Real Housewives of Orange County: Baubles and Bunko and One Clunker of a Date

Well, Gasmii, there are only two good things about this week’s episode. It didn’t air on Thanksgiving, thereby allowing us all to digest our food in relative peace and quiet, and Tammy from the ghosts of Housewives past stops by for a game of Bunko at Tamra’s house.

Wait, I just remembered! There are three!

Yay! It’s kind of nice to take a week off from his eternal famewhoring. Also, I hope that after this picture was taken, Gretchen ball gagged him with his own sock. THAT would be interesting.

The bad things, on the other hand, are too numerous to mention this time but one thing stands out above the rest- I missed the premiere of Jersey Shore for this?! Please tell me that all of you are watching the epic Roman prose poem that those guidos are living. It is ART, I tell you. Vomit covered hair gelled Bump-It ART! I think I had three orgasms in the first two minutes. And I was in the other room vacuuming!

Who wants to get a Jersey rental with me next summer? We can relive those weekends I spent drinking vodka at my friend’s childhood home and getting so stoned that streaking through her Long Branch neighborhood at 3 a.m. seemed like a good idea. Hell, I won’t even feel bad if the pictures end up on the internet.

After all, I can still act up all I want because I don’t have any pesky children to worry about, unlike Slurry. She has the nerve to deny her stonerdom this week, right to her daughter’s face, and Crackie. Crackie, Crackie, Crackie. She gifts poor Briana with the weekend from hell. Oh, and Gretchen goes to Michigan. Remind me why she is still on this show? I keep forgetting.

Her naked wasted buddy is back, all tatted up and ready for the jailhouse, but not before making Simon madder than a hornet’s nest of sand wedge weilding golf spouses. Seems that Nugget’s daddy was talking trash about him on Facebook.

I am not on Facebook. Why? Because everyone I know, including my mother, is on Facebook. I really, really do not need her checking up on me or asking what Mr. McSlore means when he updates his status by telling the whole world that I need to start earning that fine joorey again.

If anyone needs to get in touch with me via the computer, it is very simple: email me. Email me all you want without the fear that your messages are going to be rated by some guy I barely knew in High School. It will spare us all a lot of guilt for not checking in with each other every time I get a damn pimple or your baby farts.

Sorry for the rant but these women bring out the complainer in me. I’m trying to figure out which bitch bothers me the most when Crackie pops up on the screen to tell us that she has set her daughter Brianna up on a weekend long blind date. What a great idea! Invite the son of a colleague who you partied with on St. Thomas to spend three days in your home. That’s not awkward. Everything will work out just fine, Brianna will miraculously forget that Colby left her after six years together for a seventeen year old girl, and fall in love with a guy that her mother found for her.

Can you imagine? Crackie would never stop reminding her that she introduced them to each other. She’ll be in he wheelchair clutching old insurance policies and ranting about how Bri owes all her happiness to her.

I will say this, it was a pretty shitty thing for Colby to leave Brianna after they talked about marriage and all but remember who his mother-in-law would have been. He probably met a girl with a normal family and finally realized what he’d been missing.

Crackie calls Chris on her way to pick him up at the airport and tries to get a “Woo Hoo!” out of him. No, Crackhead. Not everyone likes to sound like a lunatic, especially when they are ON AN AIRPLANE.

She looks like shit too. Her hair is messy and she’s wearing a strapless muumuu which is the same crap she was wearing to cook and clean the house. And, has she gained weight or was she always this big?

Chris arrives at the house and there’s a little bit of a build-up for the two of them to meet face to face. They’ve been texting and talking on the phone and I assume that they’ve sent pictures to each other and Brianna’s not relying on just the blurry pictures her mother drunkenly took in the Caribbean. It’s hard to hold a camera steady when you’re screaming at people to yell “Woo hoo!” into the lens.

She needs to retire that phrase.

I know that they are used for other things but a red solo cup means only one thing to me- booze. They are for parties on Laguna Beach when you are trying to hide the fact that you are under 21 and drinking beer, and they are for douchebags in Vegas who are not allowed to have glass by the pool for fear that they’ll get it smashed over their heads. It’s easier to hide roofies in them as well, at least that’s what Shane told me.

