Posts Tagged ‘Reality TV Recap’

The Real Housewives Of Atlanta: Girl, Pleez. I Know You Did Not Just Butt Dial Me. Kim And Phaedra Pack Up…And Back Up…All Their Junk.

Monday, November 26th, 2012

 

I know my coochie crack can pick up cable transmissions, but I don’t recall any donkey dialing.

 

 

Seriously. Listen. It sounds like she’s holding one of those giant bean bag cushions over the receiver.

 

 

I don’t have time to pack. It’s not like those (bleepin’) donuts are gonna (bleepin’) eat themselves, bitch.

 

 

I think Miss USA gets a crown and Miss America is the one with super powers, right?

 

 

 

Please. With an a** like that she could dial the Kremlin and not know it. Heffer.

 

 

 

Hold up, girl. I think I’m getting a Tweet down there right now. MmmMmm.

 

 

Close your legs to high cell phone bills and roll-over minutes, bitch.

If you’re gonna back all dat up, you better make sure you’ve got an unlimited data plan and a fully charged battery, because Donkey Booty don’t play when it comes to reaching out and touching somebody.  Just ask Phaedra.

Yeah.  I like big butts, and I cannot lie.

But apparently the women attached to those sturdy bottoms sometimes can, as we found out this week when Doctor of Donkology Phaedra Parks used up a few of her AT&T minutes by unknowingly talking a little smack after sitting on her Blackberry.

Stay tuned for all that dramzzz.  First things first.

It was Moving Day on The Real Housewives of Atlanta as Kim cussed and cursed her way out of the Biermann Dream House and back into last year’s townhouse, all thanks to a Twitter War with landlord/decorator/twatter Kendra.

There are a lot of versions out there as to what exactly went down between Kim and Kendra since the Don’t Be Tardy For The Party wedding.  Everyone is talking shizzle about each other, usually in 140 characters or less, so it’s hard to really know all the deets with so much gossipy goodness out there to digest.

According to the magazine at CVS (…hey…the line was really long…) Kim and Kroy either refused to pay rent by the first of the month, or Kendra evicted them, or Kim made a decision to move out while Kroy was wolfing down another mouthful of cereal or pizza, or some other excuse.  I basically just looked at the picture captions.

So we’ll probably never know.  But whatever it was, they pretty much had to move out by yesterday.  So it was a little chaotic, to say the least.  Kim was freaking out.

(Bleepin’) freaking out.

And suddenly the Dream House was also haunted.

I know, right?  Because Indian burial ground poltergeists lurking around your Wig Room sounds way cooler than admitting that you just got evicted.  And way more believable.

As Kim scuffed around the house in her Ugg slippers, swearing and rubbing her preggo belly in the same creepy way that the Wicked Witch always palmed that over-sized crystal ball full of Flying Monkeys, Kroy fueled the Machine with another fistful of pepperoni and basically just sat their while she whipped him.  Dude does love to eat.

Right on cue, his little bulldog puppy waddled by wearing one of those velcro cone collars that you have to wear until the stitches on your missing niblets dissolve, and for a moment I wondered if he had chewed them off himself.

The dog.  Not Kroy.

But since you mentioned it, what do you want to bet that Kroy and the puppy have to share that cone, if you know what I mean?  Snip.

Baby KJ, who totally looks as though he belongs on a 1950’s sitcom with all that slicked back Little Ricky hair and those Beanie Baby eyeballs, just sat back in his highchair trying to learn as many new swear words as he could while Kim (bleepin’) melted down.

Luckily his baby arms were too stubby to reach the carton of cigarettes on the counter, so at least temporarily, KJ was saved from one of Kim’s vices.

Hey, lady.  I pooped my diaper and I’m (bleepin’) freaking out over here, dammit.  Clean this up and bring me a menthol, Sweetie.

As everyone tried to figure out what to do next, Kandi and Momma Joyce were across town in their own pile of boxes.

Moving into her own new home, Kandi was beginning to realize that Momma’s plan all along was to also move her stuff into an upstairs bedroom.  Joyce was the one who originally found the house while it was still on the market, and it appeared that short term payback included her own parking space.

