DanThat'sCool!

 

 

Sorry, Doc. I don’t really remember the accident, but when I came to my air bags were a little sore.

 

 

 

 

OMG. They’re like totally adorbz! Like little prison cell bars made out of candy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yeeesh.

 

 

 

 

 

True. Your head almost went through the windshield. But your equilibrium is off because those things are freakin’ out to here, honey.

 

 

 

Looks like you’re in luck, ma’am. These white orchids are in season, and this vase is bullet-proof.

 

 

 

 

Let the Bitch try and come after me. Have you seen her run? Those things are freakin’ out to heah.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s obvious, girls. The chambermaid did it. In the library. With a wine glass.

 

 

 

Ladies and Gentlemen…hide your buttah knives.

Carla Facciolo is back in the building.

That’s right.  After being noticeably MIA during last week’s episode, Love Majewski‘s arch nemesis has returned.  And just in time.

Word on the street was that Carla had been too busy talking s*** about Love to show up for any restaurant tapings lately.  But, of course, that is just alleged hearsay based on a random sampling of Love’s friends from each of the five Boroughs.

Carla says No.  Love says Yes.  Over.  And.  Over.

And you know what everyone else says.  Gossip is all fun and games until someone loses a big, dangly earring.

Love’s short Stab-A-Lover temper is the thing of legends.  Known to bring more than one grown man to tears, it is something that would normally only manifest itself in someone who was dropped on their head as a baby.

Or in Love’s case, hit by an 18 wheeler in their adult life.

As we tuned into MobBiz This Week, we found out that at some point in the past Love had suffered a traumatic head injury as a result of a freak automobile accident and that the injury may now be partially to blame for her noticeably short fuse.

Turns out that when her car was hit, she somehow flew out the window to safety, only to be hit a second time by a passing transport vehicle and its trailer full of whatever.

Wait.  What?  If this was a Warner Bros. cartoon, couldn’t you just picture Love being flattened like a piece of paper and becoming the inspiration for the invention of the Naked Mud Flap Girl?  You know…the one that you always see on the back of Costco trucks when they blow past you in a snowstorm and cover your windshield with two inches of brown slush on the one day you forget to refill the washer fluid.

But this is real life.  Sorta.  So instead of being pressed topless into vinyl like Silly Putty on the Sunday comics (…Google it, kids…) Love now suffers from some form of Post Traumatic Face On The Windshield or something.  I forget exactly what they called it.

And according to Dr. Igor Stiler, the physician she checked in with at the start of the episode, it could be a key piece of the puzzle as to why she is so irritable and short tempered.

Irritable and short tempered to the point where sometimes she doesn’t even know how she ends up back home in her own bed after a night of clubbing, wearing only one stiletto and clutching a fist full of bad Staten Island weave.

As Love relived a few violent blackout episodes where she came to just in time to find herself holding some poor drunk chick’s head in a toilet bowl, Dr. Igor scribbled what I believe were the words Help Me on his notepad and nervously adjusted his Kris Kringle eyeglasses.  And you wonder why he kept his door open the entire time.

Less traumatizing were the Arizona goodbye hugs as Karen and Ramona got ready to head back East.

Karen and Karina and Baby Daddy Dave had found some middle ground on the whole long distance parenting thang, though Karen still hoped to bring Karina back to SI at some point.  But for now, things were running a little smoother, though she had yet to figure out if Dave’s new girlfriend Rebecca was a cyborg or not.

Rebecca seemed nice enough, even though Karen had never actually seen the woman blink during a conversation.  But it was time to leave Sweet Home Arizona, so the Mystery of the BeccaBot would have to wait for another day.

There was a lot of Love Said/Carla Said action going on this week.  The first round was when Drita dropped by Carla’s place to rehash the gossip again and it was revealed that Carla had never actually met this Love person.

Carla knew ‘of her’ from the one month that Carla’s old boyfriend had been bangin’ her before he started bangin’ Carla.  But that was it.

Sloppy Seconds was their only connection.

Yeah.  The whole discussion was pretty much Klassy Like Dat.

Carla felt that Love was jealous of her, just like every other woman on Staten Island.

