DanThat'sCool!

 

 

My cosmetics line just launched Black Eye Blue and Fat Lip Fuschia, and I’m thinking of giving that bitch Ramona some free samples.

 

 

 

Yeah, it was a thong. But at least dat means she wears underwear. So dat’s kinda good, rite?

 

 

 

 

 

Seriously. But at least he works out.

 

 

 

 

Now I just got two more gigantic plastic ones to shove into the tree and then we’re good to go.

 

 

 

All I want for Christmas is a dog that will sever the artery in my neck while I’m ordering pizza for the girls.

 

 

 

Trust me, honey. You ain’t the first one to get on all fours and lick their junk when I’m around. True dat.

 

 

 

I mean…c’mon. Look at these chew toys. They’re like Staten Island-sized Snausages for really naughty Big Dawgs.

 

 

 

It was almost a Christmas Miracle, I tell you.

Like Barbie had somehow just landed on Sesame Street.

If Sesame Street was Benton Avenue and Barbie had just pulled a butter knife shiv out of the glove compartment of her convertible and cut a bitch, I mean.

This week’s episode of Mob Wives was brought to you by the Color Pink.

And the Letters F and U.

I swear.

And I know that for a fact because there was a lot of both being thrown hard and straight in our faces from start to finish this time around, in a festive pre-Christmas hour that began with a party and ended with a S.W.A.T. team fly over.

Just like any other Holiday Season on Staten Island, right?

It’s looking like Mob Wives might finally be getting their Mob Mojo back.  But Mojo…Mob or otherwise…ain’t cheap, which would explain the need for subliminal ad product placement.   And unless I’m mistaken, somebody clearly hooked them all up with that new L’Oreal Ombré hair coloring comb they sell at Duane Reade, because half the cast was totally rockin’ the latest on-trend dark to light look in every confessional shot.  Werk.

The whole thing started out at Big Ang‘s Ultra-Pink Christmas party.  Pink walls.  Pink dinnerware.  Pink table linens.  Pink wrapping paper.  And a Pink  Christmas Tree so vibrantly Pink that if you paused your DVR it would sting so bad you’d get Pink Eye.

It was like one of those Real Housewives of Beverly Hills White Parties they have every year.  Except Kim Richards wasn’t locked in the bathroom.  And it was Pink.

With just enough Jerseylicious Zebra print, of course, so as not to confuse the whole extravaganza with the little girl toy aisle at Target.  Cuz dat’s how they do on the Island.

Honestly, the only way I could differentiate between the actual artificial tree and Big Ang, all styled up in a well thought out coordinating outfit, was the size of her own ornaments as they overflowed that Pink blouse.  Love.  Her.  Especially during the holidays.

Every time Big Ang tokes on a smoke, an Angel gets their wings.

Drita, Karen and Ramona all made it to the party on time and got right to dissing about anyone not currently in the room.  Though Drita and Ramona had recently signed a peace treaty and were doing their best to uphold the terms of the agreement, their relationship was still a little awkward and it was clear that they’ll never be texting “BFF” on their brass knuckle iPhones.

Renee had chosen to skip the party to avoid any potential Carla drama, while Luscious Love Majewski had come down with Bronchitis and was also a no-show.

Bronchitis?  F’real?  Ain’t nobody got time for that.

(Seriously.  That joke will never get old.  How much do you love Sweet Brown?)

When Carla finally strolled in the door (…anyone else notice that the sun had completely gone down by the time she pulled up to the curb? Buy a watch, honey.  Lobster ain’t cheap…) it was immediately a little tense on the other side of the table.  Karen and Ramona were not big Carla fans at the moment, ever since that whole unfortunate ButterKnifeGate controversy had gone down at Big Ang’s last luncheon.

But enough with the cold shoulder.  Karen broke the ice and made certain that Carla knew Renee wasn’t at the Christmas party because of the way she had been treated at their previous get together, when Carla had played the Junky Card and swung that aforementioned butter knife all around the room like the Macy’s Parade baton girl.

