Yeah, I don’t know who escalatedCynthia Bailey and Porsha Williams‘ fight, but one thing I do know is that I’m super, ultra relieved it doesn’t appear the fallout will drag on all season, and into the next, and into the next, and into the next until I contemplate throwing them both overboard into Lake Lanier, Atlanta’s unofficial morgue, without a lifejacket, so they are stuck fending for themselves amid the ghosts. Well, at least Phaedra Parks said there were ghosts in that lake.
Anyway, to briefly recap Fight Float, there are “fake as f–k” women causing “fake as f–k fights,” there are fingers in faces, then fingers being grabbed, there is Porsha starting to stand-straddle? (adjusting her position?) – I don’t know – over Cynthia’s lawn chair. Then all of the sudden Cynthia kicks Porsha in the crotchal region! Shocking, yes. But I was mostly relieved no one’s pants burst because, holy crap, I would not be getting all acrobatic and ‘Hi-Yah! Housewives’ in pants that tight!
All aboard the S.S. Krayonce for Bravo’s version of the Titanic, with far less hearts going on and a lot more going off on others. Last night on Real Housewives Of Atlanta a 3 hour cruise went horribly wrong and some Housewives panicked under pressure. It was every Housewife for herself with only unlimited booze, bikinis, and some very extra ‘Friends’.
Before all that Kenya Moore decides to be neighborly by walking over to Chateau Sheree where Sheree Whitfield is sweeping the front porch. What type of so-called exclusive, upscale neighborhood has a highway running through it? Highway 666 judging by the neighbors!
Kenya marvels at the size of Chateau Sheree and tries to barge in, but can’t open the door. Did Sheree get She By SheVicted?! To distract her, Sheree demands, “Where my cookies at?!”
Here’s what I have to say about this season of Real Housewives Of Atlanta: I think I’m gonna like it here. This season things are progressing – storylines are moving. We are no longer subjected to the same tired fake feuds and the men are messier than the Housewives. Is that Bravo’s version of feminism?
Last night we met Kim Fields, and I am so happy she did not appear during Kenya Moore and Sheree Whitfield arguing over who is the most broke. Let’s be honest: it’s a tie! Like, I wouldn’t bet a half-finished glass of Franzia on the these two getting their houses finished in a timely manner. They oughtta both get some luxury RVs and plop them on their respective properties. Or pool their resources to construct a Chatfaux SheMoore Messor.
Last night Real Housewives Of Atlanta returned to us and brought with it Sheree Whitfield! (Which means I get to bust out my trusty #SheByShebroke hashtag again. YESSSSS.) And like two cats in an alley fighting over the remaining sardine of a storyline, Kenya Moore and Sheree are going at it, clawing at each other over who is more delusional and broke.
There is no greater irony than Kenya throwing Sheree’s delusional behavior in her face. Need I remind you all about Krayonce’s Rent-A-Boyfriends 1, 2, and 3, the charade of Life Twirls On, her fake booty, mystery African princes, Walter, and eviction from the home she so-called ‘owned’… But oh, how I adore that Kenya has met her match in shade, delusion, and sheer desperation to GO. THERE. in Sheree! These two are going to be an explosion of delight this season. And I am here for it – popcorn ready. To quote Kenya, “Nom, nom, nom…”
We can always count on the ladies of Real Housewives Of Atlanta to keep it 100! And to prove it they celebrated their 100th episode by spilling-all to Andy Cohen. “The Atlanta women are funny! We’re honest and real, and we never bite our tongues,” describes Kim Zolciak of the pride that comes with RHOA.
All of the Housewives – past and present – feel the success of the show and also its magic was that it showcased affluent African-American women. I have to ask, other than Kandi Burruss: Who are these affluent Housewives again? Certainly they’re not referring to SheBySheBroke?! (“A fashion show with no fashions?! How dreadful!”). And then they dish on bad hair (NeNe Leakes is voted the worst), bad fashions (no declarative winner) and worst fight (again, no declarative winner).
I was hoping Sheree and Lisa Wu-Hartwell would be appearing but they didn’t! My favorite part was seeing the ladies’ audition tapes – first of all how freaking different does NeNe look? But how freaking the same is her ego – large and in charge of everything!
So – part 3 of the Real Housewives Of Atlanta reunion, did anyone ask themselves: What the hell did I just watch? I hope it wasn’t just me.
Honestly I have no idea what was even going on except NeNe Leakes was reenacting Sybil with multiple personalities – she was ragey, and laughing, and cagey, yelling, crying, being open, being sympathetic – Lord I need Dr. Jeff to sit next to me on a sofa and stroke my hand. Help me, Dr. Jeff, help me! #ThisAintPhaedra
But first Peter Thomas gets his moment in the sun. He’s been waiting; a peach sitting ripening in the sun until it turned rotten and fell to the earth, but finally someone noticed it – its pit poking through the wrinkled, moldy skin. Kenya Moore and NeNe are yelling about whether or not NeNe flirted with Peter, so finally someone decided to ask Peter, who was inevitably siting right there. Peter denied it, but managed to turned it into a diatribe about how Kenya deserves a million apologies for being wrongly judged by these women because they believed she was flirting with Apollo.
This is the story all about how, Real Housewives Of Atlanta got turned upside down. And I’d like to take a minute – just sit right there – to tell you how I became the princess of an African who isn’t really there.
In Hotlanta born and raised, married to money, living in debt was where I spent most of my days. Fillin’ out maxin out AmEx all cool and starting gossip outside The Bailey School. When a couple of unmarrieds who were up to no good started making trouble in my Housewives hood. I got in one little affair with an African, the bitches got loud and said I’m stealing your crown.
I yelled and threatened day after day, to drag her MISS- WHO-S-A title down in shame. So I packed my Firkin and sent us all on plane. Buzzin’ on moscato and throwing’ out shade, I snapped a pic on my iPhone, and said, “I might as well tweet it, but the friendships still fake.’