Thankfully, this week’s episode of The Real Housewives Of Beverly Hills aired the heavier content early in the show so that we could focus more on the hereditary wonders of mother-daughter cleavage, and the bromance between Mauricio and Paul. Basically, get the creepy scenes with Russell Armstrong (God rest his soul) out of the way so that we can get some sleeping tonight.
First off, has Taylor learned nothing from Kennedy’s $60,000 fourth birthday party, which – by the by – Dana/Pam organized? Some friend. And there they sit, thumbing through custom cakes and land on a $2,000 unicorn cake. Listen, I love a unicorn as much as the next red-blooded oddball, but I have my limits. Make a funfetti cake for the kid and top it off with a unicorn. Don’t drop money on a cake you’ll only look at but not eat.
I could listen to Lisa Vanderpump read the phonebook.
Do we even have to talk about the scenes involving Russell? The tragedy that preceded his untimely death and the sh*ttalking that Taylor did behind his back? Ugh, it’s a sticky subject that I don’t want to get into, because who is the victim here? We don’t know.
Ken Todd deserves a medal for just hanging out in the background and writing the checks for his daughter’s wedding. I have to ask: Why did Ken and Jason wear such spectacular blazers? Did the women make them do so? I’ll tell you one thing: Mary Ellen doesn’t bestow upon me yards and yards of diamonds. All I got for Halloween was a text: “Happy Halloween my pumpkin.” What? No diamonds and candy corn? Not even a faux Kate Middleton ring? What is this!?
Mohamed’s party, what can we say? You really scared the crap out of some of the guests, good man. And may I ask what that schizophrenic mermaid was doing on the side of your pool? Did she need Camille and your daughter fiance to push her back into the water?
Martin’s friend/gal/romance buddy refers to him as “daddy.” That’s just gross. I’m with the other bitches when I say, “get thee to a therapist.”
So…Kim’s boyfriend of a year. He wears jewelry. Awesome. Gonna bite my lip on this one, mainly because there wasn’t much to say other than…there’s a pot for every lid.
“Whatever, dude” says Mauricio to Paul. Marry me, Mauricio Umansky.