Last night while watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, I came to an important realization. I now understand why these women never eat and how they manage to stay so thin. If every time you sat down at a dinner table a massive fight broke out wouldn't you have dinner-induced trauma and be reduced to guzzling wine instead? They probably all go home and stuff microwaved popcorn in their faces while standing over the kitchen sink and ruminating about the days before they sold their souls to Bravo. But hey – at least those size 2s fit!
Yesterday's episode was more of the same. Same arguments, same players, same storyline, same snarky recapper wanting to hurl things at the screen. It started out OK, as it always seems to, but then quickly degenerated into the congealed, fetid remains of last night's dinner. Even Yolanda Foster was reduced to drinking tequila.
Most of the girls were in Vegas watching in awe as Brandi Glanville's legs twined around a stripper pole and slid gracefully to the floor. "Welcome to Night School For Girls!" she announced popping up with 3/4 of her boob also popping out. Splits Richards makes an important mental note to have Mauricio hypnotized into thinking Brandi is a revolting, wretched, shit-stirring drama queen again. He must not fall under her spell!
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