Carla managed to spin the whole thing all backasswards in her head and somehow ended up proclaiming that she may have shown just the Tough Love that Renee needed, and…why yes, thank you…she probably was responsible for driving her into rehab.  So where’s the gold star?

Are you kidding me?  Karen and Ramona got all WTF?, grabbed some snacks to go, and hit the road to pack for their trip to Arizona.  Enough already.  Bitch is cray.

The food looked amazeballs, but once again Big Ang threw a party that tanked.

The next morning, Karen and Ramona headed to beautiful, hot but not humid Arizona to confront ex-boyfriend David Seabrook.  There had been a lot of unanswered questions lately surrounding Dave and his new girlfriend Rebecca, not the least of which was what the (bleep) was one of her nasty a** thongs doing in little Karina‘s bedroom?

Do NOT even tell me that you were living in the house, rent-free, and shagging yo’ girl when you were supposed to be feeding the dog?

Oooh, Child.  Karen smelled blood in the water.  And Ramona loves that shizzle, as she egged her on during the entire limo ride to the house.

When they finally arrived at Karen’s AZ home, it was like one of those quaint suburban houses where the family had been sucked into the TV set or through the back wall of the bedroom closet, leaving only a stray dog to wander around the kitchen and wonder what happened to his owners.

The place was empty.  No Dave.  No Dave’s clothes.  No Dave’s Playstation 3.  Not even a nasty a** thong hanging on the microwave handle.

Only Ozzie the Dog, who had to pee a manic mean streak by the time Karen showed up at the front door.

It didn’t take long for Karen and Ramona to do the math and realize that Dave wasn’t even living in the structure anymore, which meant that Karen had been paying a redoinkulously high mortgage on a dog house all these months.  My psychic powers told me that Karen was going to blow a nutty before next week’s previews hit the screen.

But we let that pot boil for awhile as we switched limos and drove up to Anytown, CT with Love, Big Ang, Drita and Renee in search of a brutally savage attack dog.

Since returning from rehab, Renee was finally sleeping in her Big Girl bed like a Big Girl, but was still terrified that someone might break into the house while she snoozed.  And she had already installed Best Buy video cameras and the same state of the art security system that laser beams the Hope Diamond.  But she was still stressing.

So the only thing left to do was buy one of those slobbery attack dogs that they leave in Nissan car lots after closing time.  (Trust me…it’s a fact, Jack.  Whatever you do, don’t try and stick your nose through the chain link fence at midnight to see if they still have that Turbo Z you test drove the morning before, unless you want to go home with wet pants and a dog on your face.  TMI?)

Now I’m not really sure why they had to drive 3 hours away just to watch some gigantic black dog maul a guy’s padded foam arm, but they did.

And it was totally worth it.  At least for me, because the whole scene was an odd cross between Cujo trying to get in the car window and that episode of I Love Lucy when she got a vase stuck on her head.

A lot of screaming and panic and bumping into each other.

Big Ang had enough fur on her body to pass for one of the attack animals if she wanted to try chewing on the dude’s wrist.  Drita pretty much laid a patch of yellow snow and ran as far away as possible.  Love the Dog Whisperer somehow managed to give the dog a bone, as we say in the porn biz.  And Renee ended up changing her mind and driving another 3 hours back home with no puppy in the backseat.

Six hours, people.  That’s gotta suck.

But not as badly as being in Arizona and walking blindly into a house full of hostile Karen and Ramona hormones.  Dave didn’t stand a chance.

Before his arrival, Karina had already shown up and given her Mom some serious 13 year old ‘tude.  The Duh You’re So Lame kind of ‘tude that somehow genetically and magically manifests itself when a girl hits that age.

You know exactly what I’m talking about.  It can hit anywhere.  She can just be walking down the street and it hits.  Or in a fitting room.  Granted, she’s usually directly in front of me in a Burger King line OMGing on her cellphone, but it can be anywhere.  Bitch.

Needless to say, by the time Dave walked into the Karen Trap, he didn’t stand a chance.

And it didn’t help that Dave’s kind of a DoucheBag.  Or at least his gum chewing is.

