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Thursday, November 11, 2010

The Unreal Housewives of Beverly Hills

As a general rule, I have avoided the lure of the much-ballyhooed flagship series of the Bravo network -- the "Real Housewives of..." But recently, I found myself in front of the idiot box watching the idiotic boxes on "The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills."

At first I deluded myself that I just wanted to check in and see what Kim Richards was up to. Remember her? The husky-voiced, blonde actress from one of my childhood favorite Disney flicks, "Escape From Witch Mountain." I liked her. She was spunky before Punky Brewster ruined spunky with Rainbow Bright garishness and the fake orphan pout. Well, as it turns out, Kim's still pretty normal and likable as an adult. Bravo! Bravo. So far, not terrible.

Next housewife is Kyle RIchards -- even though an aunt to Paris Hilton -- she seems down to Earth and charming. I get the vibe she's just genetically blessed good people. And lets face it, I could stare at her bewitching mane of brunette locks for hours. Get this woman a Pantene commercial stat! Maybe her sister, Kim Richards found some hair care secrets on Witch Mountain and shared them with her sis before she escaped. I don't know. But again, so far - so good. I don't flip away. You're luring me in, Bravo you temptress of cable!

But then the oily smear of humanity that is Camille Grammer slithered on screen.

On an episode of "Mythbusters" they proved that you can actually polish a turd. That's right. You can take a loaf of tiger dung and slowly buff it into a shiny, rather stunning object d'art. Something about all the protein the big cats eat, anyway... Apparently, all that meaty goodness keeps the chunks of feline fecal matter intact long enough for it to withstand the intensive buffing and rubbing required to create a gleaming globe of pooptastic glory. I'm not kidding I would display that turd-ball on my mantel.

However, I can assure you , you can't polish the turd that is New Jersey-born, former-MTV-dancer-turned-titty-model that is Camille Grammer. That particular brand of white trash stink can not be masked by fancy digs, spray tans, famous husbands, expensive tooth veneers, his and hers hot tubs or an El Camino-full of Fabreeze. Grammer has no substance, no meaty goodness -- no protein-rich core that offers stability. Just a thin veneer of silicone and Swarovski crystals vainly attempting to cover a bad case of crazy-eye.

On the season preview clips Grammer blithely quips, "Don't judge me, I have four nannies." That's FOUR nannies for TWO children. That's man-on-man defense -- squared. Kobe Bryant doesn't need that kind of coverage.

What are her children up to? Are they on 24-hour arson watch? Are they prone to spontaneously spraying the neighborhood house pets with a thin layer of buckshot? Do they have a taste for meth and German porn that can't be contained by normal maternal supervision? Explain, please.

Camille's not one of the Duggars. She's not raising her very own marching band. She's not even Kate Gosselin who manages to parent eight tiny Goslins (and one large, errant, Asian Ed Hardy aficionado) while simultaneously finding time to shake her flat ass with the stars for some lunch money.

What is it YOU do, Camille Grammer? You keep yammering about how you're so busy and your houses aren't big enough to contain your staff and your fabulosity. But save for the odd PSA about IBS - I can't for the life of me figure out what you actually DO to earn any of the millions it costs to pay for the multiple houses "you" own that sit empty so you can condescend to allow your "friends" to live in. So in fact, I do judge you. I think you're nauseating. And I'm a pretty good judge of character.

So back to the busy thing. Clearly making sure any man within a 5-mile radius has seen your plastic rack and knows you're up for it, is a relative time commitment. But I wouldn't think it keeps you all so busy. I mean, you can work at any old Walmart and flash your ass crack and make suggestive comments whilst ringing up tube socks, right? It's not like one precludes the other. "Hey Nick, would you like some tennis BALLS to go with these tube socks...? NO? That will be $4.98." See? It can be done. It's not like you're curing cancer AND holding down the overnight shift on the production line at the Whirlpool factory.

Of course there's posing for People magazine photo spreads to drum up sympathy for you after you thanked karma for allegedly killing your estranged husband's & his new girlfriend's unborn child. That's gotta kill a few hours. But other than that, I'm not sure simpering and cock-teasing is a truly marketable skill for a woman of your age. Fair enough -- there's the obvious dedication to grooming, shopping, delegation of personable responsibility to hired help; self-aggrandizing, condescending, name-dropping and conference calls betwixt all six personalities ("Shut up!" "No! YOU shut up!") -- but those aren't so much a jobs as a character defects.

But I have to say , in support of Camille's inability to live in a 3,500 square foot apartment in New York. I feel you doll. When you suffer from IBS as you do, I can only imagine that you need at least a 2,500 square foot safe zone around you at all times to buffer the stench of your mad gas queefing out of your crass, gold-digging ass.

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