Forget Beverly Hills and New York. The Real Housewives who started it all are back this week for season eight.
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I love their rock hard breasts, their barely-concealed velociraptor greed, their endless salads and cocktails and bitch fights. They live in gated communities and say things like, “Don’t call me a princess, call me the BOSS.” Watching them is like watching a bunch of vicious, cross-dressing locusts re-enacting Dynasty.
I may be sitting here in my shitty freezing climate, surrounded by unpaid bills, but I know that really, they’re just like me. Their struggles are universal. Who hasn’t yelled at their friends then lost their voice before a performance with the Pussycat Dolls? Or borrowed their megarich husband’s helicopter for a two hour shopping trip to LA?
Now Season 8 has just started and I am BEYOND excited. Yet there are still some people out there who don’t follow the OC-ers. So for all you non-believers out there, here’s who they are and why you should worship at the Altar of Orange…
Remember when a goose flew into Fabio’s face on that rollercoaster? Alexis is that single dumb moment, stretched to infinity, wearing a wig and rubber lips. One nonchalant hair toss away from losing all her brain cells, she is a God-fearing mother of three, and the world’s worst TV presenter.
Darwinism dictates that she’ll soon electrocute herself trying to make a Lighter Life shake in the toaster. Everyone hates her, but she’s awesome, like Fabio having his nose broken by a goose.
Tamra is my favourite housewife, a pointy, mischief-making bitch machine who catfights her way to the top. Going against all that is holy in the OC, she had her boob implants taken OUT, because she wants to be taken seriously.
Always the first on the scene to do an eye roll or make a barbed comment, Tamra has the cold dead heart of a robot cheerleader. She is also dating a guy called Eddie and if he isn’t gay I will eat my rainbow flag with a side order of cock glitter.
Gretchen looks like a crestfallen 70s starlet who just came to after a night of quaalude-fuelled sex with Burt Reynolds. I am fascinated by Gretchen’s rigid, expressionless face.
She has a make-up line, a useless boyfriend called Slade, and few original thoughts. Sometimes she wears a cowboy hat. Remember Mannequin with Kim Cattrall? She’s like that, except she never comes to life. You just have to drag her around the street and hope for the best.
Imagine if Rachel Ray went on a starvation diet, married a gazillionaire surgeon and instead of waxing lyrical about E.V.O.O, did fuck-all and lived in a house the size of Kim Jong Il’s palace.
Then you would have “actress” Heather, a bossy New Yorker who has correctly ascertained that her fellow housewives are dumb sluts. To shame them, she dispenses jeroboams of Perrier Jouet and watches gleefully as they all claw each other’s eyes out, leaving a trail of bloody hair extensions and burst tit balloons.
Poor Vicki. She’s the O.C’s matriarch: a sad, menopausal manatee, lost at sea. Insurance mogul Vicky is in the throes of a complicated divorce and is always talking about needing to have her ‘love tank’ filled up.
Her current nozzle is creepy Southern gent Brooks Ayers, who isn’t so much filling her love tank as Exxon Valdez-ing all over the carpet – cooing insincere sweet nothings and asking not-at-all leading questions about her real estate portfolio. But Vicki is oblivious. She needs love. She has a big tank, you know?
Put them all together, and you have the best TV ever. The Real Housewives rule the world with their sparkling idiocy. They are a ray of sunshine and silicone in a dull, mundane world, a cocktail shaped vajazzle, glinting in the darkness.
With the O.C housewives in your life, the future’s bright. The future’s orange.
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