Real Housewives of Orange County: The End is Nigh

I never thought I’d see the day where one of my beloved shows would outlive it’s welcome- right before my eyes. I love this show. I love this franchise. I was going through a rough time in my life when I discovered it, and Bravo showed me the light at the end of the tunnel with gay designers, Kathy Griffin, and Laurie Waring’s quizically frozen face.I’d curse Jo’s immaturity with my gay friends, rue the day that Jeffrey won Project Runway with my mother (Laura got robbed!), and delight with my baby brother at Kathy’s celebretard observations. Now what? These RHOC people are complete losers. The only original housewife cannot recognize her own show anymore and I have to agree with her, as much as I hate to admit it.

I’ll move on to the recap in just a second, but first I want to say one pertinent thing- none of these bitches really know each other! Tamra and Crackie have their little friendship, the kind that translates into lunch once a month, but everyone else is on this show to sell something or get their egos stroked. BAH. I miss New Jersey where everybody knows, hates or is related to you.

One thing those Jersey girls would never do is get a tattoo. Tamra gave her son, old Rapey Eyes, shitloads of grief for his various choices in body art, so what does she do? Get a tattoo.

You see, it is the only way that she can prove her love to Simon. You or I would wear something cute, cook something our baby really likes and fuck his/her brains out. That usually works for me. Not Tamra. Maybe she’s just really shitty in bed. She is definitely a bad cook and have you seen the crap she wears? I rest my case.

Before they can tattoo her finger, she has some concerns. Can she get a disease? Is it going to hurt? Can she have something to drink? She forgot something.

Yes.
I have reached the point where I question absolutely everything this whore does, everything. I think that she is so desperate for a story line, so hell bent on getting air time that she cooked this story up for those reasons alone.

She acts like she’s in SO much pain and all I can say is, good. I hope it hurts like HELL. I have one that is a hundred times the size of that wee little script. I never once asked the tattooist to stop, or cried out in pain. I’m a little bit of a masochist, though. So are you- we all watch this shit, don’t we? Ha!

Her gay buddy Ricky is there to tell her that love hurts, so suck it up and then we get the big reveal-

.

It doesn’t even look like it says ‘Simon.’ The ‘i’ looks like a damn ‘t.’
She remarks that she likes it but it signifies the kiss of death to many relationships. Please. Tattoos don’t end relationships, people that use them as a last ditch effort to save their marriage do.
One more thing. I would definitely have gone bigger.

Maybe she could get someone to tattoo smoother skin onto her hand, and then give Slurry a head’s up because she is stiil looking shitty and still driving around with her seat pulled all the way up. My Aunt Rose had more room between her chest and the steering wheel, and she was 300 pounds.

Not to mention the fact that Slurry should never, ever be allowed to talk on the phone while driving. What if she hit someone? She’s not insured and she has the ticket in real life to prove it.

I guess that she didn’t have time to pull over and call Alexis, since being a Cuff Mogel is such a major time gobbler.
She tells Daisy Duck that her feathers looked particularly fluffy and fab at the Gourmet Party the other night and says that she has no idea what got into her to make her cry and act up like she did. It’s a mystery, drinking never makes her cry!

Sister Mallard Mouth tells her that it’s okay, everyone gets emotional sometimes, and Jimbo only used a tiny little paddle this time, and besides, everybody made up off camera afterwards.

Slurry also called to invite her to her little housewarming party, not to let the fact that she’s been living in her new house for three months already and IT’S RENTED get in the way or anything. Maybe she’s just calling it a housewarming to get Tamra to bring a gift for a change. They can use all the free stuff they can get at this point.

Alexis tells her that she is going to Palm Desert with the Pawn Preacher but she will make sure that she is back in time to attend, maybe even get Jim to loosen up with some of the good pawned silver for a present.

Meanwhile, Gretchen is visiting Crackie at her office for some advice on her fabulous new make-up line. She interviews that she admires Crackie’s work ethic and wants to pick her brain. Instead of being professional, Crackie uses this opportunity to be rude, ask personal questions and then talk behind her back.

First Crackie says that she WORKS, she doesn’t just slap her name on a product and try to make a quick buck. Nice. Then she tells her that she doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell against established powerhouses like Estee Lauder and Dior. Even nicer.

Little miss hopeful shows her the plan she has laid out- selling on the internet and then gradually moving into retail. Crackie says in interviews that she expects her to fail. After this gloriously helpful display, she decides to get nosey and asks her if she is using the money she got from Jeff to finance her attempt to be the next Adrien Arpel and she says that she didn’t get any.