I know I was totally jealz of all those HomeGoods snowmen Santas that Carla had cluttering up every corner of the house.  Holy Seasonal Hoarder Fire Trap, Batman.

And then there was Jiton.  Girl, pleez.

Half Sicilian.  Half Black.  One Third Basketball Wives.  Two Thirds classic hip hop Vjay from back in the day.  And 100% sassy with no frizz or fly aways.

Renee‘s friend basically just fell right off one of the archive photos in the VH1 lobby and started running her own shoe store.  And now Renee wanted in on the action.

In the past they had tossed around ideas about creating a Graziano shoe line, but at the time Renee was in her Hot Mess Phase and footwear had to go on the back burner while she focused on sedatives and meltdowns.  But now that we’re talking the new and improved Renee 2.0, it was time to finally get MobCandy shoes up and running.

Jiton knew people who knew people, and was going to help Renee get started in the shoe biz.  Cuz there’s no business like shoe business, right?

Yeah…old joke.  But you still read it in Ethel Merman‘s voice, didn’t you?  Suckahs.

And speaking of putting on a shoe…or a show…

Ramona and her two little Ramonettes headed over to the Coral House Banquet Facility to start planning a potentially shotgun wedding.

Regardless of how everyone else on the East Coast felt about them moving forward with their nuptials, Ramona was determined to marry her incarcerated fiancé “Joe Boy” Sclafani.  Even if he can’t get that 7 day release from prison.

It’s not like the groom really has to show up, right?

Ramona and Joe Boy are clearly juggling a lot of What Ifs with this one, and nobody really knows how it will all play out by the summer.  If Joe Boy even gets approved for a release, it will only be with a 48 hour notice, which doesn’t really give anybody much time to thaw out the appetizers or make party favors, much less shine up your ankle monitor and press a tux.

Add to that a court ordered pair of armed guards and all those petty house arrest regulations, and it clearly doesn’t make for your typically faaaabulous David Tutera wedding extravaganza.

But Butch The Wedding Impresario (…no lie…his name…) ain’t no David Tutera.

He specializes in this kind of stuff.  Weddings and Security.  Don’t ask.  Just pick out your flowers and your place settings and nobody gets hurt.

It was like that.  And they did.  Even down to what color tablecloth was going under the lace overlay.  Blue.  Joe’s favorite color.  Just in case he actually shows up.

All that excitement called for some pizza, so Karen headed to her cousin Rena‘s joint for some pepperoni and cheese.  And our weekly Mob Wives Head Scratch Moment.

Two of them actually, if you want to count the fact that Tony’s Pizza still takes Discover.  Is that card still around or was that just an old sticker on the counter?  I can honestly say that I don’t know one person with a Discover card in their wallet.

Karen and Rena are pretty tight.  Which is oddly impressive considering that it was Rena’s Dad and Peter Gotti who travelled to Arizona all those years ago to try and kill Karen’s Dad Sammy “The Bull” Gravano.

You heard me.  Kill him.  Like with guns and exploding stuff.

And you thought your family was F***d up during the Holidays.

The whole killing your own family thing was a little out of my comfort zone, but Karen and Rena didn’t seem to have any problems getting past it.  They actually seemed a little more concerned about which topping was their favorite after all these years.

Anytime you feel like scratching your head is fine by me.  Whenever they cross that line into being irritated because someone got caught doing something ridiculously illegal and/or criminal and yet somehow the Feds are the Bad Guys, I just wait for the moment to pass.  Or for the judicial system to make crime legal and set all the Wise Guys free at once like when everyone escapes from Arkham Asylum in the Batman video game.

I just can’t.

I did like the cartoony tee shirts all the pizza guys were wearing, if that counts for anything after all that awkwardness.

Then all the Wives really started winging it.  As in Angel Wings.  Or AngelWingate, as CNN will soon refer to it on their screen crawls.

Carla was first.  She dropped by ex-Joe‘s Dad’s Day Spa for a quick buff.  The place was called Angel Skin.  Remember that for later.

Joe’s Dad used to be a highly respected Gyno kind of guy who actually saw Drita‘s junk when he delivered her two babies, so when he retired from all those lady parts he decided it would be nice to tighten everyone up above the neck for a change.

