What’s cookin’? Can you believe those ex-child-star sisters, Paris Hilton‘s aunts, in the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills? Can you believe that RHODC‘s wacky, warm-hearted Lynda admitted she’s a Republican on the Reunion show (making her the only semi-Jewish brutha-bangin’ fag-hag GOP member I know)? Can you believe how addictive Dexter and Boardwalk Empire are getting? It’s all almost enough to put your Recap Artist off Reality and back on Scripted, especially considering the uber-annoying-ness of those shrill QVC bitches on Amazing Race.
Speaking of annoying, it’s time to stop by Atlanta and see why the South won’t be rising again anytime soon!
Kim‘s townhouse. Kim and future-ex-personal assistant Sweetie pack for her upcoming Hag Icon guest-spot at Palm Springs‘ infamous White Party, where 10,000 of the shallowest gay men on the planet gather to celebrate Jesus Christ rising from His tomb with a weekend of drug-fueled penis-worship. “I wear a lot of black,” Kim thinks aloud. “Am I depressed?” No, just chunky. When Kim questions one of the clothing choices Sweetie’s made, S explains that she set the see-thru garment in question aside because Kim “might get lucky” in it. “At a gay party?!” Kim scoffs. Yes, the one where your ex-lezzie love-doll Tracy Young regularly DJ’s, so don’t be too hasty, Kimbo.
Kim is bringing about 90 shoes (that’s 45 pair) and almost as many wigs, each with their own name: “Debbie, Jane, Jodie, Sierra– pack’em all!” Kim tells Sweetie she’ll be singing “‘Tard’ the Remix” [LOL] and says she’s “sick to my stomach”"nervous” but “super-excited” about her first real “concert”, and tells Sweetie don’t bother to bring along the lyrics– Kim the Tard knows “Tard” the Song by heart! Kim’s daughters, chubby tween Ariana and whiskey-voiced 7th grade sexpot Brielle wander in so Kim can lay down the law for the weekend. Kim says no one’s sleeping over, then caves in approximately three seconds, but does put her fuck-me pump down about Brielle entertaining her “little boyfriend” the French exchange student under Big Poppa’s Kim’s roof. Now the get hell out of there so Kim can decide what thongs to bring.
Jesus, could this BE any creepier?
…And the answer is “yes”.
As Sweetie shoves Kim’s boots into a suitcase and slams down the lid, Kim yells to be careful of Kim’s fingers– yeah, she might need them if she runs into Tracy again. Kim tells us she’s meeting Kandi in Palm Springs, so it’s extra-urgent she not miss this flight. If Sweetie wasn’t “wearing hooker shoes”, her assistant would be able to scurry into the Range Rover faster, Kim points out. S: I can’t breathe… my feet hurt. K: Shut up! After they check in and Sweetie sprinkles a few pre-boarding Xanax down Kim’s gullet, S can start preparing her notes for the lawsuit she’ll be filing after Kim fires her. I bet Phaedra will be happy to take it on contingency.
“I don’t know what happened to her neck…
“I just smacked the top of her head and it collapsed like a fuckin accordion!”
Park. NeNe and younger, brighter son Brentt, 11, take new dog Playa (I shit you not) out for some exercise. Brentt tells NeNe that some kid in his class was blabbing about big brother/waste of space Brice “getting arrested” on CNN “for gang interrogation or something like that.” Brentt said he told his pal this was a big lie “because I’m with my brother 24/7″. Considering Brice’s penchant for staying out all night boozin ‘n’ blazin’ it with hoochie club trash, we can only hope the tot is exaggerating about the amount of time he spends with the big dummy. NeNe clarifies via interview that the reason for the arrest was “outstanding tickets and less than an ounce of marijuana.” She tells Brentt that Brice did “get into a little bit of trouble” but it had nothing to do with gangs or violence– in fact, according to NeNe, Bricen is such a pussy, Playa the Yorkie could kick his ass.
