The Real Housewives Of Atlanta: Girl, You Better Hold On To Your Weaves, Because It’s The Thrilla In Anguilla.


The Housewivus Atlantaris species often orally signals their mate that it is time to get busy.



Often the male of the species nervously contemplates abandoning the aggressor female when no one is paying attention.



When in heat, the larger Housewivus Atlantaris reverses direction, backing dat thang up to confuse their prey.



Both the male and female Atlantaris like big butts and they can not lie.



When distracted, the male of the species can sometimes become wedged between boulders.



The male Atlantaris is capable of lifting over 3x its own weight. And that’s not counting any rachet weave.





Math is hard.




Pack yo’ bags and pat yo’ weaves.

We’re going to the beach, Girlfriend.

Apparently, The Real Housewives of Atlanta aren’t wasting any time this season when it comes to drama or travel plans.  And after last week’s throw down with Kim Zolciak, they could probably all use a vacation.  I know I could.  

And nothing takes the edge off of driving a co-star out of a restaurant and into her own spin-off series like a trip to Anguilla, right?

But before the Wives and ManWives could head to the pristine booty poppin’ beaches of the Caribbean, we had to finish up where we left off last time.

Kim’s final RHOA scene.  And it was enough to knock your wig off, so you might want to clip that thing down a little tighter.

As you will recall, Kim had just bolted from the table, where everyone had gathered to finalize the travel plans.   After changing both her mind and her due date at least four times (…Kim apparently uses the same 265 day calendar that Porsha referenced last week…)  she and NeNe went another round or two before Kim finally had had enough of the dramzzz and waddled out of the restaurant.

Yeah.  Being preggo definitely takes some of the oomph out of a dramatic exit, but I’ll give her credit for trying.  She was done.  For good.

In what appeared to be an homage to VH1’s Mob Wives, there was screaming and (bleeping) and microphone booms in the shot as everything collapsed into Reality Gold outside on the curb.  There was even some serious shoving of Bravo’s expensive equipment as Kroy went all Roid Rage, dropping F-bombs in an effort to protect Kim from the cameras like a caveman would do if a wooly mammoth was bearing down on his woman.

Must.  Swear.  And.  Kill.  And.  Threaten.  With.  Lawsuit. 

Finally, after some random off-screen producer yelled at him to get his hands off their s*** and get Kim the heck outta Dodge, they both squealed off into the horizon.

Never to be heard from again.  At least this week.  On this show.

And at least until Don’t Be Tardy For Whatever It’s Gonna Be Called premieres.

Somewhere out there tonight, Big Poppa is smiling a big smile.  Tag.  You’re it.  She’s someone else’s problem now.

While Kroy was blowing an NFL-sized nutty outside, the girls were all inside making fun of Kim and her seemingly endless supply of excuses.  NeNe even spontaneously busted out into a song about Excuses right there at the table.  For realz.

Because she’s very rich.  And she’s on Glee now.

And that’s kind of their thing.

Next we paused, for what I like to call A Minute With Momma Joyce.  Because Momma don’t play.

Over at Kandi’s empty cavern of a new home, Momma was dispensing her usual pearls of wisdom as they dissed All Things Kim.

Who works their schedule around a Nanny?  MmmMmm.  Who has her own mother taken out of a wedding reception in cuffs?  Oooh, Girl.  The way she done her Momma.

I could literally listen to a Momma Joyce book on tape in the car and never even realize I missed my exit ramp.  Love me some MJ.

Not feeling the love however, was Cynthia.  At least when it came to Coochie Crackphobe Kenya.

As she and Peter met up with newbie Porsha for a little nosh, Cynthia was still having a hard time getting over how disrespectful the former Miss USA (…not Miss America, thank you…) had been at the Bailey Agency during their recent casting call.

And once Porsha recapped her own interaction with Kenya at the Hosea Williams fundraiser, it didn’t take Cynthia long to do the math and realize that inviting Porsha along on their upcoming trip was guaranteed to push all of Kenya’s buttons.  And that sounded kinda fun.  And there’s always room for another hater, don’t you know.

So get your passport, girlie.  You’re going to Anguilla.  And bring that hunky football player husband of yours if he ain’t busy, because it looks like Peter is already working up a pretty uncomfortable ManCrush on that beefy Kordell “Slash” Stewart.

You might want to keep an eye on yo’ man, Cindy.  Peter was positively giddy at the prospect of a former NFL dude sharing the hot tub when they all got to the Caribbean.  If it hadn’t been for bad cell service at the restaurant, I’m pretty sure the dude would have pulled out his Hello Kitty Sidekick and OMG’d all his BFFs.

Since Peter couldn’t wait another minute to fist pump with Kordell, it was time to head to the airport.

With her husband tripping all over himself reciting every NFL stat he had memorized the night before, Cynthia hung with the girls as everyone pulled up to the Loading Zone with their excessive collection of luggage.  How many bathing suits does one person need on a trip, you ask?  Don’t ask.

Even Kandi’s new beau Todd made the flight on time after originally bailing  on the trip, and she was so surprised I was afraid she was going to pop a Kegel and put someone’s eye out before the plane even left the tarmac.

