22nd
Housewives Descending A Staircase
This evening, in the face of object poverty, struggling to make an ends, and smothered by winter’s chill I nearly shed a tear. No, not for myself but for 6 intoxicatingly rich Caucasian women living in a village called Beverly Hills.
Yes, I am speaking of the season finale of Bravo’s latest and DARKEST dive into the pits of American frivolity The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Those who watch know. Those who don’t could likely give a shit. However I say this to you both; emotional solitude does not give a fat baby’s dick about “class.”
I won’t bore you with the details. But by the conclusion of this haunting opus sisters disowned one another. A hag lost her fag. A wife conceded to hiding her palpable torment behind impossibly plump lips. A chick was straight up quit by her husband of 13-14 years in favor of a flight attendant. And oh yeah, one of the aforementioned sisters was sent to rehab by her offspring.
Now you will probably say “WHO GIVES A SHIT?” They’re rich and the need to get over it. You are right and they should. But thanks to Bravo’s snappy editing and moody, Ramotional score this meditation on excess deteriorated into a commentary on the need for stability that seems to permeate the human condition.
Long story short, as sad as I felt for the women that most deem unworthy of sympathy, I was reminded of the good fortune that surrounds me on a daily basis. The weather may be cold and my heat may be broken but I was able to whiteness this side show of sorrow in the company of dear friends via wine, commentary, and spicy spicy sausage. So for someone who believes that it in fact MAY never get better I am reminded of Ms. Ceelie’s timeless words: “I’m poor, black, and hell I might even be ugly BUT I’M HERE!”
And yes. This was all about me. Brought to YOU by me.
-c2