NeNe tells us she didn’t want to give Brentt “information that was just not necessary” about Brice’s delinquency, then sugar-coats the incident to the tyke with the vague confession that Brice “made mistakes” and broke the law and she doesn’t want Brentt to do the same. Brentt sounds confused and a little annoyed that she can’t tell him exactly what he’s promising not to do, which does seem a little ridiculous to me, especially when Brentt or his friends are going to be watching these episodes and it’s going to end up splatted all over the TiVo anyway. NeNe goes on to inform the Polo-clad tot that his parents are his “best friends” and he better not let any of his mouthy school-chums tell him any differently– or try to peer-pressure him into doing… certain things that she won’t specify. NeNe interviews that things are “intense” between her and Gregg (Mr NeNe) and she doesn’t want to repeat her Brice mistakes with her baby. It’s all kind of sad and makes me want to scoop Brentt up and take him away to my imaginary Bravo orphanage where he can frolic in the sun with Christine and Jillian Staub.
“Can we still call him Playa after he gets his testicles removed?”
Sheree‘s tract mansion. A Hummer pulls up in the driveway, depositing Dwight and his “Publicist Glen Beam“. Sheree welcomes them with a phony smile (like there’s any other kind with her) as she reminds us yet again how Dwight’s been prancing around town claiming to have spent $30K of his own money on the She by Sheree fashion show last season “and I intend to confront him”… no matter what gift-wrapped bottle of booze he’s toting or how flaming his publicist is. Sheree interviews that Dwight only came to the She show during “the last five days” and “As far as I know, Dwight did not put one dollar” into it. “As far as I know”?!? Sounds like someone’s already back-pedaling, Gasmii. Let’s hear how Dwight responds to the charges.
Well, he says he paid “the seamstress… $1200.” “For that mess that she made?!” Sheree squawks. “It was NOT up to par!” Sounding a tad flustered, Dwight says Glen made “thangs” at Kinkos, including “sign-in lists” and “alphabets”. LOL. So far we’re up to around $1209.99. Although, to be fair, maybe alphabets have gone way, way up since I watched Sesame Street. Sheree snips via interview that if Dwight HAD $30K, wouldn’t he get his “nose fixed”, so he could breathe? It looks like Sheree also owes NeNe money for writing her material. Dwight tells Sheree that since “my name was on the project”, he had to spend what was necessary in order for the show to succeed. Sheree then brings up Dwight’s third-party accusations that she never “said thank you” for all his hard work. Sheree tells him she DID thank him, in English, the only language she knows. (And that one’s even debatable.) “Gracias… merci beaucoup!” Sheree snips, trying to be all witty’n’ shit.
“Ironically, $30,000 is what one of my dates has to spend before he can see my titties, so get ready to get repaid, Dwight!”
“When you volunteer to do something, and you say you’re gonna do it gratis [oooh, Latin!], a year later you can’t say ‘I did this and you owe me that!’” Glen prissily pronounces this “a pretty myopic and selfish point of view”, but is immediately cut off by an increasingly incensed Sheree, who screams that this fashion-show contribution was supposed to be “from [Dwight's] heart”, then interviews that she doesn’t have time to scream and shout at people, and “I have too much class for that. [HA!] I can go there, but I’m trying not to go there. I don’t want to go there.” If by “there”, she means calling them a coupla uppity cocksuckas, please PLEASE go there!
So Mrs Potato Head was just a beard?
“Let’s just drop this,” Sheree suggests. Dwight drawls that he hopes she’s learned something from all this, because he “certainly” has. “Next!” Sheree snaps. She interviews that “after this meeting”, she fully expects Dwight to shut all those nasty rumors right down. As she kicks them out of her tract mansion, Dwight tells her to “have a good evening”. Go fuck ya ovuhdressed self, thought-bubbles Sheree.
Palm Springs. This desert oasis 90m from L.A. has been a gay mecca for decades and was immortalized in the smash hit all-male porn epic Big Guns in 1987. Several straight girls I know have this excellent dick pic hidden deep beneath their vibrators and lady-porn because it’s so damn hot. I even wrote an essay for a major magazine about its brilliant director William Higgins, who injected style, sexual tension and a quirky sense of humor into a series of XXX classics starring the then-hottest boys in the business. If you’re a Curious Georgina like myself, also check out The Young & The Hung, Cousins (starring a very young, 98% straight Peter North doing stuff that will shock his hetero male fans) and the spicy, cheesy, sausage-fest The Pizza Boy– He Delivers, all now available on DVD from Catalina Video. Preferably while “Boy” by Book of Love wafts from your iTunes.