He has that Chump Dbag way of chewing his Nicorette that is truly an art form.  I can’t explain it.  But there’s just a certain way to chew your gum that just shouts to the world that you’re a DoucheBag even louder than any Affliction tee shirt ever could.

It’s like the way tough girls can crackle their gum in one bite so it sounds like Pop Rocks.

That’s an art form, too.  And probably code for F*** You Up, because as soon as one chick Pops the Rocks there are like 5 more girls surrounding the picnic table.  They’re like bad a** seagulls or something.  Whatever you do…don’t feed ‘em.

Anyway.  Dave fesses up to not living in the house and Dbags his gum and excuses all over the place.  He didn’t tell Karen because he didn’t feel like it.  And then he told her to stop trippin’, which on Staten Island immediately makes someone start trippin’.  And then the whole Whoa Is Me I Was In Prison thing started, which prompted Karen’s What Did You Think I Was Doing Out Here While You Were In There thing to kick in, which in turn took Dave’s gum chewing to a whole new level.

Yeah.  This one ain’t over yet.

Back on SI, Drita showed Carla where her new Just Me Cosmetics store was going to be located.  Nothing much to see yet, since the whole thing was still under construction and all.  But it did give Drita a chance to go on Twitter after the show and pimp out the website, so at least Mama can start making some money.

And Carla had a strange Mardi Gras mask-themed birthday party in an empty VIP room with two friends from Brooklyn, where Drita showed us all how she dogged a huge hoagie during labor contractions.  Don’t ask.

Finally, back in AZ it was nothing but full on MobStuff for the remainder of the show, which was probably a little slap in the face for those of you who keep forgetting that these are actual people involved in The Lifestyle.  And possibly a little disconcerting for anyone thinking about writing a snarky, though HIGHlarious blog on a television show about real life Mobster types who could probably find you if they really wanted to on their way to The Wendy Williams Show.

Awkward.

Karen took Ramona on a little tour/TV montage flashback to where her Dad Sammy “The Bull” Gravano was busted by the Feds.  We also saw the stop sign where his enemies had planned on blowing him up with a bomb.  Karen even opened up about all the bad life choices that she had made throughout the years, not the least being that hair style she was showing off in her mug shot.

Whoa.  Seriously?  Sorry, K.  Love you.  Mean it.  But I just can’t.

We finished the whole thing off on a remote, undisclosed mountain top location.

Seriously.  They said it, not me.

These people know they’re on a TV show, right?  Even if they arrived separately in two black Escalades like Destiny’s Child (…one for Beyoncé and one for what’s her name and the other one…) they can still see the camera guys, right?

Honestly, sometimes it’s better to just go with it.  I mean, if you can watch Superman and believe that a man can fly, then I think we can all overlook the fact that they probably didn’t blindfold the sound tech before dumping him in the trunk.  And that’s why I love me some Mob Wives.

Karen and her brother Gerard wanted to be cautious and meet somewhere secluded to discuss new developments in their father’s case.  Developments that could potentially have him back out on the street by next week.

Again.  Great for the Family.  Not so great if you still plan on writing that snarky, yet HIGHlarious blog for much longer.

Gerard had discovered a discrepancy in the plea deal their Dad had made with some legal mumbo jumbo about Upward Departure and living in The Hole.  Google it.

Then a Black Ops helicopter buzzed overhead, and Karen knew it was a sign.

We Go To War.

It’s on.

 

 

What is that smell? Don’t even tell me I left the Cacciatore in the trunk again.

 

 

 

 

Why, yes. They are spectacular. These girls got me six engagement rings and a rap sheet, thank you very much.

 

 

 

 

Those things can NOT be real. And how the hell did that chick not float away during the storm?

 

 

 

 

I don’t got no power yet, but my hair still looks pretty freakin’ awesome, right? Fuggedaboutit.

 

 

 

 

Oh. My. Gawd. Bronx Boyz are so hot. I would totally knife that so hard his knock-off Gucci shades’d fog up.

 

 

 

 

I’m like totally blind without my glasses, but even I can see that bitch is crazy.