No expense is spared in the Crackie household, just look at the ingredients!

Who breaks up Ramen noodles with a meat tenderizing mallet? Won’t a fist do quite nicely? And is there a recipe that calls for shrimp flavored MSG? Maybe she just wants to relive her college years, years of eating Oodles of Noodles with no Crackie breathing down her neck, setting her up with losers.

We meet Chris and he looks like a jarhead. The best way to describe him is Mr. Average. Very short nondescript hair, average build, normal features, two eyes, ten toes, ears placed in the right spots, completely unmemorable in any way. You forget him the minute he’s off screen.

So, good job Crackie! You found your daughter a nobody. The only thing he would be good for is filling out a police line-up. Actually, he’s such a blank slate that he would make a perfect criminal. No one would be able to describe him! Who knows what crimes he might have commited!

Poor Bri. She picks up the dog and grimaces. They put him in a room on a completely different floor, for fear that they might want to fuck on the first date. They shouldn’t have bothered.

He brought her a present, yay, and we girls love presents! We really, really love presents when they aren’t oversized t-shirts. Especially oversized tshirts of teams we can’t stand. Congratulations, Chris!

So I guess that Brianna won’t be too disappointed when she hears Crackie say when referring to Chris, “Leave your penis at the door, pick it up on your way back.”

While you’re at it, see if you can find Donn’s. She probably keeps it her bedside drawer next to her crackpipe.

My bad. I was wrong.

Enough of that balderdash, let’s hop on a flight to Michigan, home of the Wolverines and Michael Moore! Land of foreclosures and bulldozers. Empty factories in the east and picturesque beaches in the west.

Gretchen is making this trip to see where Jeff’s ashes are going to be buried and visit his kids. They’ve been awfully busy since we last saw them. Let’s see- Jill is on probation for DUI and Jake is about to lose his license because he has too many speeding tickets.

Where is their mom? Is she the one that was such a bitch to Gretchen? Or is she the one who was pissed about being left out of the will? I can’t keep it all straight so I will assume that she’s not at this barbecue because she hates Gretchen, not because she’s a bad parent.

This next part is just precious. The kids are admittedly acting out. They lost their beloved dad, for goodness sake, so what does Gretchen do? She blames it on Tamra and her subsequent accusations. Wow. Why would that even come up? If I were her I would steer far, far away from any Photoglou talk, and concentrate a little more on making time with that sexy stud next to her.

I never once hear them bring up Tamra or the internet or anything. It’s obvious that Jill was asked about it in interviews because she defends Gretchen but other than that, they are grieving kids, doing crazy things to release some of their pain.

As for Jake’s tattoo of his dad on his back, I don’t love it but there are crazier things you could do.

From a normal, relatively sane barbecue we head back to Crackie’s house where the meat is seasoned with hallucinogens and the alcohol flows like it’s New Year’s Eve at……well, at any of these bitch’s homes. Case in point- Chris takes a swig of Corona and tells Crackie that she’s beautiful. Not Brianna, Crackie! Is he blind? Is he trying to ingratiated himself with momma in order to get into the pants of the only sane person on this show?

After Tamra spews some bullshit about Chris being cute, the moment we’ve all been waiting for finally comes to pass and Nugget’s daddy arrives in all his loser glory. Man oh man, God must have been having a particularly off day when he allowed that sperm to meet that particular egg and create that particular fuck up.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate the kid. The problem I have with him is that he is 23 years old and should be working, not doing beer bongs in Crackie’s pool. What makes him think that it’s okay to have no job or aspirations?

Hmmmm. Let’s think about this because it will come up again with Slurry’s daughter Raquel. It is not okay to be out of high school and not in a steady job or college. If you are of sound mind and body you need to be making money and planning a future without mommy or daddy’s over-flowing bank account. If this year has proven anything, it’s that money can be gone in an instant and sometimes the only thing separating you and your mansion from the streets is your ability to make a buck any way that you can.