Kandi managed to pretty smoothly avoid the topic by dissing Kim’s delusional grasp on reality instead, including Mrs. Biermann’s theory that Kandi had just paid a realtor over half a million dollars commission to still live in the ‘Hood.  For someone with so much artificial hair on her head, Kim has a pretty warped concept of what actually makes someone gangstah.

Back at Casa Biermann, Kim (bleepin’) flipped out on a few of the guys from the moving company and made Momma Joyce’s analysis that “You don’t explain Ignorance” seem too legit to quit.

Yeah.  MJ just said that Kim was Ignant.  Momma Joyce will show you gangstah, bitch.

Speaking of cutting somebody…it was time for a haircut.

It was Ayden‘s 2nd birthday, and time for his first real haircut, so Momma Phaedra and Baby Daddy Apollo took him down to Rocky’s Barber Shop for a fade.

I’ll pause in order for you to appreciate the irony of Rocky and Apollo together in the same sentence again after all these years.

“Adrian!!!!”  If you get it…it’s HIGH-sterical.

If you don’t…Google a Sylvester Stallone movie and try to keep up.

Rocky’s Barber Shop was an old skool neighborhood joint, full of black combs sitting in sterilizer bottles and 47 guys all reading magazines waiting to get the same haircut.

Phaedra was quick to point out that by trade, Apollo was a Master Barber, which should have immediately caused anybody paying attention to wonder why he didn’t just cut his own kid’s hair and save the cab fair.

But by now you know that questioning anything Phaedra does is both exhausting and an exercise in futility, so we all just needed to except the fact that Apollo brought his own set of clippers and pretty much sheared off Ayden’s hair by himself while Rocky stood and watched.  It was kind of like going to the dentist and pulling your own teeth.  But whatever makes Phaedra happy.

And what was going to make her happy this week was spending $20,000 on a Georgia Aquarium Birthday Party for a 2 year old who would never remember the event after nap time.

But again.  Whatever makes Phaedra happy.

And she was keeping Ayden’s hair and the party all Tight and Dwight.

Dat’s rite.  Wannabe Housewife Dwight Eubanks made a return visit from the Salon Crypt to plan yet another one of his faaaabulously festive…umm…festivities.

So Dwrong it was Dwight.

But before the party, it was time to scramble some eggs, and a little bit of the English language, over at Porsha‘s home.

As husband Kordell got yet another recap of her parking lot throw down with Kenya at last week’s Hosea Williams Foundation Event, Porsha tried to get a handle on the different application requirements for the Miss USA and Miss America competitions while multi-tasking some wardrobe decisions for an upcoming wedding.

She admitted that maybe calling Kenya by the wrong title during her introduction was simply a Fraudulent Slip, which kind of made my head hurt, followed by Kordell rambling on about how one bad apple can’t make the pot…something something…

I swear there’s a gas leak in that house.

Meanwhile, Porsha’s nemesis Kenya was down the road a bit on Restaurant Row introducing boyfriend Walter to her family.

With Aunt Lori leading the inquisition, Walter was forced to deflect questions on topics ranging from their first date to his intentions to their future wedding plans, as Kenya nervously chewed her lettuce and waited to ovulate.

Kenya wants to make some babies.  ASAP.  Time is money, people.

The only topic they never got around to was how Lori manages to keep getting her foundation all smeared up into her hairline.  Come on.

If you’re gonna go bleached platinum, you need to get a handle on all that.  Nice enough lady, but it was like eating lunch with Christina Aguilera.

I mean.  I just can’t.  Here’s a napkin and some spit.  Lemme get that for you, honey.

By the time Walter proudly proclaimed that he was the Martin Luther King of Towing, I had to ask for a doggie bag for my leftovers.

I have a Dream.  And a boot on my Kia.

Then it was time for Dwight’s cameo, some cake and an aquatic theme park show.

Being in storage for a season definitely made our girl Dwight a little rusty, because she certainly was not as Fierce as I remember her back when she was always up in NeNe‘s face.  But it was still Dwight, and she still had a crazy a** bucket hat on her head.  So that made me happy.

The party was your typical 2 year old birthday party, complete with a locomotive train parade entrance into the venue, a private water show and $100 bills paper clipped to his OshKosh shirt.  Memories to last a lifetime, if a 2 year old could actually stay awake for all of that excess.