This opens the door to ask if Slade is helping her out financially. Duh! With what? Do they dole out food stamps to dead beats?
She lies and says yes but he doesn’t have enough money to invest with her new company. This isn’t good enough for Crackie and she won’t shut her pie hole about it, asking if he has a job, yadda yadda, then interviews that she heard that Slade was her “manager.”

Don’t you love that term?
Manager. It could mean anything. Making phone calls, brokering deals, but mostly taking a percentage of someone else’s earnings while you sit on your fat ass running up huge tabs on three martini lunches at the St. Regis. Or “pleasuring” Gretchen, which is the most honest thing to ever come out of Jeff’s almost-widow’s mouth EVER.

Crackie interviews behind Gretchen’s back for the fifty millionth time that she thinks that Slade is using her. Gretchen is probably well aware of that, and who cares? They are cut from the same cloth, make no mistake about it, it’s just that hot girls are a more lucrative commodity than scruffy gigolos past their prime. Seriously, nobody else cares, why should she?

Lets move on to the Pawn Preacher, his demure wife and their much needed getaway. Poor things, their life is so hard. I’m so relieved that they are finally taking some time for themselves! Summers in the O.C. are so stressful, just ask Slurry.

They are driving in their Bentley/Mercedes/Chrysler 300, you tell me, and Slim Jim is getting crumbs all over the fine corinthean leather.

He clobbers her for forgetting to pack an extra bathing suit for his fat ass and then promises to get her a new bikini if she stops speaking until spoken to. Yay, she giggles, everybody wins!

They are returning to the scene of the crime, the exact spot where Sister Jumbo Jubblies first eyed her true love over her copy of The Cat in the Hat and tried to guess his weight, I mean worth. The price was right and they sealed the deal that weekend, oohing and ahhhing over the beautiful pink ‘swans.’

How does he not know the difference between a swan and a flamingo? Is that what happens when you marry some form of water fowl, they all start to look the same to you? God help him if he wades into the wrong pool later. If he gets fresh he might get pecked to death.

They check in at the super classy front desk where there is a super duper classy bottle of lotion sitting on a bed of unbelievably exquisite glass stones, convenient for lubing up before heading off to your suite with one of the high classy ladies from the pool bar. Wow, they think of everything here!

The Pawn Preacher graciously peels some bills from his bursting money clip and hands them to the awe struck guest services girl, who trembles with pleasure when his finger brushes hers, quivering noticeably with delight at such close proximity to greatness.

He looks at her, the intensity of his smoldering gaze causing her to lower her eyes bashfully as he utters,

She giggles, turning red and wishing that it was she by his side but realising with sadness that it could never be. Her eyes turn to his wife, the Goddess that calls this man husband is from another world entirely, one she can only dream of at night, after reading novels that take her off to exotic locales where she imagines herself taller and more beautiful, and succulent of thigh.

Oops, sorry. Got carried away there. They are so boring and I was just trying to imagine Alexis’s inner monologue for a second. She must be living in a fantasy land to act the way she does. She is insanely giddy, considering the fact that she’s with a guy that would be lucky to get a hand job from a blind girl if he woke up poor tomorrow.

Alexis points out the chair she occupied when they first espied each other from across the pool, and we all collectively sigh, wishing she had walked into the deep end and drowned herself, sparing us the Pawn Preacher sucking food through his teeth and draping untucked heavy cotton over his heaving belly.

Did you know that Jimbo waited ten long years after his divorce before he finally found his perfect speciman of class and sexy elegance? Did you also know that $2,985 buys you a Presidential suite straight out of 1985?

I laughed out loud when I saw the purple chair and matching border. Please tell me that the tub, sink and toilet are a matching shade of dusky rose. That would make my LIFE.

After Alexis is finished gobbling up the glamour of her room (no, rooms!), they take a queer ass boat ride and check out more ‘swans.’ It’s so romantic, like getting a beej from a classy lady that knows how to do it without mussing up that perfect shade of Think Pink she shoplifted from the Lancome lipstick counter last week.

All that pointing and admiring of man-made bodies (of water) has got Jimbo hankering for some grub so they head off to the chic hotel restaurant.

Freaking Mallard Mouth raided the Laugh-In costume closet again.

Is she pissed that she was too young to wear those clothes the first time around, so now she’s making up for lost time? And don’t get me started on Jimbo. How many times can you wear an untucked jazzy dress shirt with pressed jeans and a phony bondage belt?

