If ‘The Real Housewives Of Beverly Hills’ Were Scripted: “Vanderpump Rules”


Sometimes I’m so entertained by The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills that I like to pretend somebody actually scripted the entire show. This is what the treatment for last night’s episode would look like.

We resume at the Brandi Inquisition led by hot balloon of the year, FAYE RESNICK. VANDERPUMP gives an appropriate eye roll as FAYE persists her reign of terror, and BRANDI, rightly, excuses herself. FAYE insists to the remaining women at the table that she is not merely FAYE RESNICK of Nicole Simpson murder fame, she is FAYE THE TRUTHTELLER, and it is her inherent duty to make sure all liars are slain with the sword she calls TRUTH — and she does all this whilst decorating KYLE’s heinous dining room which looks like what it would feel like to be inside of a jellyfish.

Outside, BRANDI cries as KYLE and LISA console her and finally LISA asks the question we’ve all been waiting to hear: “Why is Faye getting so involved?” KYLE replies like a professor pontificating while no one in class pays attention, “Yes, well, wonderful question my pupil. Uh, well, you see, she’s, uh, a very, um, opinionated person…” KYLE trails off as a deafening thud and blinding flash of light shoot down from the heavens as if an enormous moon rock fell from the sky. No, it’s not an enormous moon rock, it’s FAYE THE TRUTHTELLER standing as tall as a giant with lips as big as the life boat in the that Pi movie. TRUTHTELLER tries to speak her wrath but forming the unspoken “Br” sound of BRANDI’s name proves too difficult for her blubbering boats she calls lips. KYLE, embarrassed, takes out a pin and pricks the TRUTHTELLER to deflate her. Like one of those wacky inflatable tube men outside car dealerships, the TRUTHTELLER wiggles back down to regular ole’ FAYE. KYLE looks at FAYE and tells her a truth that even the TRUTHTELLER could not bare to see, “Faye, you will never be a Real Housewife.” FAYE bows her head, and as a single tear falls from her eye, she walks alone into the darkness that is night.

The next day begins the three-part trilogy of TAYLOR’s creepiness. Part one involves making juice out of air as well as a clairvoyant who definitely read the stat that 99% (or something) of lawsuits settle before going to court. Parts two and three will show up later. First, let’s do some yoga!

At KYLE’s estate, she invites her connected Hollywood friend MARISA over to do a private yoga sesh in her backyard. A fun filled comedy sketch the likes of which Second City has never scene commences: two bimbos who pay for a private relaxing yoga session can’t seem to shut up about gossipy, un-yoga-y things. It’s a classic! Immediately after the yoga scene, we cut to their yoga teacher alone in his car on a cliff contemplating whether or not he should just gun it.

Across town, BRANDI and VANDERPUMP go “shopping.” We all know at this point that “shopping” means giving the women an activity to do while planting some exposition. We’ll keep this part short because this part stinks a little too much of VANDERPUMP RULES, but basically, BRANDI must be getting paid extra to meet with VANDERPUMP’s employee, SCHEANA, to talk about how SCHEANA slept with BRANDI’s ex-husband who’s now married to a washed up teenage country singer. HOLLYWOOD!

Part two of the TAYLOR trilogy of creepiness: TAYLOR’s on the phone with her lawyer who happily tells her the people suing her (AKA her former BFF) for $1.5 million will settle. BUT! They want her wedding ring. Oh, and two Hermes bags. Is this the kind of bartering actual lawyers are doing in the year 2013? Either way, TAYLOR has a sob that would freak Claire Danes out.

Now we get some YOLANDA! While she prepares a very staged dinner for her family, we learn that she and her husband, MR. GRAMMY, have very strict guidelines on gender roles. Women cook and clean and men make music! We also finally come to terms with the subtext of YOLANDA’s opening tag line: “I like to have fun, but I don’t play games.” What she really means is that she does not like to have fun and that no, she literally does not play games.

In the rolling hills of Malibu, BRANDI visits CAMILLE for a chat regarding whether or not she should meet with SCHEANA. Basically this scene is entitled “MEN: WHO NEEDS ‘EM?!” What we really want out of this scene is for BRANDI to just frickin’ ask CAMILLE if she can move in. I mean, that house.

And finally, part three of TAYLOR’s trilogy of creepiness. At an Asian fusion restaurant, TAYLOR invites KYLE and MAURICIO and LISA and KEN for a celebration dinner. See, she’s celebrating the settlement of her lawsuit. Oh, and she also brings her lawyer as her date because she has a different set of boundaries than most people. Everyone is happy and hunky dory until TAYLOR brings up how the settlement terms came about. “Well,” she starts off cheerfully, “the lawyer came to my house yesterday.” What a lovely start to a lovely story! “And took my wedding ring and Hermes bags.” “WHAT THE FUCK?” says everybody’s look on their face. KYLE gives a reassuring objects are replaceable speech but we’re all like, girl, bitch is broke. Plus the marriage was beyond shambles. The whole thing smells weird. It smells even weirder when TAYLOR’s lawyer/prostitute tries to stir the KIM/KYLE pot by mentioning, maliciously, that KIM hangs out at a cigar bar or something. GO BACK TO COURT.

At SUR LOUNGE, BRANDI meets up for a wholly unnecessary talk with SCHEANA, representative, and simultaneous embarrassment, of Generation Millennials. Basically what we discover is that both women were dicked over by LEANN RIMES’s current husband. BRANDI, hero of the Housewives, handles herself very well toward the end, and proves to be just a really nice person.

This is where the show ends. We will absolutely not follow SCHEANA into the kitchen whether or not the title of this episode is “Vanderpump Rules.” We do, however, get to see FAYE call Edible Arrangements and order a bouquet of chocolate covered strawberries to eat while she deletes every Housewives franchise episode from her DVR and have a good cry.  

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