Here’s the deal. March 21, 2006 was a tragic day in television history. For it was on this day that The Real Housewives of Orange County aired for the first time.
This is a terrible television show. Granted, I’ve never seen an episode. But some shows are so bad, you can tell without ever having to watch. (I don’t have to take a bite of cow manure to know I don’t want to eat it).
I’ve seen plenty of ads for this and its successors. I’ve seen clips. I’ve even been flipping though the channels and watched for a few minutes before the retching began and I had to change it to any other station.
Just the opening credits are enough to make me wince. Why do all of these women have their hands on their hips? Why is there hair flipping about? Sass overload! Sass overload!
And how are these women the “real” housewives of anywhere? Please. Do real housewives burst into mascara-smearing tears when they don’t get into the latest Kenny G-headlined black tie fundraiser? Are real housewives involved in backseat limousine cat fights on a weekly basis? Do real housewives spend more time interviewing interior decorators for their third house in Aspen than they do parenting their own children?
At least, I assume from the ads this is what’s going on.
And yet, it’s wildly popular, spawning spinoffs in New York, Atlanta, New Jersey, D.C., Beverly Hills and Miami. And, unfortunately I am not making this up, The Real Housewives of Athens premiered in Greece just last month. Toronto and Israel are currently filming. And I can only assume that the real housewives of Zimbabwe and the Real Inuits of the Arctic can’t be far behind.
I’ve gotta say, America has a bad enough image abroad – these broads aren’t helping any. These are not the people I want other nations associating with our society. Most Americans don’t think the name on the label of their clothing triples the value of the garment. Most Americans don’t view plastic surgery as a recreational activity. Most Americans don’t have time to stand around with their hand on their hip, wind blowing in their hair, smiling coyly at a camera.
So, how am I going to do it? How will I defeat this real housewife army? I suppose I could just wait for them to run out of cities. No. Something must be done.
Like Austin Power’s fembots, these women do a fair job of self-imploding. Leave a camera on them long enough and they’ll tear at each other’s hair or break down emotionally. Hmmmm, as counter-intuitive as it sounds, the solution may be more exposure. If we could get a camera on these women twenty four hours a day, they’d never stop performing. And, in an effort to constantly outdo each other, they might just tucker themselves out. I mean, there’s only so much sass one body can handle. One strut too many, one more attitude-laden comeback, one last ego-inflating shopping spree and they could fall under the weight of their own self-importance.
So I will do it. Armed with only the media, I’ll take on these housewives. You’ll find me fighting the good fight on the streets of Atlanta, battling the spouses of south Miami and taking a bite out of the Big Apple bigwigs. How will you know it’s me? I’ll be the one with the camera…takin’ names and kickin’ sass.