They are one of THOSE couples. You know, the kind that sit next to each other instead of across. What’s the problem? Did Bravo only bring one camera on this trip?

She wants to share a Caesar salad so she doesn’t eat so many croutons that she breaks her Thighmaster again, and Jim makes a crack about her dresses costing a thousand bucks, but she wants to skimp on their meal. Please. I saw that exact same get-up at Forever 21. It was $19.95. She must be skimming the rest for the really expensive concealer she has to buy to cover those pesky bruises.

Wine selection is brought up and Jimbo tells her what the best Sauvignon Blanc on the menu is, predicts that the server will suggest a certain bottle and Alexis squeels with prideful delight when that’s exactly what happens! He’s so smart, so worldly and suave! Even random strangers must bow to his superiority.

Especially after you slip them a note and a fifty.

Raise your hand if you think that was an accident. Didn’t think so.

The server makes two suggestions of reds for him, so just to be extra dashing he tells her to pick for him and then choses one anyway.

So tell me, Gasmii- where is the douche academy this tool attended and who is going to help me burn it down?

He just gets more and more attractive with each passing episode.
Did you know that the Bellino’s motto is ‘Divorce is not an option?’ I was so sure that it was ‘Shut up and look pretty.’ Hmm. I must be out of touch if I think that I’m allowed more reasons to get a divorce than a man that cheats or beats me. I need to rethink my values. I wouldn’t want anyone thinking that I was one of those icky ‘feminist’ types. Ewww!

Speaking of feminist stereotypes, let’s follow Gretchen to her next appointment in her relentless pursuit of conquering the cosmetic industry. She visits a production company that loans out cheap polyester curtains and partical board diaramas for presentation booths at expos.

I was sitting on the bed, petting the dog and taking bets from my Teddy bears on whether she goes for mid 19th century Frontier Brothel or last year’s Ed Hardy Club Slut when, holy moly! She picks Old School Hollywood Glamour. The dark horse wins and I fork my fiver over to Paddington bear while Gretchen organizes a color scheme that sounds exactly like the Victoria’s Secret store design in Beachwood mall- pink, black and white.

She admits to having a lot riding on this enterprise- her entire ego! My God, that’s a load few would attempt to carry. I smell a serious hernia outbreak on the horizon. Ouch. I hope that Slade’s check for Fitworks didn’t bounce. I would hate for Gretchen to have to sell the Harley.

Guess what. The Blarneys still have theirs. It’s that or Simon gave up on Tequila and is selling bikes now. Do you care? Nope. Moving on.

Simon and Tamra hop on their motorcycle with some biker friends and head down to Mutt Lynch’s for cocktails.They must be having Happy Hour specials for strident shrews and their officious husbands because they don’t skimp when ordering drinks.

By the way, didn’t you love it when Tamra shook out the gnarly straw from under her helmet and asked if anyone had a hairbrush? Did you hear that strange clacking noise?

She needs to stop buying her weave from hay farmers and splurge for some good bleached Bangladesh. I don’t know how it has managed not to go up in flames yet, on account of her being so HOT.

She jokes about getting so drunk that she falls off the back of the bike and me and bulid-a-bear exchange wistful glances. If only, sigh.

Instead they make a toast to their rented biker buddies and then Tamra tells Simon that she has something to tell him. She says that she lied about going to dinner with Ricky which he refutes because he checked up on her by calling him. Douche!

She glosses over that little tidbit and keeps insisting that she lied. I realise that she is trying to milk her moment and set up the big tattoo reveal but she completely sucks at it. Congratulations, Tamra. You excell at failure.

Finally, Simon asks, “What are you talking about?” and she proves her “internal love” for him by showing him the tattoo. He expected her to say there was another man (who, this gay Eddie person?) so he gets all teary and kisses the tattoo. He whispers that it’s the first unselfish thing that she has done for him in a long time, and I almost feel happy for them.
Hahahahaha, right! Last I checked Jesus wasn’t giving out any more naivete. He used it all up on Alexis.

Now that we’re done with the warm-up, let’s tackle the main dish. The next fifteen minutes of this show lasted for about two hours for me, at least it seemed like it. Picture me furiously scrawling out notes, only to rewind when I discovered that I couldn’t read them. I was writing while staring at the bravia, mouth wide open, the earth having stopped spinning ages ago.

