What’s with these so-called “real” housewives plastered all over my TV? They are not “real,” and they’re definitely not “housewives.” They don’t know a turkey baster from a toilet brush. Besides, who wants to watch a bunch of spoiled bimbos prancing around in five inch heels, satin dresses and too much mascara, acting like they still want to be prom queen? Spare me. I didn’t like high school the first time around. If I want to watch women with poufy hair and tacky dresses yell insults at each other, I’ll go to Drag Bingo.
What’s wrong with the Real Housewives of Conshohocken or Warminster or somewhere? Bad dye jobs, crows feet and cellulite. Women spending $200 at Target, when all they wanted was a light bulb and a bag of cat food. That’s reality. Not interesting reality, but, hey, you can’t have everything.
Better yet, why doesn’t someone make a show about “The Real Househusbands”? That’s the one I want to see. Watch enterprising Dad dry son’s bathing suit in the microwave and set the kitchen on fire! Now that’s entertaining. Especially if the dad is one of those young studs without shirts, you know from the underwear commercials? I’d tune in to watch him do the dishes. Or wax the car or walk the dog or whatever. Or he could just sit there. That’d be OK too. No matter what, it’s gotta beat those botoxed Barbies throwing appletinis at each other. Whatever the hell those are.