Granddaddy of the “Circuit” gay social scene, The White Party has been home to a lot of ass-pain, but I’m still not sure they’re ready for Hurricane Wiggy and her reluctant Colonel Tom Parker, Kandi! Kandi misses Kim and Sweetie’s ride into town in a rented convertible yellow Lamborghini and the inevitable stoopid conversation about the flock of generator windmills outside P.S., which Sweetie deduces must be used to produce the snow she sees capping the surrounding mountain range. To Kim’s credit, she finds this theory meteorologically impossible. Kim has to “tee-tee”, so they pull over at a ramshackle off-road rental trailer and are promptly pointed to an outhouse.
“Hey, Sweetie– you got a Sharpie? And my room number at the hotel?”
“OMG, that’s impossible! Do I have to go in there with you?!” Sweetie demands. “ME?! Is this a job requirement?” she pleads, tottering over the dirt to the detached crapper. Sweetie takes a peek, and announces that “it smells like a f*ckin donkey’s ass” inside. It’s actually way nicer than some of the rural fairground facilities that forced me to grow up fast in Puerto Rico– there’s a real flush toilet in a spacious hut equipped with rolls of paper towels to wipe oneself and signs helpfully instructing one to hold down the flush to maximize one’s evacuation experience. “I can’t even stand up in here! I’m claustrophobic!” Kim screams. Ya shouldn’t have had that Chardonnay Big Gulp while zooming down the desert roads in your Euro-trash pimp-mobile then.
Sweetie guards the door while Kim squats down as far as she can manage: “I’m probably peein on the floor. This is when I wish I had a wiener!” Kim pouts. Considering whom you’re about to spend the weekend partying with, I’m sure that could be arranged. Kim declares the pee-break “the most stressful thing I have done to date”, and Kandi hasn’t even asked to be paid yet!
And there’s Kandi, waiting outside the hotel lobby. “Kim will be performing in front of thousands of people,” Kandi tells us. “And she has no clue to the whole technical side of things, so I agreed to help her out. And you know I’m gonna be there to show support. But as always, she’s late.” Minutes or hours later, the banana-bomb pulls up with an accompanying limo. “You had to bring a whole limo for your luggage!?” Kandi marvels/recoils. Yes. “Most first-time artists are not riding around in Lamborghinis and having a limo full of luggage. Kim has one single and she’s acting like she’s Lady Gaga.” Since she’s also a raving C-word, let’s lose the G’s, and just call her Lady Caca, a much better fit personally and artistically, if you ask me. And you’re reading this, so you are. “This is gonna be a long weekend, ” Kandi adorably sighs to us, and I for one wish like hell I could have offered Kandi my interning and stage managing services… gratis, of coursel Kim’s immediately impressed by the big bouquet of white flowers and the “white chocolate swan”, which, along with evoking the theme of the party, is the traditional color for welcoming hags to a formal gay event.
“Let me get this straight– you wanna dress up as bellboys, sneak into Andy Cohen’s hotel suite and pitch him your own spin-off?”
Gobbling white-chocolate-dipped strawberries, Husse Fosse announces her big idea to Kandi– Kim wants her to come out in the middle of the song and sing it with her. Like a duet, as long as Kandi knows her place is behind the scenes except when required to perform back-up dancing and possibly semi-lead vocals. “No way!” Kandi cheerily scoffs, having zero desire to shimmy around moaning “Oh-oooohhh-oooo—OHHHH!” Kandi tells us “Kim is really letting this whole diva behavior get to her head. What’s next, I’m supposed to be her roadie?” Well, if Kim knew what that was… yes. “It’d really mean a lot to her,” Sweetie dutifully proclaims. “Are you her manager now?” Kandi mockingly replies. Kandi doesn’t want to do it, and didn’t even bring any outfits. “We’ll hook you up,” Kim confidently assures her. “OK, fine,” Kandi shrugs, sealing her fate. “We’re gonna have the best weekend of our whole lives!” Kim says, having apparently switched to the Royal-We pronoun for the duration of the trip. Fill up on strawberries, Kandi, cuz no way is this bitch buying you lunch OR dinner.
