The Real Housewives Of Atlanta: Girl, It Don’t Take A Donkologist To Get My Title Right. You Can Call Me Miss USA And Feel Free To Turn Down The A/C.

 

Forget Kordell. You sure it wasn’t Miss Porsha who took a few NFL blows to the head? Cray Cray.

 

 

I just came outside cuz you’re being a disrespectful bitch and your chicken’s getting cold.

 

 

 

Just your weekly reminder that I’m Rich, Bitch. Cheers.

 

 

 

We should swap bags and dresses and then go back inside. That’ll F*** with her head.

 

 

 

I don’t care if she’s Miss America or Captain America. That old bitch is…like…a total bitch.

 

Girl, pleez.

Who knew that one yellow MetroCard could take you on a subway ride all the way from 49th Street to CrazyTown and still get you home in time to nearly set the Civil Rights Movement back about fifty years?

And that’s with a transfer at Donkey Bootyville and a stop for some preventative maintenance on those loose tracks.

Oh snap.  Yes…those tracks.

Check your Chinese Fertility Calendars, Miss Thang…because it must be time for another episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta.

It’s clear that everyone at Bravo is worried that if NeNe Leakes gets any Richer, Bitcher she’s gonna jump ship and leave them hanging, because they certainly worked overtime this summer to pick up a couple of new loose cannons to keep the magic alive.

Having Kim Zolciak already relegated to baby making and aimless, cuss-filled walk-ons was probably another red flag for the Watch What Happens Live bartender boyz that it was time to mix things up a little bit.

And we all know that nothing shakes up a Reality Cocktail like some seriously fierce black women all up in each other’s face.  Mmmkay?

Don’t get me wrong.  It’s still The NeNe Show.  For now.

But sooner or later, filming a little piece of video in Atlanta is going to conflict with erecting a giant NeNe face in Times Square, so it’s good to have a few spare crazies in the trunk just in case.

This week, NeNe took her money and her horny ex-husband Gregg for pedicures, champagne and a few sassy stereotypes.

Actually, now that you mention it…the whole episode was ripe with all the classic Real Housewives stereotyping that we’ve grown to love, and Gregg let the first one rip by complaining that his foot bath was hot enuff to boil some chicken.

MmmMmm.  Tasty.

In the never ending battle to creep his way back into both NeNe’s heart and Booty Boudoir, Gregg tried unsuccessfully to scam a house key before she headed to New York City for an NBC press junket.

While she was off promoting The New Normal and sending Bloomingdale’s stock to a new record high, Gregg hoped to use the premise of checking in on their son as a way to move his stuff back into the closets.  But NeNe wasn’t having it.

The offer to set up his office in Los Angeles while she filmed the sitcom couldn’t sway her decision.  Or handing over the keys to his own bachelor pad.  NeNe likes money and mind games.  In that order.  So Gregg didn’t stand a chance.

Even when Miss Lawrence sashayed into the spa all dramatically Louis belted and Chanel bagged and blue manicured up, NeNe remained focused on…well…NeNe.

Because she has arrived.  Don’t you get that by now?

And speaking of getting some…

As Gregg took it upon himself to seductively lube up NeNe’s feet with a fist full of warm spa squirt, almost causing Miss Lawrence to rush outside for some air and a cigarette, Phaedra and Apollo were back home sniffing after each other in the kitchen.

Apollo had just finished his Personal Training/Nutrition Specialist certifications, and was ready to help Phaedra create her new Donkey Booty workout video.

Because you know Girlfriend likes her Badonk.  And my Badonk.  And the girl behind the counter at Wendy’s Badonk.  Pretty much just Badonk in general.

MmmMmm.  Tasty.

And now with a new video venture, Phaedra was primed to create an army of big butted soldiers to take over the world.  She’s kinda like the Oprah of Badonks.

“YOU get a Donkey Booty!  And YOU get a Donkey Booty!  And YOU get a Donkey Booty!  You ALL get Donkey Booties!  Lawd have mercy!”

After a brief history lesson from Apollo on Brazilian butts vs. Black butts, Phaedra gave us a few more Real Housewives Stereotypes (…RHS from now on…too much typing…) and explained that Black Women don’t like working out or sweating in their weaves, so the Donkey Booty Workout needed to be quick and humidity-free.

This show is so wrong sometimes that it’s almost right.  Love.  Her.

Not to be outdone by Apollo, Phaedra also proudly presented her degree as a Donkologist and I immediately registered for an online Learning Annex class.

While Dr. Donk was cupping her namesakes like two organic melons from Whole Foods, Kim was back home sitting on hers.  Again.

Kim swore and cussed out her former landlord over the eviction notice while threatening to have Sweetie go out in the fields (…borderline RHS…) and pull $40,000 worth of landscaping out of the ground with her bare hands.

Kroy played with that little bug eyed teddy bear/puppy that never seems to blink and just let Kim ramble on until she got sleepy.  Sweetie rolled her eyes and then left to go eat pizza and listen to her iPod.

And then all that was over.  You didn’t miss much.

But don’t worry.  It was about to get good.

Ladies & Gentlemen…I give you Porsha Stewart.

Granddaughter of Civil Rights leader Rev. Hosea Williams and wife to former NFL player Kordell Stewart, Porsha was born and raised into a privileged family.

And by ‘privileged’ I mean she can name every designer who showed at Fashion Week but can’t plug in a vacuum.

Yeah.  Miss Porsha puts the E in Entitled.

And from what we witnessed this week…probably the K in Krazy.

