RHoATL, S2E8: Mama I’m not wantin’ to sing

Snarky housewives on deck! Let’s go!

What is wrong with Sheree’s trainer? When he first popped on the show he seemed like a normal personal trainer, getting folks in shape while sitting on his ass. After the first commercial break, homeboy enters with a studded leather vest and a banana sling for his frank and beans! What kind of bootleg “fitness modeling” bullshit is this? Looks like Chippendales… for men.

These chicks will have a party for anything. After taking those alter-ego photos with Derek Blanks, the ladies are prepping for a black-tie event to reveal the pics. I’m going to let out a big who cares right here. I expect this kind of behavior from the likes of Nene and Sheree but really, who besides the women on the show is attending this party? I’ve been to Atlanta and every other week there’s a new hot spot opening up. Hell, it’s even popping at the mall. So why, folks, would any self-respecting person go to a fancy party to see some pics that will be up on Google Images in less than 24?

As expected, a bunch of nobody negroes showed up to this “party” to see some C-list reality celebrities’ airbrushed photos. Whoo. Walking through that “Who’s who” of Atlanta Society, Kim must have been too dazzled by all of the fabulocity in the room and she bust her ass down three patio stairs. It did look rather nasty with several scratches on her knees and shin but the party is not going to stop because some white girl done fell down the stairs. Or maybe it will. EVERYONE gathered around the SUV and moved the party outside! Wow! What a perfect opportunity to preview the new hit song, Tardy for the Party! Hahaha! Yall, that display by Kim was the worst, most pitiful bullshit I’ve ever seen. She is crazy. What grown woman acts like that? You fall, you get up. If it’s serious, well you have someone take you to the hospital. You dont get carried around like Cleopatra to view your subpar alter-ego photoshoot in the DRIVEWAY! Jesus be a gurney!

So what do I think about the photos? Unequivocally, these were the worst alter-ego photo shoots I have ever seen from Derek Blanks. Ever. Head to BelleJenkins to see the pics.

Kim showed up to Kandi’s studio dressed for a slumber party at Tara (Gone with the Wind). She probably should have had a couple of mint juleps before running up in there because then she’d have had some liquid courage to bust a tune for Kandi. Like I said last week, I just don’t know if Kandi is crazy or a genius trying to produce Tardy for the Party, especially without hearing any of the singers SING. I’m leaning toward crazy. That track is terrible! Unfortunately, it’s just the type of song I can see taking over popular radio, getting stuck in your head and clearing out dancefloors. Thanks Kandi. Not. You all know why Kim was so afraid to sing, right? It’s because she can’t sing. What I don’t understand about it is that if you KNOW you cannot carry a tune, if a voice coach told you that you suck, if an award-winning producer said you need more work, why would you approach Kandi about making and singing on a record? Just quit lying! Supposedly the song has leaked online check it here.

Now, I don’t know if I heard it correctly, but I think after hearing herself sing the song’s hook, Kim said she didn’t think Nene needed to be on the track anymore. LMFBAO! Girl, you are feeling yourself something terrible! What’s that mental condition when people suffer from chronic delusions of grandeur? Kim is hereby diagnosed. I can do that, I have a doctorate.

This episode seemed kind of short, but maybe it’s because the focus was only on two “stories,” the song and the photo reveal. They’re saving the drama for next week. Nene v. Kandi and Nene v. Kim! Yassss!

Quote of the Episode: “Why do you buy dresses that are too small for you? It makes your butt look bigger.” – Kim’s oldest daughter

1 Comment

Filed under Celebrities, Routine Ramblings, television

One response to “RHoATL, S2E8: Mama I’m not wantin’ to sing

  1. I ran across this show last night. I see what the hype is about.

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