 

 

 

 

 

So then I open the door, and it’s like…BAM! Mama’s gettin’ some tonight.

 

 

 

 

That was kind of a bummer.

Most of the Mob Wives were on clean-up duty this week as everyone tried to put differences aside and come together to help with Hurricane Sandy relief, and it’s always a bit of a downer when Reality TV is forced to stick its big toe into the flood waters of actual…ummm…Reality.

Remember the whole Russell Armstrong crisis over at Real Housewives of Beverly Hills when they couldn’t decide whether to address the issue face on or just replace him with a potted plant during dinner party scenes?  How awkward it was when Russell was clearly edited out of conversations until someone could finally make a decision on how to handle the whole thing?

Well, it would have taken a lot of Home Depot topiaries to hide all the devastation unleashed by Hurricane Sandy last October, so the producers chose to just hit the streets with CNN and show us how bad it really was in their Staten Island ‘hood.

I’m sure that somewhere there was one shameless television executive in some corner office doing the Reality TV Gold Dance when this unscripted storyline came roaring up the East Coast, packing sustained wind gusts of 115 mph like a Sweeps Week gift from the Weather Gods.

Because you know there’s always somebody in the biz more concerned with show ratings than soup kitchen rationing.  True dat.

But for the rest of us, Hurricane Sandy was real.  And as it turned out…so are the Mob Wives.  Who knew?

As Drita and her daughters packed up bag after bag of clothing to bring to shelters, it was a reminder that not only are these ladies actual real-life Staten Island residents, but that they also have way too many clothes in their closets.

Seriously.  Way too many.  The place looked like a HazMat holding area.

Either chill on the trips to the Woodrow Mall or start buying stuff in my size.

Karen and Ramona were doing their part as well, helping out a friend down the street dig through what remained of her home.  These neighborhoods were leveled.

Meanwhile, Big Ang figured she should stick with what she knows best and got to cooking up a mean streak of Costco-sized Chicken Italiano Sumthin Sumthin for the local shelter while Carla wandered around the kitchen in the same furry boots that those Vikings wear in the Capital One commercials.

In my head I picture Big Ang’s basement looking like some gigantic walk-in freezer filled with nothing but deli meat and fur coats dangling from ceiling hooks, because she seems to always be able to get her hands on raw beef, chicken and a chinchilla muff at a moment’s notice.

She lost her brand new salon in the storm, but gained about a gazillion Twitter followers by putting out a plea to drop off hurricane donations at the Drunken Monkey.  Single handedly she probably did more to rally Staten Island into action than all the TalkRadio stations combined.  Mess wid da Island, you mess wid Ang.

If nothing else, we learned that only boobs that freakishly enormous could possibly contain a heart as big as Angela Raiola’s.  We love you, Big Ang.

Down the road Karen did double duty and accompanied Looney Love Majewski as she tried to help out another friend.  Everywhere you turned there was devastation.  And cleavage.  Lots of both.

Except in Miami, where Renee was getting close to finishing up her stint in rehab.

Since Renee refused to watch the news anymore, Ramona called with a progress report and all I could think of was the lucky VH1 camera crew that got the beach gig instead of hurricane duty when they drew straws back at the office.

Suckahs.

Renee’s phone must hold a serious charge, because the next thing you knew she was back on the cell again with Big Ang, letting her know that AJ was on his way down to Florida for a session with Mom.  Ang was busy cooking even more Chicken Italiano Sumthin Sumthin as Renee gave her all the details, until the food came out of the oven and it was time to pack the trunk with another 97 tin foil casserole trays.

Nice talking to you, Renee, but my breasts are getting cold.

I really need to see that basement.

As time went on and the Staten Island clean-up progressed, there was a little more free time to get back to family business.  And that meant Drita could discuss Lee‘s upcoming prison release with daughter Aleeya.

Aleeya.  She’s soooo not gangstah.

She’s like a cross between Blossom and Urkel and the girl who always gets picked last for dodgeball.  But we love her…and her Kids Week Jeopardy glasses…even though I can’t quite figure out if she’s just oblivious to some aspects of “The Lifestyle” or if she’s totally sly like a fox and knows exactly how the game is played.