So, get a job, dagnabbit! Be Crackie’s dealer, I don’t care but get a damn job!

Something tells me it’s going to be a while.

Or, maybe be a parent to your kid instead of letting them get away with murder and then wake up one day and wonder why they turned out to be such losers.

So Ryan is there which is a nice surprise for Simon since Tamra neglected to mention it to him. Such great communication skills, Tamra. Keep up the passive-aggressive shenanigans and you’ll end up a bitter lonely old bitch with no love in her life. Oh, wait.

Simon hasn’t spoken to Ryan for six months, not since he took his mother’s car out for a trip to his Future Pillars of Society meeting when, oopsy! He got caught driving with a suspended license.

The cars are in Simon’s name which would make him responsible if Nugget’s dad got into an accident or caused any damage, which means that Simon Blarney could have been taken for all he’s got! Goodbye equity-less home! Sayonara, shares of Don Julio!

By the way, I spoke with my bartender the other day (yes, I have a bartender. Don’t look at me like that!) and she informed me that no one ever orders that brand, not in Coventry anyway. Maybe it does well in Parma or Painesville. I’ll ask next time I’m there (never).

Ryan acts like he did nothing wrong and says that he hates Simon. Well, that wasn’t very nice, now was it? I’ll tell you who hates you, Ryan.

Holy crap, he’s in his early twenties and his hair is quitting that bitch in droves! Male pattern baldness strikes again, or perhaps it was the trauma of losing Nugget. Nah, I’ll go with the humiliation of having a crass freckle bomb for a mother.

Yikes. She has more freckles in one square inch than I have on my whole body after an entire summer of golf. And that romper, what is it with her and trying to dress like Kira in Xanadu? Do the Blockbusters in the O.C. stock only chintzy movies starring blondes that are hairsprayed to the moon? Does Simon have an Olivia Newton John fetish?

Ryan and Michael get together in the pool and like an immovable object being hit by an irrestible force, the inevitable happens, a crater forms and sucks them down to hell. Just kidding, they do beer bongs AND SOPHIA IS RIGHT THERE!

Luckily for us all, Tamra moves her to the other end of the pool before she can get her little fingers on a cold one and get naked wasted in front of Crackie’s guests. What a good mommy!

It’s funny, I don’t remember Crackie telling anyone that this was a dry party.

This is where Simon informs Tamra that Ryan has to apologize to him on Facebook because that is what any rational, mature father figure would say, and Tamra cries again, smearing her Maybelline mascara into the ridges of crepe paper that passes for skin in her universe and we’re supposed to feel sorry for her.

The only thing that I feel sorry for is her jar of makeup remover pads, and the fact that Crackie is so juiced on the bad shit that you can end up in the emergency room if one of her eyelashes falls on you.

One more thing before we move on to the Bellino luncheon at the yacht club. Simon was totally drunk when he was talking to Tamra! He was slurring his words and switching up his syntax like a beauty queen during the Q&A portion of the pageant.

It is time to sip rarified Margaritas where judge Smails christened The Flying Wasp and Danny got his palm read by Lacey. Yes, I did it. I made a Caddyshack reference. Quelle surprise! The thing is, you just know that Tamra is going to rent that movie next week and show up with a ponytail sticking out of the side of her head. Then she can read Simon’s saliva line and tell him how HOT she can get him.

Not looking so hot is Jim. Eeeeeyyeeeew! I love the untucked lavendar shirt. It totally hides his fat belly and accents his raccoon eyes and triple decker chin. I swear to God that I was remarking to Mr. McSlore that he probably smells like Bijan and Cuban cigars when what does he do? He lights one up!

Yeah, your reality is that you have to treat your wife like shit, tear her down and then give her a fancy monogrammed 7 carat diamond necklace to reming her that you bought her. That’s funny, I don’t see HER initial anywhere, just the initials of their children. It’s so fancy schmancy that it kind of looks like it says S&M.