Cynthia‘s swanky house. New Housewife Cynthia reviews her schedule with assistant/sister Malorie, who appears to be in charge of the nupto-phobic supermodel. This is exhausting, so the gals retire to the verandah to kill a bottle of champagne. My kinda of gals. Cynthia reveals BF Peter‘s ultimatum– marry him before his upcoming 50th birthday “or we just don’t do it.” Malorie bluntly asks Cyndi how long Peter is expected to wait to walk her bony ass down the aisle. “As long as it takes,” Cyndi replies, sipping Moet. Does Malorie think her big sis (not by much, so mind your mouth– models carry pepper spray) is acting selfish? “Yeah, it’s not fair to him, ” Mal opines, eliciting an “Oh my God” shriek from Cyn. Malorie has it figured out– Cyndi loves the being-engaged part, but as soon as one of her multiple fiances tries to actually put on a ring on it, Sistah is out the door. Malorie thinks they should head Peter off at the pass and forestall the ring-giving… except Pete’s already getting one custom-made and Cyndi knows all about it.
“Would you care any more about my storyline if I told you I was born a man? Didn’t think so…”
What’s wrong with Cynthia? “Why has it taken me so long to actually get married?” Malorie says it’s because Cyn is so “independent and successful”, but Cyndi points back to their childhood, which offered no examples of healthy matrimonial unions, thereby creating a deep-seated fear of being stuck in a bad one. Malorie also has a fear– that her glamorous, gorgeous sister is going to end up a glamorous gorgeous old maid. “We’re from Alabama, it’s Southern,” Malorie explains, having obviously completed Phaedra’s seminar on wedded bliss and how to snag it: “Good or bad… You stick in it… for the long run.” Peter would make a great husband and provider and Cyndi needs to jump on this opportunity right effing now, so “get the f*ck over it,” Cynthia concludes. They’ve been together “almost three years” and Malorie says that since Cyn knows Peter is “a good father and a good provider… you just do it.” Who cares if she’s in love? We’re talkin’ the co-owner of the Uptown Supper Club here.
Phaedra’s house. Pregnant Lawyer-to-Da-Thugz Phaedra, who would certainly classify herself as “Movin’ On Up” Atlanta’s social register (she’s a proper Southern belle, in case you’ve been in a medically induced coma), disproves the Jeffersons theme song by frying fish in her kitchen, and in a negligee no less. New husband Apollo, who puts the “rim” in criminal with that tight little caboose of his, enters, wishing her a polite good morning despite the fact that he apparently just woke up to the smell of frying fish. Phaedra tells us she’s a career gal, not a homemaker, but impending motherhood is forcing her to “do what every proper Southern woman does.” Which, clearly, involves serving both bacon AND fried fish to one’s trophy husband for breakfast. With meals like that, Apollo better make sure he actually puts some time in at the weight room and not head straight to the gym showers for a little DL relief, no matter how much Phaedra’s starting to resemble an undersea ballroom denizen from Bedknobs ‘n’ Broomsticks.
I don’t care if he murdered 17 women then wore their skins. He can do better.
As we gaze hungrily at Apollo’s tatted biceps flexing with every proper greasy Southern bite he lifts to his cock-smooching lips, NeNe pops up to helpfully announce via interview that word on the street is Apollo “stole cars, went to prison for like six years, and now he’s back and he is the husband of Phaedra High-Class Parks.” In an amazing coincidence, Phaedra happens to be indignantly telling her man how “it amazes me that people can be so shallow” and “point their fingers” in judgement of him. Just to be sure, that’s a different kind of shallow than finding the hottest desperate guy in the ATL and making him your lawful wedded eye-candy, right? Phaedra interviews that “Apollo was in prison for racketeering, which is really a white-collar crime. He’s no different than Martha Stewart” (except his dick is slightly smaller), “he served his time and people need to JUST get over it.”
Um, isn’t racketeering what they convict mob bosses of? And Bernie Madoff was a “white-collar” criminal and he deserved to get the chair. Not to burst your bubble, Phae, which you don’t really need on account of your gills, but proper Southern belles DON’T marry ex-cons, not matter how snowy their collars are. So you need to get over your own self, Counselor. Her life really would make a great sitcom, and it’s too bad NeNe never went to law school, because she’d be perfect as Phaedra’s nemesis, the sassy, snark-tastic trial judge. “Every saint’s got a past, every sinner’s got a future,” Phaedra sagely intones as she butters her fish. That’s a great slogan for the bus shelter advertisement for your sitcom. Any title suggestions, Gasmii?