As soon as Kenya made her entrance, all shrink wrapped in yet another booty hugging dress, it was clear that she wouldn’t be sharing a room with Porsha anytime soon.  Especially since she couldn’t see her.  Or at least that’s what she pretended as she walked past Porsha like I do when someone on the sidewalk asks if I have five minutes to Save The Planet and I’ve only got enough cash on me for Starbucks.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m no fan of global warming.  But trust me…the world is also a much better place when I’ve got some caffeine in my system.

Finally everyone piled onto the plane, grabbed a cocktail and pushed their faces way too close to the FlipCam lens as Kandi recorded their journey for posterity.  Between dental records and downloaded video files, someone should be able to identify the bodies by the time this mess was over.

Seriously.  Housewives on Road Trips are like little kids who keep touching a hot stove.

You know someone is going to get burned, but everyone still keeps going back for another poke.

As the plane hit cruising altitude, the only thing louder than the cabin pressure warning signal was the ticking of Kenya’s biological clock.

Girlfriend needs a diamond.  And a baby.  And a root touch up.

And not necessarily in that order.

From the flight to the van ride to their arrival at Ani Villas, all Kenya talked about was getting married and popping out little Junior Miss contestants.  So much so that poor Walter ended up with that kind of thick upper lip sweat that people always get in gangster movies when they’re held captive in a coffee warehouse.  Dude hadn’t blinked once since Atlanta.

The only time she really stopped squawking about putting a ring on it was when she commandeered the wheel of their small transport boat and gunned it so fast that Cynthia’s boob popped out of her dress.  That delightfully unexpected visual was also probably the only thing that kept Walter from throwing himself overboard.

Once Cynthia tucked her stuff back into her dress and everyone clipped a few tracks back in place, they all checked out their Caribbean accommodations to varying degrees of approval.

For a simple little Reality TV blogger, the place looked pretty sweet.  My floaties and plastic snorkel would have no problem spending a week or two in any of those rooms.  But to Kenya and her delusions of pageant princess royalty, her suite was unacceptable.

So much so that she even had a bit of a 6 year old Toddlers & Tiaras hissy and laid on the bed with her face smothered in a pillow while Walter tried to decide if he could make the whole thing look like an accident and then seek asylum in Anguilla.

Dude doesn’t stand a chance.  Run like the wind and don’t look back.

After unpacking and discussing the pros and cons of hot tub Clorox in your Honey Pot, Phaedra and Apollo joined everyone down by the pool to unwind.  But unfortunately, Miss Universe had other plans.

It has already been well documented that Kenya thinks Apollo is one fine piece of a**, so as soon as she got an eyeful of his American Eagle board shorts it was Game On.

Splash.  Kenya pushed Apollo in the pool.  Because she saw that on MTV ‘s Real World, and it looked fun.  At least when wasted 20 year olds did it.

Scrunch.  PhaedraFace activated.  She and Momma Joyce don’t play.  Keep yo’ hands of my man.

Splash.  Soaking wet Apollo retaliated by picking up Kenya like a caveman picks up a side of raw T-Rex meat and dumped her in the pool.

Scrunch.  PhaedraFace overload.  It was time to release the nukes.

And that she did.  The next morning.  At breakfast.  And they were all covered in fishnet.

Wearing nothing by a black thong bikini under some loosely crocheted stripper yarn, Phaedra showed Kenya how the big booty girls do it when someone else moves in on their turf.  She brought her milkshake to the yard, bitch.  Hands off.

I know you’ve seen those stories on the Discovery Channel about dolphins caught in tuna nets.  It was like that.  Except they were genetically enhanced dolphins.  Or dolphins that swam too close to a nuclear plant and now had mutated donkey booty super powers.

Damn.  Baby got Back.

If you don’t own a widescreen plasma, you missed the best part.

After a few iPhone photos of all that badonk, it was time to split up and discover what Anguilla had to offer.

Kandi and Todd slammed down a few cocktails that sounded like something a porno director would yell into a megaphone while Kenya and Walter talked marriage and babies.  Again.

The rest of them must have either gone to their rooms to knock boots or were too boring to film, because we never did find out where they went during the day.  But by dinner, everyone was back together again just in time for some entertainment.

To thank Peter for arranging the trip, Phaedra had tracked down some Caribbean cheerleader dancer types who busted out a little island dance…Rihanna style.

Complete with white umbrella ella ellas.

The whole thing was so jammin’ that it even inspired NeNe to relive her stripper days and show them all how it’s done.  Divas to the dance floor.

Girl, pleez.  She may be very rich, but she can still pick up a dollar bill like a Dyson picks up a bowling ball on that infomercial.

Next thing you knew, Kenya and Cynthia were bumpin’ and grindin’ up against Peter so hard I was afraid he might break a hip.  It was like backing a car up into a guard rail without even looking.  He’s no spring chicken, girls.  Check your rear view.

By the time NeNe showed Kenya how to do a lap dance I thought we might lose Walter.

The Housewives have arrived.

Hello, Anguilla.

Buh bye, Kim.

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