So Dad opened up his own Day Spa.

That’s about all that really mattered in that scene.  Hope you paid attention and noticed the upside down Angel Wings on the store window, because there’ll be a test at the end.

Next up, it was Drita and Love’s turn to wing it.

They barely had time to sit down at a nail salon before Love started in on some more Carla bashing, letting Drita know that Carla had somehow stolen the wings from Love’s wrist tattoo and given them to Joe’s Dad for his spa windows.  Bitch.

See how it’s all coming together?  The Circle of Life.

Turns out that Love had personally designed her tattoo, so it was clear that Carla had stolen the wings, right?  Because they looked exactly the same, and they were clearly right up there on the spa window and business cards.  Even though Carla was already on record as saying that she had never met Love, much less snooped around her wrists trying to steal an apparently copyrighted doodle.

Plus I’m pretty sure that Victoria’s Secret and the Bible were using angel wings long before Love even thought about hitting up a tattoo parlor.  But whatev.

But Love swore that Carla stole her wings.  And Love’s still got a serious case of windshield head, so I’m not messing with her right now.

And then randomly, Renee and AJ went rock wall climbing.  That’s really all I have to say on the matter, except for mentioning that Renee kind of looked like a backwards 1960′s Batman when she was trying to walk down the wall on a rope.

Three Batman references in one blog post.  A new record.  Now I’m done.

Renee had to hurry and get down off that thing so she could go meet Jiton again and check out the progress on MobCandy.

Who knew that Elton John and Liberace were Jiton’s shoe designers?

Just.  Whoa.  Sparkles and stilts and feathers and crystals and chandelier dingles and something on the toes that looked like you stuck the front of your shoe in a container of 14K gold Ben & Jerry ice cream jimmies.

The screw-on/screw-off spike heel was a nice touch, too.  Just in case you lose your ice pick and need to make someone pay back a racing bet.

Gah.  I love me some Mob Wives.

The only way to finish off the evening was with some wine.  Wines by Wives, actually.  A holiday wine tasting event with a logo that looked exactly like a TV Guide ad for the old That Girl show.

And what are the chances that Carla would join the one wine club that hosts all their events at the mansion pictured on the box cover of the Clue board game?

Seriously.  Did you see that place?  I was waiting for some hysterical maid to run in at any moment, screaming that someone had just found Colonel Mustard’s dead body in the conservatory.  And a wrench was missing from the tool shed.

Wine, anyone?

As Big Ang and Drita got tastefully liquored up, the whole AngelWingate controversy broke and Carla flipped a major nutty.  And swore.  A lot.

Carla wasn’t scared of Love.  Bring it on.  You come for me?  I’ll come for you.

And a Mob Wives holiday classic was born.

Every time Carla swears, a Day Spa gets its wings.

 

 

Mommy don’t likes to talk about fighting. Or Grammar. Gimme dat book.

 

 

 

Men are pigs. Lying pigs. Cheatin’, lying pigs I tell yous.

 

 

 

 

And dogs. Cheatin’, lyin’ pigs and dogs. (Bleepin’) hairy ones.

 

 

 

With tattoos. Hairy cheatin’, lyin’ pigs and dogs with (bleepin’) tattoos.

 

 

 

I ain’t gonna lie. I’m pretty (bleepin’) turned on right now.

 

 

 

So there are a couple of things I have learned over the years that have served me quite well in my lifetime.

Don’t run with scissors.

Don’t eat paste, unless it’s the really chunky cottage cheesy Elmer’s in the round jug with the brush attached to the lid.

Don’t ever stick your finger in a light socket.

Don’t ever blow dry your hair in the bathtub unless it’s Prom Night and you’re running late.

And whatever you do…never cheat on any of the Mob Wives.

Ever.

Seriously.

You’d be better off gambling your life away with a random combination of the above pointers than dissing the Wives, as we all just witnessed in this week’s episode.

The Wives took a little breather from all the Inner Circle drama to focus their attentions on Man Bashing, and their wasn’t one Mafia Ape who made it out alive without a few bruises.

You knew the men didn’t stand a chance when we started out with Drita and her Mission to Not Fight Tour at the local boxing ring.