Regardless, she has the best WTF face of all the little Mob Kids.

Like when Drita explained how Daddy Lee was a neat freak, and that when he comes home with nothing but a manilla envelope full of personal belongings and an OCD twitch the house better be spotless.  Because you know how he gets.

And you expect me to clean it, Mom?  WTF?

Love.  Her.  If this isn’t already a sitcom, then Jennifer Gravano better produce one asap, because I already have the first two verses of Aleeya’s theme song in my head.

Right about now we also had the weekly Mob Wives Head Scratch Moment as Drita explained that Lee’s Dad was killed by the Feds when Lee was only 7 years old.  And that is why Lee probably turned out the way he did.  And that it was all the Fed’s fault that Lee turned to crime.  And that it had nothing to do with his own Dad and whatever it was that he was involved in that got him killed by the Feds.

Because it’s always the Feds’ fault.

Now I’m gonna have to ask Aleeya for clarification, but I’m fairly certain that the Feds don’t actually kill you unless you do something pretty bad.  And when I was 7 years old I couldn’t figure out which shoe went on which foot, much less decide if I wanted to turn to a life of crime.

But every week one of the Wives has to blame something on the Feds, so at least we got this one over with early.

WTF Mom?

Finally, we got some comic relief when my new mob crush Looney Love went dog walking.  In red leather pants.  And a fashionably silk screened coordinating top that featured dueling red pistols fighting it out on her substantial Majewski Jewels.

Like that PBS Battle for the Alamo documentary.  But in IMAX 3D.

Gah.  I can’t get enough of this chick.

Love was taking pudgy Winston out for a tinkle as she talked with ex-boyfriend Joey on her iPhone, and I’m pretty sure the dude just put this show way over it’s Joe Quota.

Joey (…not to be confused with Joe or Jo Jo over at Carla’s place…) is Winston’s Doggie Daddy, as well as a previous recipient of the business end of Love’s L.L. Bean army knife.  And he has the scar tissue to prove it.

Yeah.  She stabbed him.  In front of his Mutha.  Hand to Gawd.  In front of his Mutha.

I can’t even do the conversation justice.  Bitch is just cray cray.

She’s also been engaged six times to a collection of car thieves and home invaders and robbers and attempted murderers.  Can you even imagine her Match.com profile?

But no matter how many times you’re always a Bridesmaid and never a Bride, it’s all good if you can laugh about it.  And she did, until I thought her two pistols would ricochet off a mailbox and take out a streetlight.

Then, in case you missed any of that hilarity due to DVR issues or bathroom breaks, Love met up with Drita to retell the whole Mutha story one mo’ time.

And yes, I was once again captivated.  Especially when Love was late because a pair of brass knuckles fell out of her bra and chipped her pedicure before she even left the house.

Hand to Gawd.

I had to rewind to the Hurricane Sandy part again just to remind myself this show was really about actual people.  You can’t make this s*** up.

At first I wondered why anyone would keep their iPhone in their bra cup, but then I remembered that Ramona is the one with the brass knuckle cell phone cover.  Love just stores plain old phone-free knuckles in her DDs.  Then it all made sense.

It turned out that Joey and Lee have a history, too, if you can call a baseball bat to the face history.  Back in the day, Lee tried to hit one over the fence so hard that the bat broke when Joey’s face got in the way.  But it’s all good if you can laugh about it.  And the girls did.

Joey…not so much.

Back in Miami it got heavy again as AJ arrived for his session with Mom and her therapist Vernon, who was a quirky little guy who could totally have been a stand-in bartender on The Love Boat if he was wearing a different shirt.

AJ has always had some issues with his Mom’s addiction, and in a Gangland PSA Moment he stated that there is no reason to do drugs.  Ever.

I think AJ and Aleeya should go to lunch, because I’m starting to think that they both have the same outlook on The Lifestyle.  AJ is definitely mopier than Aleeya.  Maybe rightfully so given all the wire tap drama last season.  But he’s pretty on the ball when it comes to what Mom has been up to over the last year or so, and it surprised Renee to hear him blurt out some zingers.