She’s just an object to him. I have to cringe when she says that it’s okay that he doesn’t change diapers because he’s the “king.” Sure, honey. We’ll see how much he looks like royalty when you catch him with his pants around his ankles shtupping your best friend in the back of your Bentley.

If you’re even allowed to have a best friend. I don’t know where you’d find the time between working out and kissing your husband’s feet. And then working out some more.

And, can you say eating disorder? Who works out for three days after eating a donut? Karen Carpenter, that’s who, or Tracy Gold in a movie for Lifetime. Don’t think that you can call yourself a picky eater and have us all fooled. Picky eaters won’t eat fish or mushrooms, they don’t eschew 99.9% of the food pyramid. Unless, of course, you are Sandra Lee and prefer to drink your calories rather than eat them. That, I understand!

What else don’t I understand? How on earth this woman can worry about her husband finding someone prettier than her. Yes, she has the duck lips but I don’t even notice those half the time because of the nightmare that was Daisy of Love. Nothing compares to those innertubes. Besides, what does she have to worry about? Last I checked you could still buy a pig at the market.

And in case you forgot…

Yes, turd. We heard you the first fifty eleven times.

Moving on from spousal claptrap to complete familial poppycock, we join Slurry & Company in their new home.

Someone tell me how this is a downgrade? Are there different rules on the west coast? If you don’t pay your rent, do they just hand you the keys to a beautiful modern home with all the amenities?

Maybe the house belongs to Miss Andy and he’s loaning it to them so they can stay out of the shelter a few more months, because pulling into the Mission parking lot in your tricked out Mercedes can be sooo AWKWARD. Unlike hiring a “teen whisperer.”

I mean, I know that Raquel is a dog and Alexa walks like a horse but why a “whisperer?” Just send them to boot camp or threaten to not give them nose jobs.

In case you couldn’t tell, I am a little old school when it comes to psychology. Unless you were in a war or bent over your Playschool kitchenette by Uncle Chester, common sense and following some simple rules should get you through things just fine.

Or call a trusted Aunt to talk to them OR STOP SMOKING POT AND PAY ATTENTION.

Anyway, little miss “youthologist” Vanessa pries out of Raquel that the few brain cells that she hasn’t left on the polished floors of Bowl-O-Rama have gotten together and figured out what she wants to be when she grows up, an artist!

She’s not interested in Art History, doesn’t own so much as a box of crayons but she loves to draw pictures in the back yard with her own poop, so what the heck! Sign her up at AIC!

But first I have a little test for her:

Alexa’s chit chat with Vanessa Fiddlesticks Von Bunkum goes something like this- “Mommy like, ignores me so I’m like, a caged like animal that like, needs her like, mommy.”

Heavens to Betsy, get this girl an electric collar so I can zap her every time she says “like.” That’s what she really needs, not one on one time with mommy. She’s worse than Miley.

Just as much as a horndog too, it turns out. Remember why Slurry called Vanessa in the first place? it was because the girls weren’t answering their phones or giving her the numbers of where they were going to be. Well, Miss Alexa has been spending most of her time with boys. What? How did that happen? It’s not like she has raging hormones and no one around to watch her.

Next we have a moment that completely makes this show so fabulous for me. Alexa overheard her mom talking about eating a hash brownie. Slurry insists that she was referring to hash browns and eggs. Did you see the look on Mr. Slurry’s face when he asked to change the subject?

For a minute there I thought that I was having a flashback of my own when I saw Alexa’s coffee mug. Holy moly, that could hold a freaking gallon!

And her kitchen is anything but caliente at the moment as Brianna makes whoosywhatsit some eggs. Wow. The bloom sure fell off that rose pretty damn quick. Once again, good job Crackie. You have just communicated to your daughter that she deserves a boring guy whose only redeeming quality is that he compliments YOU.

Later on they get some freaking yogurt which is as fraught with innuendo and sexual tension as teaching a child to tie their shoelaces. Unless your name is Uncle Chester, of course.

Bah, what an awful bore. If this were the movie Airplane, someone would be in a noose hanging from the ceiling right now. Or pulling out an IV.

