except for him, though I did once consider that if such an accident were to transpire, perhaps he’d rush over and give me mouth-to-mouth like he was taught in Secret Service School. (That’s a thing, right?) I even started praying for out of control foul balls to pummel me right in the temple since it started to seem that being struck unconscious might be my only hope of this man ever sliding his lips on top of mine.

Then came one particularly memorable evening when I looked over at my pretend boyfriend who was wearing an expensive suit that nicely concealed his loaded weapon and he smiled right at me and sort of raised his eyebrows and nodded in a greeting. I flashed my dimples back at him, but in the next instant I felt all possibility drain away. Since he could hardly walk away from the public figure he was hired to protect and nobody was allowed to get anywhere near them without the right sort of clearance, I realized that unless I attempted to assassinate his boss, I’d never get to actually meet this guy. As one of the many differences that will always exist between Squeaky Fromme and myself is that I will never be the assassination type – and I don’t have red hair or worship a crazed guru – I realized with a tragic thud that this was a relationship that could never even begin. When his term was over, Pataki wasn’t the Governor anymore and he didn’t show up at Yankee games and I never saw the gorgeous guy ever again. Quick question though: is there maybe a summer camp for former Secret Service Agents where they show off their knot-tying skills and spend afternoons crafting one another friendship bracelets made out of lanyards and wile away the evenings making s’mores beside a roaring campfire as they trade gossip about who was the biggest pain in the ass to protect? Because, if so, I’d like to be Head Counselor.

I do apologize for that little memory-induced digression, but I haven’t thought about that guy in a long while and now I feel positively fuzzy inside. My point, however, is that I typically only went for guys back then who looked dirty. My vetting process stayed consistent for a very long time, until a bunch of years later when an extremely pretty man caused me to do an emotional double-take. But back in the days when filth ruled, one guy I was briefly smitten with seemed like he might be a real contender. He had long hair (blonde – not usually my thing) and his face looked like it would be scratchy to kiss. He always wore jeans and a tee, loved good music, spoke Sarcasm as fluidly as he did English, worked as an editor, smoked like a chimney, enjoyed stroking my hair whenever we were next to one another in a bar or in an alley, and had a tattoo that read “No Regrets” brandished across his chest in huge black letters. And it was that tattoo that sort of moved me beyond that type of man. It was that exact tattoo that made me wonder if I could maybe train my brain to begin to feel attracted to something else. It was that very tattoo that caused me to call my friend Nicole late one night when it was very dark and I could see no hint of the stars and whisper to her, “I just don’t think I am supposed to live a life where ‘No Regrets’ wanders through my kitchen first thing in the morning to get some coffee.” I knew: it was time to make some different choices.

I bring all of this up because I’ve thought a lot recently about people who proudly proclaim that they have no regrets coloring their lives or taunting them in their dreams. It’s a hard thing for me to believe is possible. I have several huge regrets and most of them involve hurting someone I love or allowing myself to be hurt by someone I shouldn’t have loved. While none of these regrets haunt me constantly, in my lowest and dreariest moments, I do wonder about their impact on both my mind and my soul. I am able to realize that it’s hardships that trigger growth and I can say with certainty that making some of those questionable decisions shoved me onto a journey where I learned some gut-wrenching but important lessons about life and men and the resilience of the human spirit, but it wasn’t like any of those lessons were fun to learn. It wasn’t as though admitting that I had a regret (or twelve) brought me any sort of immediate comfort, but I’d never even consider not admitting that my regrets exist.

Knowing him the way I did back then, my longhaired former crush probably earned the right to emblazon those words across his skin in indelible black ink. In the time we spent together, he was brutally honest – with himself and with others – and he also gave really good massages, which I know shouldn’t really figure into this in any real manner, but they were just that impressive. Still, though I was able to believe that his tattooed motto was both reflective of his past and a warning about how we wanted to live his present and his future, we eventually drifted apart, a choice I’m certain has caused neither of us any regret. He hasn’t passed through my thoughts in a lot of years, but I couldn’t help thinking about him during part two of The Real Housewives of Orange County Reunion because I think Kelly Dodd should leave that set where women who hate her sit on overstuffed couches and drive directly to a tattoo parlor and get “No Regrets” inked straight across her Botoxed forehead. This woman (who causes me to feel spiking levels of hatred whenever her grotesque smirk appears in high-definition on my television screen) spent her inaugural season insulting her coworkers viciously and constantly, yet she still idiotically maintains that she has zero regrets for any of her psychotic behavior. She wouldn’t redo any of it! She would happily inform Shannon that she’s ugly one more time! She would love to call Heather “an interloper” yet again just so she can prove that she can pronounce words with more than three syllables! She would definitely not walk back on the choice of appointing Vicki Gunvalson her Life Coach because who better to guide one fucking asshole than another fucking asshole? No, Kelly has absolutely no regrets for anything and if anybody so much as attempts to suggest that perhaps she should, she will just smear on some more lip gloss and take yet another shot of tequila and mumble that anyone saying such a thing is doing so out of pure envy because Kelly is a fucking idiot who sold her depleted sanity to Bravo and I have no doubt that she will be back next season because it’s the crazy ones who tend to get the raises. I will say this, though: I hope that one day in the very near future Andy Cohen feels a pang of regret for thrusting another preening narcissist with no self-awareness upon us during an election season that has already felt like an exercise in abject fucking misery.

The Reunion finally concludes tonight and I feel the need to announce that if Vicki is hired back for next season, my recaps of this show will be concluding as well. I just can’t expose myself to such a horrible person and her barely lucid sidekick anymore, not when I can better spend my time tracking down my Secret Service Agent who will surely enjoy spending his Monday nights feeding me ripe strawberries while inquiring as to which Real Housewife I’d like for him to destroy first. As I enjoy being accommodating, I’ll give him a list with the names Vicki, Kelly, Kim, Brandi, and Luann on it and allow him to plot against them at his leisure. But since it’s not currently strawberry season, let’s instead settle in and discuss how this shitshow finally ends, okay?

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