Then she lost it.

You know someone really loses it when the Honey Boo Boo subtitles come out.

AJ forgave Renee for the hot mess she’d made of everything over the past two years and they hugged it out like champs, though I’ll never understand how a kid who shares the same emotional car wreck DNA never even flinches under pressure.  It’s like he’s either born without tear ducts or has just gone numb.

Remember Data on Star Trek: The Next Generation?

AJ’s like that.  But with Prada glasses instead of a brain chip.  Google it.

Back up north in Staten Island, an 18 wheeler full of hurricane relief and hair gel pulled up to the Drunken Monkey and Big Ang couldn’t have been more excited.

The Bronx Boys all showed up in a trailer packed to the roof with enough supplies to rival the Red Cross, all thanks to Ang’s Tweeter.

Yes…she called it Tweeter one time, and now I can’t get it out of my head.  She’s not a big fan of punctuation when she twats, either.  Just sayin’.

But how much did you love The Bronx Boys?

I can’t.

Even in a blizzard the dudes were all rockin’ sunglasses and major league DJ Pauly D hair.  Like I always say, whatever product those boyeez were using to spike their hair should immediately be sent to NASA to keep the shuttle tiles attached, because that was some serious freeze shizzle fodizzle.

And shouting “Fuggedaboutit “ every time they tossed a box of baby wipes from one truck to another pretty much gave me life.  GTL, you freakin’ grenades.

Then we made one last trip to escape the snow and headed back to Miami for Renee’s graduation, where all her group buddies got to stand up and say a little something before she headed back home all new and improved.

The Renee 2013 Model just rolled off the assembly line, bitches.

Then everyone screamed one last time.

Back on Staten Island, like any good soap opera, there was just enough time for the Friday cliffhanger.  Except it was Sunday.  But you know what I mean.

With Carla and Big Ang hanging on her every word, Drita tried to explain how she had just returned to her house and opened the front door and…wait for it…saw someone inside her house.  And do you know who it was?  You’ll never guess.

Wait for it…wait for it…

Give up?

Lee!  Lee was (bleepin’) in her (bleepin’) house and she almost (bleeped) herself!

Now what?

Be here next week and find out.

Same Mob Time.  Same Mob Channel.

Thinking of DVRing it and watching it later?

Fuggedaboutit.

 

 

Check it out! I found a cave etching from the Lower Paleolithic Pirouette Era. Bam!

 

 

 

 

Safety first, sweetie. Always practice your acrobatics on a squishy, shock absorbent surface.

 

 

 

 

Child Services is gonna love this one. I’m totally putting it on Facebook.

 

 

 

 

With this disguise, anyone can sneak past Border Patrol or leave a restaurant without paying.

 

 

 

 

I find that last joke only slightly less inappropriate than my girl having to duet with that kid What’s Her Name.

 

 

 

 

I know, right? My boobs look amazing in this dress!

 

 

 

Hmmm.

Something didn’t smell right in Pittsburgh this week, and I don’t think it was just that dead rat in the back of the garage.

After driving most of the Replacement Moms out of the ALDC and back across state lines, it was a Dance Moms episode filled with intrigue and fatigue as the Original Recipe ladies whipped out their iPhones and reclaimed their spots on the Perch.

Following a stampede of new faces thru the front door…and then right back out again before it even swung shut…the only newbies remaining were little squeak toy Sophia and her Mom Jackie.

The little WunderKid with the 8 pack belly and a voice that only dogs can hear had already succeeded in winning over Abby Lee Miller and the entire Dance World.  But by her third week at the ALDC, she was already MIA due to some lucrative movie deal going down on the West Coast.  Or maybe she was chillin’ at Sundance with Jennifer Hudson.  I don’t know.  Abby was a little vague.

But regardless, Sophia and Mom were not in the hizzle as everyone lined up for the second official Pyramid of the season.

If you can even call last week’s Pyramid an actual pyramid.

Remember?  It was basically Sophia’s glossy headshot on top with every single other dancer pig piled down at the bottom, all looking up her skirt.

