The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills has the darkest history of any franchise, so it’s only fitting to start a new season with a tragedy. We can’t begin to heal until we’ve talked it out, so please read my open letter to Yolanda Foster here if you need to begin the process. Moment of silence.
Five Years Later: A Preamble, Cuz Recapping is Important, K?
(If you want to skip straight to the recap, just scroll to the first screenshot!)
In 2006, when I wrote my Top Chef Season 2 audition recap for this site’s now deceased corporate father (TVgasm, RIPeaches, betch), one of my first ever comments said “It’s not about you.”
LOL.
Aw, silly commenter. Making everything about me has turned into a passion. My ahhht. My reason for being. I’m proud to have done it with the support of this show. And Alexandah. And you people, whoever the hell you are. (You’re really fucking sick for reading this, you know that right? By reading further, you become part of the problem instead of the solution.)
(yay you’re part of the problem! Come on in! HUGS!)
How. Lucky. Are you?
I fell into recapping and became obsessed with it because the TV was a target for me to aim my rage at that couldn’t sue me for attempted murder by shopping cart.
Soon, though, my casual anger hobby grew into a full fledged psychological disorder. I would fly into a rage over silly things and accuse people of stealing my house.
Addiction, narcissism, eating disorders, Capital One bills that are never getting paid unless I find an old queen exhausted enough to relinquish a room in his house and an ATM card…wait. That’s me.
I was identifying with these idiots, and it was myself I was hating.
It was me. All along. I’m Bruce Willis and I’m dead SURPRISE! Sorry if you haven’t seen Moonlighting.
Once I saw the problem, I worked on myself.
Just kidding!
I decided it was better to just stay inside and yell at the TV. I think people are idiots cuz people are idiots. Period. Change is for bums.
Five years later, I’m the same cunt I was in 2010. Let’s hope I’m not the only one.
Welcome to Season 6!!
As we begin this journey together, let’s take each other’s hands. There is some seriously ugly, ugly shit coming our way. But there is also beautiful stuff. At least we’ll be together. Thanks for coming over. Now let’s talk some trash.
Catch up: Through the past five seasons of RHOBH, these hags have survived familial destruction, religious persecution, facial self mutilation, suicide, almost suicide, prostitute abandonment, child of prostitute abandonment, a woman with bouncy house lips having a nervous breakdown in a Louis Vouitton knockoff suitcase, a talking gargoyle, a disease ravaged ex model obsessively cooking small chickens with lemons shoved up their asses every single day for the man who won her in a raffle at her ex husband’s dinner party, a grown woman getting stuck to floors multiple times, a silent farter who breeds dogs to use as wigs, glass throwing, attempted strangulation of an ex child star who’s now avoiding jail time for stealing two carts of shit from the Target dollar aisle, and Brandi.
Like any good go-go boy with a baby arm, this show can always be counted on to top itself. What’s next? I’ve been praying for a full fledged “Mauricio deals with obesity” storyline, but God wrote my ass off years ago. Whatevs. I’ve got my Munchies ready.
As we learned in last week’s amazing RHOBH: Kyle Chases a Trapped Kim Through A Hotel For Eight Hours Trying to Out Her Alcoholic Ass: Uncensored, the producers and editors are the true leads of this show, and those fuckers pick sides every season.
Can’t imagine where they’re headed. Here’s the first image of the episode:
God bless the Queen! Lisa looks cute, too.
Eileen gets the “This season, on…” voiceover, which isn’t a good sign in the excitement department. All she really did last year was walk down a bath mat to promote a YouTube video and try to sucker people into giving her husband money for his half of the mortgage on poker night.
Unless this bitch is gonna say “This season, Susan Banks joins the cast,” I don’t wanna hear it.
Planes! Resorts! Rich ladies pretending to be hungry hippies!
Gross. Go inside.
We even get to meet Andrea Bocelli!! Unfortunately, he’s still blind so he couldn’t remind Yolanda to put her makeup on.
On the bright side, he doesn’t see a bright side either. I kid. But it’s also true.
See?
No, asshole. I don’t.
Camille and Taylor both show up in hats that can only be for a Lisa Vanderpump “My Vagina Still Works Dahling, Don’t Tell Ken” party. They’re amazingly stupid and vaginal fold-y in that Georgia O’Keefe kinda way, but no hat is stupid enough to hide what the hell is going on with those faces. Good lord, people. Camille’s face has always been consistently and lazily crazy, and even she has to close her eyes with Taylor comes in for a hug.
Please don’t get a job in a maternity ward. Those babies will crawl right back in if they see this looming.
NEW! HAIR! BOOBS! LEOPARD PRINT! A GAY APPLYING GLOSS WITH HIS FINGER!