Apollo isn’t just a tawny fuck-toy– he says he’s been working trying to fix up the meal-ticket baby’s room. “I noticed,” Phae peevishly replies. “If you would have looked at my registry, you would have saw [WHAT law school did you attend?] that I had the cute jungle animals and the cute little giraffes.” Apollo says he “wasn’t goin off no registry that day.” That would explain the prison-yard mural he painted on the wall. Phaedra interviews that she and Apollo “definitely have some differences on how we approach things, including parenting, and it’s probably because he is bi-racial and he was raised in a white household.” whatWhatWHAT?!? “Culturally there is a difference,” she lectures him. “In black households, there will be no back-talkin, and if it is, there will be no teef in yo’mouf. This chile WILL be gettin a whuppin. If he looks at me sideways, I’m gonna beat the hell outta him.” No, Apollo says, through a clenched-teef smile. Yes, Phaedra counters.
“I’m a proper Southern lady, so I’ll only be beating our children with 100% genuine hand-cut hickory switches.”
Apollo says he “definitely believes in instilling discipline… but you don’t always have to resort to violence.” Phaedra doesn’t consider slapping the face off children “violence: when I was growin up, when adults was in the room, we were not to be seen or heard.” In your case, you should have been in your room with some English textbooks. “And I want my children to be raised like that.” Apollo shocks everyone by thoughtfully remarking that “when you entwine the child in an adult setting, it allows them to expand a lot faster, because of the conversation.” I’m sure he means mentally, although if this meal is any indication as to Phaedra’s nutritional sense, that kid’s gonna be expanding like one of those 200-pound babies you see on Maury Povich. Phae isn’t buying it, then reminds him “that this baby was your idea.” So what, you get to ignore it and smack it around? I so hope Apollo soaks her for a fortune in child-support.
“HOW much life insurance you got?”
Hotel K-Hole. Sweetie and Kim greet “Celebrity Stylist Charlie Altuna“, who rolls in a giant wardrobe rack of premium tart-wear for Lady Caca. “Wow, that’s SO CUTE!” Kim bellows, tearing into the porn costumes. Circuit Queen party promoter Jeffrey Sanker brought Charlie in to do the sartorial magic he’s previously performed on “Cameron Diaz, Christina Aguilera [and] Kylie Minogue“. “Will my titties fit in there? I have huge knockers,” Kim says, salivating over a pink leather corset and matching whore-heels. She tries it on, complete with a skirt that, appropriately, looks like it’s made from shredded garbage bags, and it has the desired effect of making her tan-lined tits look like twin Xmas hams in bondage. “I need to feel sexy, I need to feel confident in what I’m wearing.” If not, “I’m certainly not going to be confident in my performance,” Kim explains. She calls Kandi in to consult. “That one’s too much like a stripper, but the pink makes it a little bit more Barbie-ish,” Kandi diplomatically opines, as Kim’s nipple slips out to say hello.
Jeffrey Chancre arrives in all his Botoxed glory, accompanied by a twink named Jose bearing gift-bags. “Jeffrey’s assistant was hot! I think there was definitely a mutual attraction,” Kim tells us. Yeah. He’s also way-boned-up for Liza Minnelli and Kathy Griffin. Jeffy’s just giddy over the “prop” he has ready for Kim, “a six-foot-tall martini pedestal”, which “12 boys are going to wheel you” onstage in. “Hell, yes, 12 boys!” Kim pants, still not getting it. What part of “gayest party on Earth” does she not understand?!? Jeffrey’s got to run and meet his dealer DJ’s, but Kim wants Jose to stay. Kandi sardonically interviews that Kim’s “not Jose’s type”. Sadly, Jose has to leave and give himself an enema return some phone calls for Jeffrey, but Charlie stays and helps Kim decide on a black tutu-like creation. “I see Kim in a lot of tiny things,” Kandi interviews, “so I thought that her outfit really fit her. The nipples were gonna pop out at any second and that’s right up her alley.” That’s also where the entire mosh-pit’s eyeballs will be, since the skirt is so short it barely clears Kim’s taint. Kandi tells us she’s “not really fussy like Kim”, or massively trashy, hence her quick pick of a relatively modest pink dress for herself.
Ladies and gentlemen… Slut-N-Pepa
Tierra‘s apartment. Holy fucking shit, Gasmii, we’re actually going to spend some time with Sheree’s Mystery Daughter! Tierra, who, to Sheree’s certain eternal chagrin, is identified as 24 years old, is a beautiful, warm young lady, so it’s no wonder she’s stayed well out of this mess of a show until now. Sheree tells us her daughter was “away at Tennessee State University“, that’s why we haven’t seen her until now. OK, sure, whatever. Tierra just graduated and took a job in Atlanta, so here she is. “Tierra’s dad was a teenage boyfriend of mine,” Sheree explains, implying that this was way before Her Ladyship knew anything about having non-NFL sex without birth control.