So if we’re really splitting hairs, this week was technically the first Pyramid, since it was the first time the photos were actually in the shape of a triangle.  You decide.

After gazing in amazement at the assortment of MomCouture (…seriously, where do they shop?..) it was time for the Big Reveal.

Chloe, Nia, Paige and MackAttack were all at the bottom.

Turned out that Chloe had forgotten part of last week’s solo, which no one else in the Free World would know unless they had actually created the choreography for the routine.  But Abby said she spaced.  So that meant some quality time in the basement.

Sasha Nia hadn’t been applying corrections lately and got busted for it.  But at least that gave Chloe some company at the bottom, along with Paige, who didn’t get lifted up high enough or some nonsense.

And since Mackenzie had spent over 20 minutes trying to unroll the gigantic red carpet for the group number entrance, it was a quartet.  Her spot at the bottom didn’t really have anything to do with actual dancing, but I guess a tangled rip cord can be deadly in both parachuting and on competition day.  We can all learn from that one.

The second row team was comprised of Maddie and Kendall, both victims of the Sophia Curse.

Kendall had not been able to keep up with the WunderKid, and Maddie had stolen her hairstyle.  Because we all know that Sophia invented the Ballet Bun.

So shame on both of you.

Of course, top spot was reserved for Sophia.  You don’t even have to show up anymore to get prime real estate.

Brooke didn’t even score any face time on the Pyramid because she likes boys, or something.  I don’t know.  She was gone for most of last week.

This week the gang was headed to Greensboro for the Dance Troupe Challenge, which for some reason gets abbreviated as DTI.  Just as a public service announcement, if you happen to go on their website, turn your volume down or you’ll get the same ringing in your ears that you get after a Bieber Fever VMA performance.

Kids today.  No wonder they can’t hear you when you yell at them in Burger King.

The group number was going to be all about immigrants, which I thought would be an Ellis Island kind of tribute, but somehow Abby had morphed it into a combination of “Sophia is Way Better Than You” and angry people raising their mops in defiance in front of the public library while dressed like backup dancers in a Thunderdome musical.

Oh, Abby.  Always sticking it to the Moms.

Paige was handed a solo, while Maddie and Kendall were pegged for a duet.  You can imagine the talk in the MomPerch as that party got started.

Because of the rip cord fiasco, Mackadoodle was now banned by the Olympic Committee from all group routines unless the number specifically called for a little nugget doing backward somersaults, but she seemed ok with it and was excited to find out that she was going to get plastic lemons hot glued to her head for her own solo.

Brooke was stuck doing splits on the floor and hitting the iTunes PLAY button as punishment for liking boys so much.  That’ll teach you.

Playing the role of Sophia, like they do when soap opera actresses are sick or get pregnant, was Mackenzie.  So she’s not allowed to dance with them, but it’s ok to stand there like an orange DOT cone to mark a spot.  Go figure.

Then it was off to Abby’s house.  Well…her garage, anyway.  I don’t think the Moms are allowed inside the actual house.

Abby had enlisted everyone’s help in cleaning out her giant fire trap of a carport in the hopes of discovering some ancient Indian artifacts and a few props for future routines.

The place was a dump.

Kelly found one of those old vintage photos of Abby when she came over on the Mayflower, and Holly found half a dead rat stuck to the cement floor like they always find on Hoarders.

Girrrl, pleez.  Holly don’t do rats, which would probably explain why Principal Frazier went off like she had just seen Michelle Obama‘s new bangs for the first time and then scooted out the door like some fierce diva Roadrunner.

Bloop Bloop.  See ya.

After a complete disinfecting head to toe hose down, everyone got back to rehearsals.

But before we get into that, can we just talk about the braces?

Apparently a few weeks back when all the rebel Moms took their kids to do that Mall Flash Mob, they also had time to swing by the orthodontist.  For realz.

Every time a girl opened their mouth this week, another one had new braces.  I’m not even exaggerating.  But I’m a big fan of oral hygiene, so it just needed to be said.

Mack’s lemonade-themed solo required not only the aforementioned Carmen Miranda headpiece, but also that she be air lifted onto Abby’s ample bosoms for a moment.

