I want the 10 minutes of my life back I wasted watching Housewives on Bravo this week. I want to be reimbursed for the sfogliatelle I bazooka barfed all over my Berklines when this steaming heap of crap was beamed into my fortress of solitude, my temple of relaxation, otherwise known as my Buckeye home theater.
Some trophy-wife looking bimbette was getting all dolled-up, boobs pushed to her chin, expensive makeup trowelled on her face, dyed hair arranged just so... Her magnanimous prime-time worthy topic of conversation with the camera? Something like "Before I was going to parties at the Playboy Mansion, now it's the Republican Party...what a difference a year makes!"
Well, let's see, based on the all-too-long 10 minutes I heard you speak you were probably a mindless, shallow, self-absorbed, materialistic bitch then, and hearing you speak on Housewives certainly cemented that you are now, so no, I don't think a year made much difference in your case except maybe to add a few more wrinkles to your middle-aged face that you need to spackle with Este Lauder.
They should call this show Trophy Wives, because I have to tell you, the woman I saw on that show knew about as much about being a housewife as George Bush does. At least I can listen to GW speak for more than 10 minutes without wanting to puke.
Why in God's name would anyone think that such a woman, and such a show would be prime-time worthy? Gosh, do I watch two hours of Stephen Hawking explaining the mysteries of the universe or this woman squeeze into a dress while discussing her trite and meaningless life? Sorry honey, Nova on PBS wins this one hands down.
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