The apartment is bright and shiny and modest and new, and Tierra will be shacking up there with boyfriend Damon, who’s nowhere near as attractive as she is but seems nice, and that’s what counts. Sheree warns him to treat her daughter right, and he says he’s been doing that for the last five years. Yeah, Ree-Ree– go back to the hood and dance the night away with another pathological liar. Sheree prissily interviews that she likes Damon, so is “okay” with them living together, although she’d “prefer for them to be married– absolutely.” Oh, well, I’m sure Tierra would prefer you weren’t a self-absorbed twat, so what can ya do? “Nowadays, people are doing things backwards,” Sheree snips, as if she didn’t just admit to a teen pregnancy. Piece. Of. Work!
Sheree has plenty more to say on the subject, so after a blush-champagne toast, she pulls Tierra aside for “girl talk”. Sheree lectures the lass about what “a big change” this is– co-habitation is very different from simple dating and is Tierra sure she’s ready for that? Let’s see– she graduated from college, found a job in this wretched economy and survived having your delusional ass for a mother, so how ’bout you give the girl some credit?! Tierra says she’s ready to “play wifey” (Sheree’s words) but assures her mom she’s not planning on babies anytime soon. Good, because Sheree is “too young and fabulous to be a grandma.” Along with lacking a fraction of the warmth and compassion one normally associates with the role.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m sticking to the story you came up with: that you were a 9-year-old incest victim.”
White Party. Kim informs us that it’s actually several parties over one weekend. Thank God, because there’s way too much fellatio, coke, herpes, GHB, analingus and Xtasy here for a single fiesta. Since Kim will be performing at the afternoon “T- Dance” (as in Tea, not Tina aka crystal meth, although if I remember the 1998 and 2001 editions correctly, there’s plenty of that on hand, too!), tonight is her chance to cut loose and enjoy herself, which I’m sure you’re very grateful about, Gasmii, since Kim leads such an ascetic Amish existence back home. Kim & Kandi walk the red carpet and are interviewed by “Writer Billy Masters” (or as my Gay watching this with me said– “Who?!?”) and tranny actress Candis Cayne, who played Billy Baldwin‘s she-male mistress on the yawningly clean and unsexy canceled nighttime soap Dirty Sexy Money. Kim gets huffy when they ask about her sapphic fling with Tracy Young, which is especially annoying since A) Kim’s a reality TV star and B) couldn’t wait to dish the dykey dirt herself in a Life & Style article about it.
Inside, Kim gawps at the spectacle of topless beefcake as far as the eye can see. Everyone’s buff, inked and partying their shaved asses off! Kandi remarks that lots of guys wanted to dance with them, but refreshingly, had no interest in taking anything with a vagina back home with them. “Oh, I’m in heaven!” Kim squeals, sandwiched between two gyrating homo hunks like she’s a secretary celebrating her birthday at Chippendale’s. Sadly, the fun is cut short because Kim has to get up early “for rehearsal” the next day. As they leave, someone screams “Is Kandi your girlfriend now?!” “Uh, no, ma’am,” Kandi bluntly replies, suppressing the urge to add “I eat with these hands.” As designated driver Kandi chauffeurs Kim and Sweetie off in the Lamborghini, Kim announces that “in my next life”, she’s “coming back as a gay man.” I’m not sure what the difference is going to be.
“No, seriously. I’m a drag queen. Can I blow you?”
NeNe’s tract mansion. NeNe calls Brice into service when Playa poops his puppy Pampers. They hose the pooch’s privates off then re-diaper him. Reminds me of my short-lived, pre-teen-model babysitting career. What?! It was San Juan and the hose water’s really warm there.
White Party stage. Kim & Kandi arrive for rehearsal to find choreographer Mark Martinez putting a stable of sizzling muscle-boy back-up dancers through their paces. Ever the professional, Kim gets out of the car with a plastic cup of wine. This isn’t the South, honey. In California, we have this thing called an Open Container Law and I don’t appreciate you risking Kandi’s safety because you can’t lay off the hooch for 10 straight waking minutes. Kim’s delighted to see so many hot dudes gathered together in service of her and immediately asks the abdominally gifted Ryan to model his stomach for her. The stud obligingly doffs his tank-top and flexes the merchandise, giving us some nice insight into his fastidious pubic grooming habits. Personally, I like a treasure-trail on a guy, partly because I hate stubble rubbing against my forehead.