That’s not a typo.

Drita is trying not to fight so much.  She is working on turning over a new leaf in an effort to be a better role model for her daughter.  But just in case she ever does have to go another rooftop round or two, she wanted to make sure she could completely knock the (bleep) out her opponent instead of simply yanking an extension or two from their skull.  So she got herself a trainer at Evolution.

And you know that any joint with a wall logo scripted in the same font used on rocker tee shirts and tramp stamps has to be bad a**.

As Drita wailed on her trainer’s focus pad like it was Karen’s face, we got a little backstory about the first time she beat up a Dbag boy.  It was in kindergarten.

Yeah.  Kindergarten.

At the age when most girls were still wearing Disney Princess onesies to bed, it seems our Little Drita was already giving bloody noses to any boy who wouldn’t share his Elmer’s.

Let that be a lesson to anyone trying to hog the good stuff while making those construction paper chains for your Christmas tree.

Now that they are Big Girls and no longer eat paste, at least in public, Karen and Ramona hit up one of their old stomping grounds for what I like to call Snack & Smack.

Have some snacks.  Talk some smack.

Put it on a tee shirt if you want, but I get half the profits.  I thought of it.

Ramona is still not a big Carla fan, even though they superficially made up last week and agreed to disagree on the whole “Drita Said…” thing.

Ramona is like one of those bottle rockets that you light, and the fuse catches on fire but then it never goes off.  Even though it’s burning and nothing is happening, you don’t dare get any closer.  So you just quiver with one hand over your face the whole time and wonder when the thing is going to pop off.

She’s like that.

Plus she constantly does that tongue thing where I can’t tell if she is trying to get lipstick off her blindingly white teeth, or simply licking the blood of her last victim off her gums.  I can’t be the only one who notices.  Check it out on Hulu.  I think I really like her, but she spooks me so much I can’t tell for sure.

Ramona is totally going to nail Carla at some point, but I don’t know when.  But it’s coming.

While Ramona was tonguing her White Strips, Carla and Drita met up for their own S&S.

Carla, who I swear could do the poor man’s Cher Cabaret down at the Staten Island Community Theatre, wanted to let Drita know about her lunch with Ramona.  She doesn’t really look like Cher, at least not in too much of a RuPaul kind of way.  But there’s something about her ginormous earrings, fur accented jungle prints and cut out sleeves that make me miss Sonny Bono and Chaz when he wasn’t Chaz.

While Drita called Ramona a “manipulator” over and over and wore a big hippy hat, Cher ate pasta and sang Half breed.  It was a total flashback moment.

Like any good hippy flashback, when you wake up you’re usually peeing on the floor somewhere.  And sure enough…God’s Gift to Reality TV Big Ang and her newbie fuzzy puppy Louie were takin’ care of their bidnezz right there at the Doggie Boutique.

I love me some Mob Wives.

But I looooooooove me some Big Ang.

And so does everyone else, according to Big Ang.  How could they not?

After years of receiving wads of cash, houses, clothes, cars, boobs and at least one set of injected lips from every eligible Wise Guy on the East Coast, Big Ang has recently gotten back into the dating scene.  This time around though, it’s been a pool full of weirdos and the recently paroled.

But at least she got a redoinkulously cute puppy out of the deal, and Baby needed some gear.

After a mini fashion show of top hats and gangstah hoodies, Big Ang and Louie are Red Carpet Ready.  Too bad he kept peeing on it.

And speaking of nervous pee…in preparation for the release of her Mob book and press tour, Karen met up with her Media Consultant Patricia to get some pointers on not flipping out at every interview when they diss her father.

The scene was pretty uneventful.  At least until poor Patricia asked if there were any Hot Points that may come up in interviews that could potentially set Karen off into orbit.

Karen casually mentioned that…umm…well…maybe her father kinda sorta murdered 19 people and…well…check it out in reruns.

Patricia basically swallowed her gum and then slowly…verrrrrry slowly…slid her hands off the desk and into her lap, where I assume she either pressed one of those bank robbery panic buttons, or was fumbling in her purse for some unlicensed Mace.

Either way.  Classic television.  Right up there with the finale of M*A*S*H.