I’ll break that one down for you.  Take that giant rack o’ ribs that the waitress tossed up onto the roof of Fred Flinstone‘s car in the opening of the show each week, replace it with Mack doing an awkward split, and there you go.

Honestly, Abby could have completely let go of the kid and Mack would have stayed securely in place up there until closing time.  I wasn’t even sure what to make of that visual, but Melissa felt it deserved a photo opp.

Paige had noodly arms in her practice session and the term made me snicker.  As she string beaned her way around the dance floor, Melissa headed down stairs to stir things up a little and figure out how to get Maddie’s picture taped back up over Sophia’s face.

After showing the girls a few pointers on how to dance their way past armed border patrol guards in the group number, Abby found Melissa out back in that half storage/half gift shop mess of a room.

Always more than happy to rock the boat, Abby asked Melissa what she thought about her daughter having to duet with crazy Jill‘s daughter…and Melissa was not happy.

Spoiler Alert: Those words were about to come back and bite her in the a**.  Trust me.

By the next day, Jill had begun to get wind of the fact that Melissa was not thrilled her rockstar daughter was stuck dancing with Jill’s roadie daughter.  Duets are like being downgraded on a flight.  Or fake Times Square Louis bags.  She even tried to put some pressure on Melissa up in the Perch, but Melissa did that YouSoCrazyGirl face she does when she gets caught in a lie or doesn’t want to talk about something and Jill let it go.

For now.

As everyone packed for the bus trip, Jill was itching for a fight and I was already popping my popcorn for another cowboy hat wearing, shoe throwing hoedown.  I secretly live for Jill’s meltdowns.

Finally, it was Showtime!

The DTI competition is one of those crazy ones with no stage.  Just bar mitvah flooring dropped onto the ballroom rug, and every time they do this I pray that housekeeping rolls across the dance floor during somebody’s routine with a cart full of fresh linens.

I thought maybe this time someone might pick up on the lemony fresh scent of Mack’s headpiece and enter stage left looking for supplies, but no such luck. I forgot it was plastic fruit.

Considering that it was a fake stage, it was fairly well lit, though probably half of the illumination was just reflecting off that one judge’s sparkly Ed Hardy hat.

Seriously.  Do people still wear those?

That hat was almost as distracting as Kelly’s new boobs.

Almost.

Ok.  Maybe they weren’t new.  But I don’t remember ever seeing them before.  Or at least not laid out like they were in her new JLo dress.  You could literally swipe an ATM card between those babies.

Well played, Mrs. Hyland.  Well played.  Mama still got it.  We get it.

Mackenzie made some serious lemonade out there as she backflipped and front flipped and got all Pucker Face for the crowd.  They ate it up.

Paige’s solo went well, too.  Abby actually thought she was wonderful, and I thought I was on the wrong channel.

And then we paused for a Jill Spaz.

You knew it was coming.  As Maddie and Kendall ran through their upcoming duet one mo’ time, Jill confronted Abby with a laundry list of issues, which were all tossed back in Jill and Melissa’s teary eyed faces.

Then Kendal cried because Mom was making it stressful.

Kendall cries a lot.  And Jill’s tops never fit very well, because even in the heat of the battle she always seems to be tugging on the shoulders or yanking at something.

Somehow Maddie and Kendall actually made it to the fake stage and did their thang.  It looked like they also split Sophia’s patented 54 spin routine between them, because there were certainly a lot of pirouettes going on up there.  Take that, Squeakie.

Then some kids won some stuff.

They all did really well, and Abby was a happy camper back in the makeup room.  But it didn’t last too long thanks to JillSpaz: The Sequel.

With Abby planted on some hotel throne like visiting royalty, Jill swatted at her with whatever came to mind until Abby finally got up and hit the road.

Jill was mad at Abby.  Abby was mad at Jill.  Jill was mad at Melissa.

Melissa was on her phone.  The usual.

Did she say that?  Did the other one really say that?

Somebody ain’t telling the truth.

Things that make you go Hmmmm…..