The Real Housewives Of New York Meet Their Ends 2009: Copy Post

The Real Housewives of New York Meet Their Ends

Copy this whole post to another site Salut Richard ma petite choux, How is Paris, you old rake I bet you are sitting at
the Cafe de la Mairie du V, sipping your Floc de Gascogne and ogling the young gosses qui passent. You really missed a doozy of a show last night. Let me tell you about it. Much of entire season revolved ostensibly around the planning and execution of a charity event for Jewess Jill Zarin’s charity, . You, my darlingest, know however that this conceit was but a transparent sachet that bound up tidily the stinky and crass antics of six of Manhattan’s most vapid vicious wastrels. So it must come as no surprise to you that the finale, in which the charity event, Friends Helping Friends, is shown, was nothing but the turn. The prestige, the most pleasing sour punch to sip, is in the hellbent fury with which these women go about vitiating each other and, most tragically, themselves. Richard, forgive me for I am bypassing the self-damnations of three of our lovely ladies&mdashthe Countess, Renata&mdashthe Frou Frou Agro Blowtorch, and the Jewess Zarin&mdashfor the frozen orange she-devil: Kelly Bensimon. Flighty and blank yet deeply destructive to all who surround her, Bensimon is the show’s Robin Vote, “a woman who is beast turning human.” As much sadness as Bethenny stirs up&mdashthe sediment of happiness gone sour, the murk of confidence gone gone&mdashBensimon occasions only blind rage. Richard, last week (you Here, me Here). Well, in her final appearance, we see awards being bestowed by Jewess Zarin to her friends. And who is left forgotten momentarily awardless Why, it’s Ms. Bensimon. Eventually she’s unforgotten but she she won’t remain for long. Despite once being married to a photographer, Ms. Bensimon will only be remembered, and is only truly defined, by the injuries she’s inflicted on others, the black eyes and cut cheeks, the cutting remarks delivered through snow blind teeth in a decaying burnt sienna face. We might be down here and she’s up there but there’s no there there and it’s lonely. Well, I bet you want to get back to carousing, (try the tablette mendiant at ) but if I can give you one must-see destination, may I suggest making a quick stop to Theatre du Vieux Colombierbefore you come back. There, in May, 55 years ago, Sartre debuted No Exit, a play in which one line would embody the entire spirit of this season’s Housewives. Hell, Sartre wrote, is other people. A bushel, a peck, a hug around the neck.

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