If someone had shot the helicopter down, I mean.

Anyway.

Moving from awkward to exceptionally awkward, Renee had somehow managed to coerce Junior into Couples Therapy at that odd double/triple decker looking house where her therapist Mikey works.  In my head I always think that therapists work out of hospitals, not multi family homes with a two chair salon on the first floor, but I guess I would know better if I ever kept one of my appointments.

As Junior and his crazy cool soap opera scar sunk deeper and deeper into the couch, the world’s worst dressed therapist tossed out a few questions.

Seriously, this kid is probably 20 years old maybe?  Dude dresses like he just wrapped a game of pick-up basketball down behind the Y and forgot his gym bag at home.  I couldn’t tell which sweat spots were from the hoops and which were from Junior staring him down.

Basically Junior didn’t stand a chance as he started reliving their courtship, and the whole thing spiraled out of control to the point where I expected Mikey to burn some rubber in those untied Adidas and just bolt down the stairs.

In what has to go down as one of the most uncomfortably creepy moments in recent television history, Renee called out Junior for finally allowing her to be face up during their…umm…knocking of the boots, as they say in all those rap songs kids listen to nowadays.

Yeah.  Doing the nasty.  And finally not face down after all these years.

Turns out Junior only recently allowed her to flip the R-burger over on the grill because she was finally skinny enough to look at during the Grind.

At that point, I literally put on my own Adidas and ran out of my own house into traffic.

By the time I caught my breath and came back inside, Junior had already gone into some comatose, vegetative state and was refusing to talk.  He looked like that robot in Lost in Space whenever someone pulled out his battery pack and his Slinky arms went numb.

Like that.  But with a scar, and a nagging ex-wife.

If he knew what was good for him, Mikey should have joined Louie at the Doggie Park and they both could have run around in circles to burn off some stress.

Wearing their best strip mall Jlo sweats, Big Ang and Drita took Baby Louie out for a little squirt and some more Man Bashing.

Big Ang was styling in some majorly oversized Carol Channing paparazzi shades and a velour number that had to have been held together with the same powerful metal they use on those stunt man Zip Lines.  How that poor little zipper contained all of Big Ang’s Big Angishness is a mystery to me, and probably to modern technology.  I have no clue where she kept her smokes in that outfit.

Gah.  I love me some Big Ang.

For a quick Family Moment, Drita was trying to help out her daughter Aleeya with some kind of school looking homework, when Aleeya asked Mom if she had ever been in a fight.

Seriously, kid?

Do you not own a TV?

Drita fumbled her way around one of the school books, basically holding it upside down and praying for a miracle, when the phone rang.  Saved by the bell.

It was Lee calling from the Big House, and he was pretty gosh darn nice this time around.

He basically confessed to his cheating misdeeds and tried to get back on her good side, which messed with Drita’s head even more than the long division problems that Aleeya had handed just her.

The rest of the episode was Man Bashing Super-sized.

Ramona had to take her 4 kids to the park and let them know that her boyfriend (bleep) was in jail.  (Why won’t they say his name?!  This is just Google torture.)  The kids basically sat on the grass looking bummed, but I think it was because they thought they were going for ice cream and Mom pulled a downer.  She also told the kids to pray to God when one of them asked her about bail.

Pray to God for bail money?  Does that work with rent, too?  Sweet.

Karen got on her cell with her ex-boyfriend David and immediately went a few rounds regarding who was going to take care of their daughter and why Karen had bailed and gone back to Staten Island, leaving him fresh out of prison with a kid to feed.

David (bleeped) her out a few times and said he was “still the same G!”

G?  Geoffrey the butler from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air?  Shut up.  Will Smith always called him G.  I knew I recognized that voice.

To finish off the week, Drita, Carla and Renee sat around the kitchen and…you guessed it…Man Bashed like they were on The View.  The Staten Island local cable access one.

It was a crash course in cheating men and prison dads and pregnant strippers and enough (bleepity bleeps) to guarantee that at least one of their kids can now go to college on the Swear Jar scholarship change alone.

Oh.  And Renee started to have another breakdown.

Men are pigs.

(Bleepin’) pigs.

Except me.

Duh.