Back in the Detroit suburbs, Jill has bought herself a nice shiny new condo with dead daddy’s moolah. At least she made an investment and put a roof over head. It’s not like any of her inheritance is getting set aside for an education. Why, you ask? Because she isn’t working and she has absolutely no intention of doing so. Another genius in our midst. This show is breeding them like Mayflies.

She has a cute skinny boyfriend who is in college and is studying finance. That isn’t good enough for Gretchen, who insists that Jill get a job.

I’m sorry, what the? Did I miss the part where she fell asleep and woke up Jamaican? How on earth did she find time to tear herself away from her 17 jobs and visit you all in Michigan? Huh?

And I’m not racist. I’m referring to an old sketch from In Living Color.

They head over to the cemetery so Gretchen can sniffle and make Freudian slips. Not the costume from DOA but this one:

They showed up at her house with Jeff’s ashes and she looked at it and said, “Is that it? Is that all I get?” See how pretending to grieve can get you into all kinds of trouble? I wonder what she was thinking about when she got those tears to flow.

I feel awful for Jake. He seems like a nice kid, just a wee bit lost at the moment. It sucks to lose a parent at the precise moment when you are trying to become an adult. So, get your shit together and stop hanging out with famewhores!

The next part of the show revolves around a goodbye dinner for Chris. He invites them to visit him in Indiana, Brianna makes another face and……………………………………………………oops. Sorry. I fell asleep again.

That was strange. I had this dream that a gaggle of prostitutes showed up at my front door, demanded to know where I kept the liquor and proceeded to fill my house with shrill cackling while throwing snake eyes on my Mahogany table.

Ohhhh, gawd dammit! It wasn’t a dream at all! It was another one of Tamra’s “Drunko” parties, and she’s made everyone wear a wig so she can relive her childhood experiences of watching the hookers arrive back at the trailer park at dawn.

So that’s where her ideal of beauty comes from! No wonder she thinks she’s hot. By her standards- she is! Who am I to argue.

Tammy Knickerbocker (I love that name. It’s like she’s on an upscale version of HeeHaw or a country singer on Lawrence Welk) arrives and lord have mercy! She done got herself a tattoo or two! This from the lady who gave her daughter so much grief for getting them. Shocking. Here’s to her finding a nice rich biker boy to go with them!

The cougar from two seasons ago is back, taking up space and praying that Bunko is the last name of a hot Christian guy in his 20s who likes big tits and wine soaked prayer circles filled with double entendre sex talk.

And holy Mary, mother of God, she got biiiiiiiiig again. I think she got confused with what being a cougar meant and started eating her dates.

Nobody understands the rules of the game until they get a few cocktails under their belts and start rolling the dice. The Bellino Bimbo is really into it. Really, really into it. She says that she’s competitive at games. Plus, she ate a peanut and needs to work off all those excess calories.

Don’t you love her blonde Posh wig? It’s so perfect, since neither one of them can move their faces.

I’m afraid for her. Imagine the beating she is going to get after going out on her own and getting trashed. Look on the bright side, if he gives her a fat lip she won’t have to spend as much money on her next collagen injections.

We end the evening’s festivities with Tamra pouring vodka down Tammy’s throat. She spits it out all over the place so poor Ryan has no naked wasted chicks to grope, not this time.

What he does have is a nice shiny jail cell waiting for him. Tamra meets him for lunch and he tells her that he chose five days in county lock-up instead of doing the community service that he originally agreed to. What a winner. Oh well.

I love how he ordered a shot of Patron. Not Don Julio, but Patron. Zing on you simon. You can’t make Nugget’s daddy order your tequila. That’ll show him! I hope he gets his butt fondled nice and good in his “not prison” jail cell. It still goes on your record, moron!

See you next time where we enjoy a heaping helping of plastic surgury and Gretchen & Tamra redux. It’ll be like we all died and woke up in Andy Cohen’s wine glass. So, Joy!

Love and Kisses,

Twunty McSlore