Talkin' Trash TV: The Newest Reality Star(ving for attention)

   First of all, I would like to extend my sincerest apologies to the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills' Adrienne Maloof. I mean, you're still both absurdly annoying and absurdly rich. And all you really brang to the show were a few cringe-inducing frames of your frozen feline face. But you could easily be a part-time supermodel in comparison to the latest mug Bravo has assaulted my poor peepers with. Frankly, if I had known that evil doctor Andy Cohen had the gruesome offspring of an illicit threesome between Eric Stoltz in Mask, Ron Perlman's Beast and Leatherface (hey, dream big) hiding in his lair, I would never have been so hard on you.

   May I present to the productive section of the population that does not waste their time obsessing over fame-whoring television: Elsa Patton, the true star of the already catastrophically upsetting Real Housewives of Miami. If Elsa was a normal woman cursed with such an appalling appearance, I would feel like a truly terrible human being for all the bitchy comments I have thought and said about her. But since she is permanently drunk and a self-described witch - and the minor fact that I have no conscience or moral compass - she is completely fair game.

    That said, I may patent my own drinking game. You play by trying to see how long you can handle staring at that frightening visage before curling into the fetal position and violently weeping yourself to sleep. Yes, I'm going to Hell. Chances are, I'll see all your nodding heads there, too. Elsa, with her thick Cuban accent and wardrobe filled with flowing, sparkly muumuu, has the unique ability to turn anything that escapes from her droopy mouth into instant comedy gold. She's like the King Midas of the Housewives set. Some of her choicest quips include "there is nothing better looking than a macho man dressed like a girl" and "I didn't marry a gringo to have paper flowers." Honestly, can you blame her?

   Her [few and far between] moments of clarity include her bewildering outrage when her daughter Marysol's boyfriend checks out of their conversation about witchcraft to wash his hands.  Clearly, personal hygiene takes a backseat to debating the merits of the dark arts. She is also the creator of my new personal motto: "I'm not much of a drinker, but once I start drinking I feel gooood." True that.      

   Despite it all, Elsa's quick wit (when lucid) and penchant for wine-guzzling make her a surprisingly endearing personality in an otherwise drawn-out borefest (please, please let this be the last installment of the Housewives franchise)  of yapping, one-dimensional characters. She is the one, and only reason, I will continue to check out the Miami season. With fingers poised to cover my eyes, of course.


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