When Dwight licked his lips during some cruise ship singer’s ode to a pair of dancing dolphins, I knew it was time to go home.

And then things went all Badonkadonkers.

NeNe’s 4 minutes of screen time this week still chewed the scenery as she and Cynthia got all OhNoSheDin’t over some potentially serious Donkey Dialing.

Turns out that Cynthia had passed on Ayden’s Under The Sea extravaganza due to a prior commitment.  And you don’t say No to Miss Phaedra.  You just don’t.

Because it seems that Phaedra can’t control her temper, or the junk in her trunk, and had somehow butt dialed one of NeNe’s people as she was mouthing off about Cynthia to an unknown third party.

She even said the F Word, which she claims to never use.

NeNe had somehow managed to secure a recording of the actual booty dial off the mystery phone (…what is this…CSI ATL?…) and when she played it for Cynthia over lunch the two of them pretty much plugged in the organ and Testified.

As they plotted Cynthia’s confrontation with Phaedra, NeNe milked her 4 minutes like it was an audition for BET.

MmmHmm.  You go, girl.  And give that hat back to Dwight.

Before Cynthia met up with Phaedra we had to sit through another few minutes with Kenya and her ovaries.  But this time she and Walter ate outside, and…no lie…the crickets and tree frogs were so loud that they actually drowned out the ticking of Kenya’s biological clock.

It was a sound tech’s nightmare, but it was a nice break from the usual blare of her baby making parts.

By the time Cynthia and Phaedra met up, Mrs. Bailey wasted no time in getting right to the point despite being momentarily distracted by Phaedra’s skin tight aluminum lamé super heroine pants.

Seriously.  Did you see those things?  The scuba girl feeding chum to the birthday penguins was shrink wrapped in looser fitting latex.

But anyway.  Phaedra denied the butt dial.

Actually…she didn’t recall making the call at all as she nervously fidgeted with her studded Wonder Woman cuff and chewed on taco chips while making every PhaedraFace in her extensive arsenal.

But Cynthia wasn’t buying it.

So when all else fails?  Use your boobs, girlfriend.

Phaedra suddenly noticed a red spot on her jigglies, and  complained that they were itching.  And that some bug must have wanted some of that chocolate awesome sauce.

Then like a newborn child discovering her own toes for the first time, Phaedra latched onto the goods and never looked up again, leaving Cynthia to sit there on the opposite side of the table watching the whole floor show until the check finally came.

Well played, Ms. Parks.  Well played.

Now back dat thang up over here and call me a cab.

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.

Monday, November 19th, 2012

 

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?

The Real Housewives Of Atlanta: Girl, I’m Not One To Gossip, But Let’s Talk! It’s All About Empowerment & Donkey Booty, Cuz Excess Breeds Success.

Monday, November 12th, 2012

 

And then one day I woke up, and I was all like Girrrl…You’re Rich, Bitch! Damn!

 

 

 

Girl, pleez. You couldn’t put a Readers Digest on that scrawny a** bookshelf.

 

 

 

I don’t even know what that means. I just spend money and make babies

 

 

Guess who can get 20% OFF the Donald Trump Collection at Macy’s? I was Miss Universe, Bitch.

 

 

Srsly? Walter can have that crazy chick. I’m about to tame them nasty fly aways with my fist.

 

 

 

I love the Gays. We wear the same size shoe, you know.

 

 

Girrrl, pleez.

I don’t think you’re ready for all this jelly.  Or donkey booty.  Or badonkadonk.  Or caboose.  Or cushion for the pushin’.  Or IKEA bookshelf.

Or whatever the kids call it nowadays.

The Real Housewives of Atlanta were back this week with yet another crash course in Fierceness 101, and this time it was all about sassy female empowerment and big butts.

But not necessarily in that order, because sometimes harnessing the power surge from a scrumptious scoop or two can get you further than a Harvard degree.  At least according to Phaedra and her ongoing obsession with trunk junk, that is.

Mmm Mmm.  Girlfriend does like all that stuff back there.

Since the show has really become all about NeNe Leakes and whoever those other women are that live in Atlanta that keep showing up in her scenes, we started right off with another episode of the NeNe Show.

This time around it was the L.A. Gay Pride Parade, and Miss Thang was in her glory.