Kim pulls her tongue in her mouth so she doesn’t trip on it climbing up to the stage, then tries to be funny by mumbling a prayer about dying happy, but since the only churches she’s been inside sell chicken, the bit falls as flat as these guys’ tummies. Mark points out the big silver martini glass “prop”, which is lined with red fabric to cushion Kim’s bohunkus as she poses in it like an alcoholic venereal Venus. If anything, this makes us really appreciate the charm and artistry of Bananarama more than I already do, which is a lot. The boys are supposed to wheel Kim out on this thing as she sings the opening verse, then help her out of the glass to a raised platform, from which she will descend to the stage and past all levels of good taste and musicianship.
“So this is what life’s like at the Playgirl Mansion…”
Kim already has trouble figuring out how to alight from the set-piece gracefully, and you know by showtime she’s planning on drinking a hell of a lot more than she already has. Kandi tells her to remember to “interact with the audience” but doesn’t clarify that this means something other than flashing her cans at them, so that could be dicey. Kandi interviews that “rehearsal is extremely important” because if it looks like you don’t know what you’re doing onstage, “people will roast you and let you have it.” Kandi also tells us the routine devised by Mark “was super-easy. Kim could’ve gotten it in five minutes if she was paying attention.” But of course she isn’t. “I forgot I’m supposed to be working. I can’t stay focused,” Kim says, drooling over the mens. Kandi interviews that “I still haven’t figured out Kim’s goal as an artist. She’s not really disciplined, she doesn’t really practice… she doesn’t really take it seriously.” Well, you know, she’s so busy with… oh, wait. You’re right. She’s a lazy, ungrateful cow.
Phaedra’s house. “Relationship Mentors Mike and Cassandra” arrive for some Christian couple’s counseling. They sit down with Mr and Mrs Phaedra and ask how “the newlyweds” are doing. “We’re hangin’ on,” Apollo says, through one of his soon-to-be-patented strained smiles. Phaedra explains via interview that she and Apollo dated “in college” before he was sent up the river, then after his release, it was a whirlwind courtship/marriage/up-knocking resulting in this “pairing with a couple from the church” to help them with “all of these life-changes and transitions.” Mike opens the session by saying that last time they discussed meeting the other partner’s needs. A caterer or servant appears and Apollo is instantly distracted by what’s on his plate, which he seems somewhat skeptical of.
“Apollo does not like very elaborate dishes,” Phaedra tells us, “and I am a connoisseur of finer foods.” Like fried fish for breakfast. In Apollo’s defense, it’s hard to go from a starchy, overcooked prison diet to the fancy vittles a top attorney craves. “Growing up in a white household, he’s not used to all this fancy stuff. He likes canned foods, he likes packed meats, he just doesn’t care.” Racist much? Someone needs to tell this bitch the difference between “white” and “white trash”. The marriage ministers try to get back on rack by asking Apollo what his primary “love language” is. His answer is “quality time”. He says there’s a lot he and Phaedra don’t know about each other and spending quality time together is how they can correct that.
Classical Neo-Non-Caucasian Cuisine
Phaedra’s love language is “receiving gifts”. How spiritual! When Apollo scoffs that this is hardly a “love language”, Phae testily refutes that. Clad in a pec-hugging lavender polo shirt, Apollo interviews that being incarcerated has given him a different perspective on things, and says that he and the materialistic heifer love of his life have “clashing” ideas when it comes to their love-languages. Apollo, who is rapidly coming across as way too good for Phaedra, tells their mentors that he has trouble dropping “$3900″ for “Versace shoes” for Miss Southern Belle because as an expectant father, that seems irresponsible. Clueless Mike says why not gift her with “a rose from Publix” grocery store? Apollo says Phaedra would feel that’s not good enough, and she doesn’t refute that. Instead, Phaedra suggests he talk to “my staff” to find out exactly which pricey bags and/or footwear she’s hankering for, “then you don’t have to wonder.”