I felt like one of those charlatans that listen to your stories about your dead mother while scrawling nonsense into a legal pad, only I couldn’t go back and read it and tell you where she hid her priceless IBM stock certificates. What I’m trying to say is, SHIT GOT BANANAS.

Have you ever had an innocent little dinner party and accidentally invited people that cannot stand each other? Have you ever wished that you could sink through the floor when your friend’s husband informs everyone within ear shot that he would rather fuck cow manure than stick his dick in his wife ever again? How about getting hit on by your husband’s superior? Or overhearing someone say that your friend is going to hell cuz they’re Jewish? No? Well, I have and this party is worse.

Pray for me because this might take a while.
It’s just before sunset and Slurry is busy putting an empty looking blunt bundt pan into the oven while folks from 25 Degrees spiffy up the rented shack with their little place cards and special cocktails.

Slurry and Frank have shipped the kiddies off to grannies for the night. I sure do hope that they fit in time to train Lucy to knock pills out of their mouths, I’d be super sad if one of them hijacked too much of Marilou’s valium and couldn’t work on that cure for cancer anymore.

Tamra and Simon are the first to arrive and Tammy Sue remembered to bring a housewarming gift! Do you think that there’s anything in the bag or is Slurry going to be pulling tissue paper out for a half hour, only to find a handfull of air at the bottom? She’s probably counting on her being too stoned to notice.

I noticed something. There’s a shrine in their foyer. Some might call it an etching of Bob Marley’s face, others equate it with a nice oil painting of Jesus.

The lushes head up to the kitchen where they all do shots. Slurry is feeling her buzz and decides to show off her only talent not glue gun related, doing squats against the wall. I actually have no idea what they are doing. I am strictly an amateur when it comes to excercise. I hop on a bike, lift a few weights and walk the golf course. Other than that, I’m lost.
She has other talents, you just can’t show them on TV.

Group hug for Frank, Tamra and Slurry. Can you feel the love? Well, say goodbye. It’s hate from here on out.

After some mutual masturbation on the balcony about how the Curtains and Blarneys are such nice people, Donn and Crackie walk down the street to the house and ignore Simon when he waves to them. Frank jokes that maybe Crackie can’t see that far, and let the hate begin!

Slurry asks Simon if he has kissed and made up with Crackie yet and he tells her that everything is fine as long as she minds her own business. Translation-

Jimbo and Alexis arrive next in their best master/slave finery and he starts pricing the Marley etching before one of the producers informs him that it’s rented. Gretchen walks in with Slade and all eight little Indians are accounted for.
Don’t you secretly wish that this would turn into an Agatha Christie mystery with Crackie found dead in a Pullman car, 7 knife wounds in her chest? Well, this is close enough.

In the kitchen, Slurry shows Gretchen the bottle of Bitch wine and Gretchen tells her that she serves the same vintage to her friends, as a matter of fact she has an entire case of it set aside for Tamra.

Unfortunately Slade read the bottle, thought it was for him and drank it all. Badum-bump.

Simon gets forced to hug Crackie by his rapidly deteriorating wife. He tells Tamra to pace herself with water, a suggestion that she quickly shoots down (yay!) in favor of getting another free cocktail, courtesy of that 25 Degree Huntington Beach restaurant. They have set up a bar on the patio, which has become the epicenter of her drunken world.

Two worlds collide in the form of Crackie and the Pawn Preacher.

You would think that they would have hours worth of conversation since they both work so hard but it’s not to be. They circle each other like two boxers, trying to find the other’s weakness, I mean common ground. So stilted, so awkward. I’m not sure which one is more socially retarded- Jimbo, because he doesn’t know how to speak to women he can’t control and treats everyone like a subordinate, or Crackie, who I believe has some form of Aspergers.

Tamra is now officially trashed. Simon tries to wrangle her while Gretchen stares on disapprovingly. She interviews that she ‘hears’ that Tammy Sue is a closet drinker. I wonder if this will come up at the reunion because most people don’t take kindly to being called an alkie. She acts like one, though. Remember the last reunion? Tam said that she quit drinking because she didn’t like how she acted with a case of wine coursing through her veins. Someone call Dr. Drew.

Simon is trying to get her to sop up some of the Bitch with a piece of Bruschetta but let’s not forget- Tamra doesn’t eat in Summer. She’s just gonna have to stay loopy.