When Porsha is not busy buying things or doing whatever it is that people with no job and four maids and a nanny do, she likes to help out with the Hosea Williams Foundation and raise money to feed Atlanta’s homeless.  And she was hoping that former Miss USA Kenya Moore might be willing to swing by her next event.

As we’ve already learned in the last two weeks, all you have to do is ring the Miss USA bell and Kenya comes running with her tongue hanging out.  I swear she mentions her title almost as often as Robin Antin pimps out the Pussycat Dolls.  Enough.  We get it.

Meeting for the first time over tasty salads, Miss USA and Mrs. Stewart were attempting to discuss the upcoming powerful Atlanta ladies-only fundraiser when the Porsha bus took an off ramp and swerved into oncoming SpazTraffic.

Ramble much?

Porsha reminds me of those spoiled young girls from rich suburbs who have to work at Gap during holiday breaks from private school because their parents think it will teach them responsibility and get them out of the house even though OMG they would never be caught dead in Gap clothes and they never do any work anyways and keep their Burberry iPhone under the cash wrap and text when they think nobody is looking and talk and talk and talk in run-on sentences even when the manager is trying to follow progressive discipline procedures until you want to just bitch slap them but people are looking and their Dad is a lawyer.

That kind of run-on sentence.

What started out as a way to raise money to feed people in need ended up as a discussion on Kenya’s ticking biological clock, Porsha’s time frame for marriage/babies, the Art of Asian Fertility and a request for Kenya to wear her tiara and satchel at no charge and walk around the party doing a parade wave.

Yeah.  Satchel.

Porsha also couldn’t remember the word for ‘Recession.’

But her life is the s*** people.  Love me some entitled crazy.

Kenya just shook her head and agreed to show up for the event without any sparkly Toddlers & Tiaras Outfit of Choice.  Cuz that costs extra, you NutWad.

Across town in her old home, Kandi had a whopping one scene this week as she and Aunt Sue tried to pack up all her belongings before the new tenant came to sign the lease.  It was basically an opportunity for us to ogle Kandi’s Grammy trophy and to hear Uncle Robert let go a few stereotypically inappropriate comments about a jungle herb that’s guaranteed to raise your baby making flag for 30 days even if there is no wind in your pants.

And we finally learned what a Hump Strap was.  Tell me her family is not a hoot.

As if that wasn’t enough comedy relief, we took the MTA to NeNe City and found Cynthia attempting to show the Rich One how to work the subway like the common folks do when their Town Cars aren’t available.

Turns out that NeNe had never taken advantage of Mass Transit or street vendors, and since Cynthia was in town for a modeling gig, she took it upon herself to show our girl how to swipe a MetroCard and slam a weenie in two bites.

Considering that a Bravo camera crew was following them around town the entire time and she was hobbling around on studded Louboutins, it wasn’t as though NeNe really experienced the full flavor of the underground railroad or the foot long (…potential RHS…) but it was a nice break from Porsha’s babbling and gave my ears time to stop ringing.

Finally it was time for the Hosea Williams Foundation fundraiser.

And the drama.

Kenya showed up with her BFF Kanya.  Not to be confused with Kenya.  I know.

From what I could tell without actually seeing the invites, the gathering of Atlanta’s Most Powerful Women basically amounted to a gathering of the 30 people who couldn’t make it to Cynthia’s Most Powerful Women event last week.

Kenya was not amused.  Granted, her chilly behavior could have been the sub zero A/C unit that was blasting in enough cold air to keep the ice sculptures from melting, but I’m thinking that most of her bad attitude stemmed from Porsha mistakenly introducing her as Miss America over the intercom system.

Oh.  Hell.  No.

Oh.  Hell.  Yes.

As Kenya was quick to point out, her title as Miss USA is an important part of history now and should be recognized as such.  Ooooh…she was pissed.  It’s an event that shaped our future much like an overseas conflict, or an elected president, or Pam Ewing waking up and finding Bobby still alive in the shower.

(Google it, kids.  I really don’t have the energy to explain.)

As Kenya texted Miss Lawrence to find out where the hell she was, Kordell entered the venue to what I believe was the theme from Shaft and presented Porsha with an expensive Chanel bag from Saks.

Couldn’t even wrap it, dude?  Nice shopping bag.  Kenya was not amused.

Granted, he stuck a check in there as well.  But, one…it’s a ladies-only event.  And, two…that Chanel would have bought a lot of mac & cheese for those homeless people on the poster.  Just saying.

I hope someone with Photoshop makes a bunch of internet video GIFs of that nameless girl at the table who kept getting all OhNoSheDin’t as tensions began escalating.  I have no clue who she was, but Girlfriend was shaking her head and making faces like it was her day job.

Between the drop in temperature, Porsha’s face and Miss OhNoSheDin’t doing her thing, Kenya had finally had enough and bolted from the table and headed outside with Kanya.

By the time Miss Lawrence showed up in yet another one of his bats*** crazy boy dresses clutching a fringed purse, Kenya was ready to blow.

With Kanya standing close by (…how perfect would it have been if Kim and Kanye had also been at the same event?  I mean, c’mon.  That is HIGH-larious…) they were just about to exit stage left when Porsha came looking to give Miss America a piece of her mind.

Right about now was when we got our first glimpse at the torch potentially being passed from NeNe and Shereè to these two newbies.

It was no “Who you gonna check, Boo?” or “Fix your face”, but they’re new.

Cut them some slack.  They can still throw down.

And they did.

Disrespectful.  Aging Beauty Queen from 19-whatevah?  This is whacked.  On the curb where you should be.  Google Me.

Oh, yeah.  It was on.

And it doesn’t take a Donkologist to figure out that one of these booty bitches is going down hard this season.

Stay tuned, mmmkay?

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