In the back seat of her chauffeured ride (…she’s rich, bitch…) NeNe and son Brentt were discussing a potential move to California.  Los Angeles.  Hollywood.  Beverly Hills.

Swimming pools.  Movie Stars.  Y’all come back, now.

With poor little Brentt pinned in by his seatbelt and forced to balance one of those sissy dog carriers on his lap, he kind of looked like one of those kids you always see in a Walmart stroller completely covered in merchandise.  Except instead of going to the snack bar so Mom could have a corn dog and some Cheez Whiz, Brentt was on his way to dance down Hollywood Boulevard next to someone with duct tape on their ‘nads.

So I guess it wasn’t really the same thing at all.  Never mind.

But the Queens love their NeNe.  Trust me…if they weren’t gay before she got there, they are now after all that fabulous screaming and posing.  Glitter and streamers for everyone!  There were even a few uncomfortably lengthy lesbian bear hugs that went on just thaaat much too long, if you know what I mean.  Time to let go, sir.

But it was all good.

Using her freshman sitcom The New Normal as an excuse to put the top down and pretend the parade was all about NeNe, she stole the show cruising the parade route in a white convertible, waving like she was Queen Elizabeth on her way to the Chelsea Piers.  You bettah werk.

Q:  And how was it, NeNe?  A:  “I have arrived.”

Bloop!

Back in Atlanta…and reality…Kandi and Phaedra headed out for a quick nosh and some gossip.  Not that Phaedra is one to gossip, of course.

At least that is how she prefaces every conversation before delving into the size of someone’s donkey booty and their lack of social skills.  But she’s not one to gossip.

Lawd, I love me some Phaedra.

Is it just me, or has she gotten even more over the top since last season already?  Not that I’m complaining.  Not at all.  But I don’t think the woman can complete a full sentence without making at least a half dozen OhNoSheDin’t PhaedraFaces.  Not to mention a Hand to Jesus or a Testify fist pump.

Lawd have mercy.  Love her.

Kandi had invited newbie Kenya to join them for lunch, where Phaedra wasted no time in getting to all the deets on the Miss USA thing and Kenya’s Coochie Crack phobia.

Hearing Kenya relive Cynthia‘s JET magazine photo search at The Bailey Agency last week, highlighted by the aforementioned Attack of the Coochie Crack model, nearly sent Phaedra back to church as she tried to imagine all that Coochie goodness in one place.

Everyone in Atlanta likes to say Coochie a lot.

Phaedra also had to look to the heavens for answers as to why Kenya felt that she was worthy of a Whitney Houston bodyguard when there is not one person in America who could tell you who won Miss USA last year, let alone two decades ago.

Then we were off to another part of Atlanta…and a little less of a grasp on reality.

Kim and Kroy‘s home.  At least for today, anyway.

Eighty-something days from popping out Biermann Baby #2, Kim was trying to figure out where everyone was going to live since they had just been served with eviction papers.  The thought of having to down-size to a mere townhouse after spreading her wigs out across 70,000 square feet was stressing Kim out and it was up to her weary assistant Jennifer Hudson to fix this mess.  Now.

After tossing Baby #1 off to Nanny Pencha, Kim and Jennifer headed to the office to figure out how anyone could possibly survive without a pool or basketball court, just as I realized that I could probably vacuum my entire apartment without having to change wall sockets.  Bitch.

Seated in what was either the set from Phantom of the Opera or HBO’s Game of Thrones (…seriously?  Did you see that office?…) Kim and Jennifer pretty much got nowhere before Kim decided she needed a nap to make it all go away.

Why didn’t I think of that?  Seriously.  That’s totally how I’m going to handle all my tough Life decisions from now on.  Buy something nice.  Or take a nap.  Kim Zolciak is a genius.

Right at the end of the scene I also realized that it was Sweetie doing all the heavy lifting, not Jennifer Hudson.  You tell me Bitch didn’t steal her look.

As Kim went to catch a few Zzzz’s, Phaedra, Cynthia and NeNe hit the gym.

Yes.  The gym.  That donkey booty ain’t gonna squat itself.

As the three women admired each other’s rump bumpers and contemplated how lucrative a Back It Up With Phaedra workout dvd would be, Cynthia announced that she wanted to have a party for NeNe to celebrate all her recent success.