Here’s a prophetic conversation. Frank is over by the Cuff Mural telling Jim his philosophy on finances. See, he would like to live in a world devoid of bills, driving used cars while living in a small house, stress free. Jim tells him that he’s in a different place in his life right now but they do agree on one thing-

I mean- no stress!
One of those wives is ganging up on Crackie with Tamra. They’re trying to talk her into joining a ‘booty class’ with them. She refuses, remarks that every conversation is boring her, repeats “no drama” like it’s her freaking mantra and then heads off to find Donn.

She finds him on the patio where she gets drawn into Tamra’s web again. Tammy the teetotaler says that they’re family and that family fights once in a while, but then they make up. Can her two best buds be friends again? They nod and then Crackie says that she can get past it if Simon can. Well, he can’t.

He says that he can, if she butts out of his marriage. Uh-oh.

I can’t write a blow by blow of what happens next without tearing my hair out and then needing a weave myself, so let me give you the gist of the ensuing ridiculousness.

Tamra calls Crackie and complains about her husband behind his back. Donn calls up Simon and cries to him about his selfish bitch of a wife. Simon doesn’t throw this into Crackie’s face because he sure doesn’t want her spilling the beans that Tamra’s been planting in her ear. If that happened, their marriage wouldn’t look so damn perfect anymore.

The Blarneys were going through some bad stuff back when the reunion was being taped but decided to work through it. A normal person would lend an ear, offer advice if it was requested, and then recused themselves from the situation. This is someone’s marriage we are talking about, not an insurance seminar. Crackie acts like a freaking vampire with the way she won’t butt the hell out. You invite her in once and just have to stand aside while she sucks the life out of those around her.

Simon has every right to be angry. Number one- his wife confided in a woman who treats her spouse like an afterthought, and two- that woman is using the information to drive a wedge between them.
People vent. I know I do. The difference is that I choose the people I vent to wisely. I don’t need my personal business splashed all over the local paper and on the tongues of bored housewives from here to Pepper Pike. I trusted the wrong person once, and I will never do that again.

I may not win any friends with this comment, but if Tamra doesn’t cut off her friendship with Crackie, she’s only going to have herself to blame for her marriage’s failure. She’s the one that opened that door, and only she can close it.

Stop making your husband miserable by letting a bitch hold information over his head! That is all kinds of wrong and a complete breach of trust! Mr. McSlore wouldn’t be able to separate from me fast enough if I pulled that kind of shit, and I wouldn’t blame him!

It just keeps getting worse. Simon is beet red at this point, either from the wind burn he got on the bike or Crackie rage, I’m not sure. He should have stayed away from her at this point but he doesn’t. Instead he tells her that they are healthy and happy and to butt out again. She says that she could give a rat’s ass about their marriage, all she cares about is Tamra’s happiness. Um, wouldn’t that include her husband? I have a feeling that we aren’t getting the whole story here.

Do you know who I feel the most sorry for? The poor bartender on the balcony! That poor kid had to stand there and listen to all this crap, all while smiling and helping them get more drunk. I hope he isn’t scarred for life.

I did have to laugh when Simon called her a “fucking bitch,” before he walked out. And did you notice the clusters of people? Donn was off to the side with the other two hoes with no power- Slade and Mallard Mouth, trying not to pay attention to Simon disparaging his wife and marriage.

Slurry is probably in the kitchen waiting for her imaginary bundt cake to rise, and Gretchen is posing with an instamatic in the downstairs bathroom. Frank and Jimbo lean against the railing while the Cuff painting abides.

I also got a good chuckle out of Crackie telling Tamra that she’s only guilty of one thing- sticking up for a friend because Simon’s a big bully and it’s not right to tell people what they can or cannot do. I don’t need to point out the hypocrisy of that statement, do I?

Tamra goes out to get Simon, he’s drunk and pissed, she hugs him and pretends to cry. Seriously, this man is hurting BAD and she can’t squeeze out one cc of saline?

He wants her to remember how happy they were before Bravo Crackie got their hands into their lives, but I think this is all a load of bullshit. I do not believe that Tamra is worried about her marriage. I think that they watched the other shows like Atlanta, and wanted more air time, so they concocted all this marriage drama since that Housewives check was becoming more and more important in their lives. I DO believe that Simon hates Crackie, and vice versa.

So- this tug of war over Tamra and which controlling asshole wins? Don’t care. If he was so fucking pissed about it why did he sit next to Crackie at dinner and not say one word? Besides, unless Crackie is really good with a strap-on, the one who’s fucking Tamra will win every time. A ho is a ho is a ho, and the fake romance with one of Simon’s friends that just surfaced on Radar online, the one that supposedly brought Simon to his knees with grief? PLEASE. That guy is gayer than Richard Simmons at an all you can eat spoogecake buffet. Pffft.

