Your beloved recapper Richard Lawson was in Paris for the finale of the Real Housewives of New York City which aired last night. I, Joshua David Stein am filling, the best I can, that void.

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, Creaky Joints. 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.

Let's start with the lady version of Michael Shannon, Alex McCord. Ms. McCord's misericordia isn't much explored in this finale though the sallow hollow of her eye sockets and the gaunt precipice of her cheekbones allude to an inner demon. You're right, she's a super freak. She's super freaky, yeah. She and her husband Simon van Kempen are a latexed living version of Ulysses and Diomedes, tied into one miserable multi-tongued flame. But unlike those two, these two are neither explorers nor do they know the depths of their misery. Blithely declaring a few days before the event that she hadn't yet sent out any emails or invitations, Alex McCord is blissfully ignorant of her own inadequacy. Later, on the night of, Ms. McCord arrives wearing a red dress that emphasizes her mound of Venus while her husband arrives wearing red latex pants that emphasize his pound of penis. "We brought two people," she tells the door person. Forgetting herself for a moment, she meant they had brought two additional guests. But her words were more accurate than she imagined. She is wasting away, a ruin of a ruin of a ruin. Simon, a tinkertoy and ping pong ball contraption of a man, is just an Australian tangle of belabored eccentricities. Strip away his ken for shiny boots of leather, his accent and his sex dungeon and the man evaporates.

The second most intriguing character, damned in her own singular way, is Bethenny Frankel. All veins and insecurity, where McCord's face dwindles before widening into a monster's jaw, Frankel's expands from the temples before coming to a violent point. She's an accolade brace turned up like a cup, a cup holding untold torrents of anger. Last night, she was angry with the Jewess Zarin for removing signage for an alcohol sponsor from above the bar. [NB: She had every right to be angry.] Yet instead of tamping her rage for the duration of the evening, like a locomotive out of control and heedless of the railmen, she plowed headlong into confrontation. In a quasihemidemisemiquaver, she was at Zarin's throat yapping. The poor dear can't help herself. Blind rage fills her cheeks from her small carb-free heart, bile billows from her soul. And she's off, like that tiny bitch of a dog the Jewess lets poop on her carpet. Frankel, Hula-hooper, shall never find peace nor love as much as she wants them. For her interior design is infernal and bent on shaking her Skinnygirl frame with rage until ruin. She wants love sure and was once dating Jason Colodne (who PACER shows recently sued his ex-employer Patriarch Partners for $55 million. The case settled for an undisclosed amount.) Now she cavorts with a man known as Tenjune, because that's where they met, who works in real estate. The spoils of anger are indeed sadness and isolation.

Richard, forgive me for I am bypassing the self-damnations of three of our lovely ladies—the Countess, Renata—the Frou Frou Agro Blowtorch, and the Jewess Zarin—for 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—the sediment of happiness gone sour, the murk of confidence gone gone—Bensimon occasions only blind rage. Richard, last week you wrote about her misplaced feelings of superiority (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 La Petite Rose) 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.

JDS

P.S. Mike Byhoff and Ari Golub, who did this great summer camp farewell vid send their love.