An empowered women kind of thing, with no boys allowed in the clubhouse.

Between all the badonk honks and bootified yoga moves, the women managed to get in a few zingers at Kenya’s expense and then proceeded to gawk at some juicer working out without his shirt on, which is totally against gym health codes.  Wipe that down, dude.  Gross.

Down on the waterfront, Kim finally woke up from her nap long enough to have a birthday dinner with Kroy on some random boat docked at the marina.

Considering that Kim has been 34 years old ever since the series premiered, I’m going to assume that she is still 34 since there were no candles on the cake.

Despite being technically homeless, Kroy dug into his football pension and gave Kim the same diamond bracelet that had apparently been a prop room loaner during her trip down the aisle on Don’t Be Tardy For The Wedding.  When she realized that the jewelry didn’t have to go back to Saks at the end of the evening this time, she cried.

Which meant she was happy.

And that meant Kroy was gonna get some tonight, so it was a win-win birthday all around.  Somebody was gonna be doing a touchdown dance.

Not quite as romantic though, was the dinner date between Kenya and her man Walter, who just couldn’t seem to make his point heard over the roar of her madly ticking biological clock.

Seriously.  For someone so anti-coochie, Kenya certainly can’t wait to pop a baby or two out of hers.  It’s all she talks about.

Walter, who has that kind of Motown hair that you always see on retrospective VH1 music specials, is a nice enough guy who made the mistake of telling Kenya that he once axed Kandi out on a date.

Yeah.  He axed her.  That drives me nuts.

And it didn’t go over well.  Kenya got as frazzled as all those fly away hairs that are always frizzing around her weave (…you know, they make smoothing serums for that, honey…) and then she basically melted down.

But honestly, I was so captivated by the woman in the background that I wasn’t really paying much attention.  Please tell me you saw her back there.  Do NOT erase your DVR until you go back and get a load of all that behind the scenes awesomeness.

It was like they were filming a completely different show at the other table.  Some kind of RuPaul meets Jersey Shore meets Carol Burnett skit.

I swear.  If I have to intern at Bravo TV just to find out who that woman was, I will.

After some nasty triple shots and a trip to the bathroom for a major DivaSulk, Kenya came back to the table and tried to get her dinner to-go, but finally gave in to Walter’s smooth Luther “Hey, Baby. I like all that chocolate” Vandross pick up lines.

All better, Boo.  Let’s get it on.

Back at Kandi’s new place, her man Todd was trying to help sort through the chaos when Phaedra showed up to talk some more donkey booty and get all MmmHmm with her girlfriend.

If you’re keeping track, the three things I got out of that scene were that Phaedra was scared of dogs because of some traumatic law school bite, something else about big butts and that Kandi shops at Target.

I know, right?  Did you see the Target box?  I wonder if she eats the pizza there.  They have the best pizza.

Finally it was time to empower some women and watch NeNe be late for her own party.

Sure enough, even though Kim and Jennifer Hudson showed up one hour late, NeNe showed up two hours late and ran into them in the hallway as they tried to make their escape.  Kim wasn’t feeling it, and tried to scoot out before NeNe even arrived, but got busted right at the doorway.

D’oh.  After some forced NiceNice with NeNe, Kim pretended to go to the bathroom and then must have climbed out the window into a waiting getaway car, because she was gone before Cynthia’s welcome speech even started.

Not that Kim missed much, since the whole thing was pretty much hijacked by Kenya, who quietly mimicked Cynthia’s every word before finally grabbing the microphone and making it sound like she paid for the caterers herself.

As if.  Bitch.

Then it was on.  Cynthia vs. Kenya in a battle of the beauty pageant girls.

Not quite as high pitched as Toddlers & Tiaras, but almost as entertaining.  They need to start serving Pixie Stix at these fancy gatherings if they really want to see the good stuff go down.

Cynthia knows how to throw shade.  Kenya knows how to read somebody.

And NeNe knows how to stand in the middle and make it look like it’s still all about her no matter what.  Because it is.  Or it should be.

Unfortunately, it was still too early in the season for someone to throw a punch or yank a wig this time around.  Calm yo’ weave down.  Pump yo’ breaks.

We haven’t even met Porsha yet.

Bloop!


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