They finally sit down to the donated dinner and make a toast to the new Curtain home and it’s unpaid bills. While eating their yummy looking sliders, the talk turns to how they all met their spouses. Slurry’s story is straight out of a teen novel. She was slinging yogurt down in Laguna when the scent of Sensamilla wafted her way and it was so powerful that she never wanted to leave it’s side, and she never has. Aw.

Tamra met Simon at an Ingmar Bergman film festival, oh wait! It was the next best thing- the all male Tush-Push at Cowboy Boogie! You cannot make this stuff up, people.

Crackie rolls her eyes when Tamra makes the droll comment about needing to find out if Simon was as good between the sheets as he was at shaking his ass. Gee, nobody’s ever heard THAT one before. This girl is cornier that my ex’s senile Polish grandfather, and just as funny as he was when he’d forget the punchline halfway through.

It’s Alexis’s turn to tell of her epic journey from the pool chair to the rim job in the maintenance man’s utility room, and she goes on and on like we’re supposed to believe them to be a modern day Antony and Cleopatra.
No one thinks that your husband is hot. No one is dumb enough to think that you married him for his looks, not even Lucy.

Donn and Crackie start fake snoring in their corner of the table and it’s funny but terribly rude. Besides, Crackie WORKS. She’s just tired.

Alexis is offended but Jimbo doesn’t care, he tunes his wife out all the time. He’s used to it. He didn’t marry her for her brains any more than she married him for his six pack.

And did you know that Crackie just got back from Greece? Really? She wasn’t WORKING all summer but made time to take at least three trips? Instead of bringing up this pertinent fact, they all want to know if Donn was invited. Her mother went, so of course he didn’t want to go. That woman could take exstacy before a KC and the Sunshine Band concert and make it sound like she just lived through the Holocaust. A bigger Debbie Downer doesn’t exist.

Crackie gets up to go to the bathroom and they all start in on Donn and why he didn’t go to Florida. He says that he wasn’t invited but he’s clearly uncomfortable with this line of questioning. I think that he DOES give a rat’s ass that every other guy that wanted to go, went. I also think that he doesn’t see why he should have to answer to any of these people, they don’t know him. They should mind their own damn business. Instead of glossing over their queries, he channels Crackie and says that he was WORKING.

Silence.
Jim is pissed. He works HARD to put food on the table and collagen in his wife’s cheeks. As Crackie and Donn get up to leave, he tells Donn not to work too hard. It is now official. Nobody likes either of them.

Poor Crackie. She gets in the limo with her husband saying that all the women are fucked up and they can all go fuck themselves. OH, I was wondering when that “high road” she’s always talking about was going to show up.

She starts to cry, calling all of them ‘mean girls.’ It’s not so fun when the shoe is on the other foot, now is it? Thank God Jeana is gone, along with all her drama. What a joke.

Donn tells her to stop crying for the cameras, nobody feels sorry for her and it’s stupid to care about what other people think simply because you’re on television and you want people to feel sorry for you. That’s what he was thinking, anyway.

And it isn’t Tamra’s job to stick up for you over her husband. In what world would that happen? Not the one that I live in, I don’t care how different Tamra is when her hubby isn’t around.

She tells Donn that she wants him to kick Simon’s ass and he tells her exactly what I have been saying for weeks now- “What is this, high school?” They aren’t your friends so don’t be sad. Need proof? Watch what Tammy Sue is saying back at the dinner party. I believe it was a little something about how you’ll never ‘get it,’ and no, she doesn’t defend you when Simon says that you don’t have a good side to you.

Argh. You would think that all that insanity would be enough for one week, but you’d be wrong, so wrong.

It’s the very next morning, Raquel and Alexis have been driven home safely by Lucy, when there’s a knock on the door. It’s the dreaded eviction notice and Raquel has to sign for it. I cannot wait for the tailspin that Moon Unit is going to have next week, almost as much as I’m freaked out by the fact that Brianna has nodules in her neck! Why God, why?!? Don’t take the good one!

And don’t you love how Slurry told Alexis earlier that they were going to leave all the drama on the doorstep, and that’s exactly where it turned up. The irony.

I need a nap. And a case of Bitch. See you next week, and Happy Valentine’s Day. Kiss your spouse and thank God he’s not Jimbo! After watching these people I feel like the luckiest bitch alive, and who can ask for anything more?

Love and Kisses,
Twunty McSlore