Photo credit: hometownhollywood
I've not said anything about this week's "Real Housewives of NYC" as a form of protest. It's really dismaying to have accomplished thirty years of informercial-less television viewing only to have it all ruined by the goils hawking their wares at me like a pack of well-heeled gypsies. I'm hoping the producers figured they'd cram all the sales pitches into one epi and we can be done with it all.
And by all I'm referring to Bethenny's muffins, Jill's fabric kingdom, Ramona's Jesus bling and lightening elixir for the face (is anyone testing that stuff?), and of course Countess Luann's book of manners in which one can dare to dream she teaches us how to say passive-agressively rude things to people and make it all ok by calling them "mysweet" or "mylove" at the end. I love when she pulls that shiz. Poor Alex was the only one not pitching us something. Instead the ten minutes that we did see Silex featured Simon pitching a hell of a hissy. Even that wasn't as fun as it should have been. In fact, Angry Simon kind of scared me. I learned I don't like my Simon seething and full of impotent rage. Give me just the regular harmless Van Kempen impotence with the usual side of creepy and pale.
Oh! I almost forgot about Killer Kelly's offering. No, not those owls that don't belong to her. I'm talking about Max the Argentine (MTA for short). More of these two together would be a good thing. It's funny counting how many sentences they manage that are above an elementary school age comprehension level (Hint: You'll only need one hand). And how about Brad's reaction to MTA at the Zarin in-store cocktail party. It was like he was gay Gollum and MTA was The Ring. Fall back, Brad. Fall back!