Apollo says he’s not interested in calling her shoppers and stylists to find out what she likes, and “to do that, we need to interact more.” Mike asks if they’re making progress as a couple, and they both admit that after the sessions, “we’re good for a week.” Everyone chuckles. “We’re gonna see after we have the baby,” Apollo says, meaning I’m not sure what but it can’t be good.
Hotel K-Hole. Steven, Kim’s hairstylist and make-up artist, slaps on a fresh coat that can withstand the harsh, age-emphasizing desert sunshine. Kim softly confides that she’s done the nightclub circuit but has never actually performed “on a stage” in concert before. Then she reverts to her super-irritating new habit of Oprah-like screaming (“JOHHHHHHN! TRA-VOL-TAAAAA!!!!!!!”), bellowing about the butterflies in her stomach. If they actually exist, they’re hardly fluttering around, since they’re dead of alcoholic poisoning. Steven tells her she’s there to sing, so try not to forget that.
Why ballerinas are traditionally flat-chested.
Cut to Kim all hussied up in her black titty tutu, which can barely contain her jiggling jugs. And she hasn’t even started dry-humping her back-up gays yet. “I feel like I’m goin to the prom,” Kandi remarks RE: her pink party frock. Me, too, Kim remarks, feeling her gag reflex die with the memory. They Lambo over to the venue, and as soon as she steps out of the ridonkulous car, Kim’s boobs threaten to spill out of her top. “If they did, I’d be completely mortified,” she insists.
Considering what she is, has on and is singing, exactly why exposing her tired nips to a sea of plastered pillow-biters fazes her is unclear. Luckily, Charlie Altuna saves the day by hastily sewing a yoke-strap around Kim’s neck to keep the twins strapped down.
With her nipples out of the way, Kim now starts freaking about not knowing a fucking thing she’s supposed to do onstage. Kandi, who clearly has had her fill of Diva Zolciak for the week, listens wearily as Kim says she’s just going to focus “on my vocals” and basically ignore the choreography. Kandi advises her to make sure she’s moving when she’s supposed to be, which Kim doesn’t want to hear. “I’M NERVOUS!” she Oprahs. “Either she’s gonna kill or she’s gonna die,” Kandi predicts via interview.
The drama continues as Kim, babbling her choreography to herself as she walks the Astroturf path to the stage, is beset by high desert winds and her tutu flutters up around her breasts. Demure as an Asian convent schoolgirl, Kim screams for Charlie to do something. With seconds remaining, Charlie frantically sews the delicate fabric “to my panties” as bellowing drag queen/pornographer Chi-Chi LaRue, who’s Kim’s exact double just slightly less obnoxious, introduces her to a squealing horde of hopped-up gays. The dancers push the martini glass onstage and Kim starts singing along with her backing track. The “Tardy” tape isn’t the only thing that’s been sweetened– Ryan may have fluffed up and slipped on a cock-ring, since he has a huge bulge in his sport trunks which Bravo apparently saw no reason to pixillate.
Yay for gayble TV!
“The second I started singing, my nerves just went away,” Kim tells us. “The crowd was havin fun and I just went with it.” But how was she? Here’s Kandi’s take on it: “Kim was doing OK. She remembered the steps, she remembered the lyrics. But as far as rockin the crowd and bein able to go off script, she hasn’t got that part yet.” Thank goodness Kandi struts onstage to mix things up a little, encouraging the audience to get fired up by questioning their ability to party. “I am not a background singer,” Kandi saucily tells us, “and that wasn’t really the audience that I’m used to, BUT I really wanted Kim to do well, so if I have to get up there and be her Hype Lady, so be it.
The performance ends and Kim wobbles offstage to enormous gay gushing. Kim interviews that the experience was “incredible and I was sad it was over.” Kandi tells Kim she did great and gives her boobs a hug. “I couldn’t have done it without you, really” Kim says sincerely. Awww! “I just cracked the door open– you kicked it in! Like, this is MY sh*t now!” Kandi says, giggling warm-heartedly. Kim says they should take it “on tour” and promises to “smoke outside the bus”. For a split-second, Kandi’s face hilariously reveals her horror at this idea, but she covers with a laugh. We heart Kandi.
You know who really loved Kim’s performance? Pink.
Next week: Kim wants to record another song but this time Kandi wants to get paid. Sheree sees the dubious Dr Tiy-E again and worries that he’s not rich enough for her. Phaedra wears a huge pink hat and acts like an asshole in a limo. NeNe gets drugged-up for surgery and demands to see Gregg.