We already know reality television is my personal crack. A camera inside someone’s home provides endless fascination. Mustering the strength to change the channel or tear my eyes from the horror is not possible. There is furniture to examine, clothing to judge and endless possibility for feelings of superiority. Chickens watching The Kardashians within earshot leads to recent snarky thoughts.
Did anyone else find it funny a few weeks ago when Kanye West ran into a pole then unloaded on photogs witnessing the hilarity? Lucky for us, those pesky paps captured it for our shared amusement. Admit it, you laughed aloud, did you not? Something about a little man who acts like an ass humiliating himself is heartwarming. For the love of God, why didn’t he just have a pleasant lunch and let Kim rub his head a little. Instead he bursts forth from the restaurant to toss out a few more F words some paired with mother. Speaking of mothers–he’s living the dream now, isn’t he? The man who anthemed about gold diggers spawns a child with a Kardashian. Head shake. Take a moment. You can’t make this shit up.
And now he’s Yesus? Is that the Gangster equivalent of Jesus? Obviously, the small rapper never wore a WWJD bracelet as no one with any Jesus knowledge would mistake a man who flings f-bombs willy nilly and steals microphones from little girls accepting music awards of acting very Yesusy.
Even better: Without his baby momma choice, he may have been able to bop his head in private. The head bonk heard round the world may have died with a whimper were the paps not alerted to the duo’s whereabouts by Kim’s cell. The rest of us girls, when our pregnancies reached swollen tummy, ass and ankles stage tried to cover up a bit. Not our Kimmie. Call the paps and toddle around town with your ghastly wardrobe choices, platypus lips and absence of pearls. Good plan. Proving again–a brain surgeon the girl is not. Admit it, though, an overlarge girl with a miniature boyfriend is pretty funny. That in utero North Star was bigger than Kanye. Perhaps that explains his constant grumpiness. Or he doesn’t drink enough water.
Even reality tv sluts like me don’t watch the Kardashians anymore. At first they were a quirky bunch. Now they’re that guy in college who was really cute but once you got to know him–so weird. Our first clue should have been the sex tape. Cheers to you Kris Jenner. I think, as a mother, my first inkling would be to bury the tape. Not just for my daughter’s reputation but for my own. Have you watched the thing? Holy cats–what mother would want to claim raising that nasty little thing.
I never want knowledge that my chickens engage in sexual activity much less proof for the viewing pleasure of my besties. I choose instead to believe my chickens will have children the old fashioned way–the Baby Jesus way. The same way they were conceived, am I right? We’ve got to eek out some moral fiber to wash down all the reality filth.
Latest case in point, a recent Real Housewives of Orange County. Tamra, Tamra, Tamra. That Barney girl will stop at nothing for the central attention spot including a random male stripper inserting his member into her ear. Did the girl even attempt to pull her head away from this stranger’s gyrations? Hmmm. Seems logical that at that point, one’s head might have a life of its own and run for cover. Not our Tam.
I long for the days of Lisa Vanderpump and the Beverly Hills girls. For the most part, their money and drama is real. Except for Taylor but we knew she was trash all along. And, as widow girlfriends will attest, you don’t acquire a boy toy, the love of your life, six months after your husband’s sudden demise. Not that Russell was a prize. Whaaa? Talk about a waiting period. Did you not watch Gone With the Wind doll? Any dancing is to be done by your feet only and under the table where no one can see. Dumbass.
When our dear Lisa was asked the other day about Michael Douglas’ overshare concerning a certain sex act, she responded, in her ever calm demaner, “Oh, we don’t do that in England.” Oh darling. You are one saucy minx are you not? I so want to be you when I grow up.
When the Besties and I spent time in LA last month, Lisa’s hotspot SUR made the list. Had Her Grace entered the room, I may have fainted dead away. And had Giggy been on her arm, I may have made an exception to cat love and perched him in my lap for a photo op. The Besties were less impressed and Goddess Trish even asked, who is Lisa Vander what’s is? Goddess, Goddess, Goddess. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with you.
There was no sighting and it was good. The braying ass would have been me, prompting Lisa to advise, “Darling, we don’t do that in England.” Leaving me to shuffle back to Scottsdale, tail between my legs wondering if I will ever hit my stride, shrink my ass and make a new life for myself.
Another plus–The Dale’s got no paparazzi so should I run into a pole it won’t be a big problem. And it’s a certainty that if I do smack my head into a pole, I’m drunk and with Sisterella. We will fall on the ground laughing and add it to the list.
And Lisa will chastise us, “Oh ladies, we don’t do that sort of thing in England.” We will apologize, get her autograph, ask her to be a YaYa and compliment her shoes ‘cuz she looks fabulous, all in pink. With pearls. And as she inserts herself into her Bentley, we will wave. We’ll agree that she is stunning, the shoes are indeed Louboutins she should never invite Faye Resnick to her house again.
But as we walk away, we will thank God we live in Scottsdale. Ain’t nothin’ out of bounds here.