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Last night the concert for the world's worst David Bowie cover band, Real Housewives of Suffragette City, did their horrendous rendition of "Fashion" (Turn to the left!) with a runway show and photo shoot. The Goon Squat has officially come to town. Beep beep!

Hello, ladies and gentleman, I am Dame Brian Moylan, curator of the Real Housewives Institute. Richard, the Third Earl of Lawson, couldn't make it again this week because he has very important Ryan Seacrest slash fiction to write, so I am here to give you a tour of last night's episode. I hope you enjoy our time together. If you don't, well, if you arrive home and there is a pot boiling on the stove, don't lift the lid, because there is a bunny inside. Just saying.

Now, if you'll step right this way, I can show you the Real Housewives Peace Accord of 2011. It was forged at a Midtown restaurant one blustery afternoon. Alex McCord was waiting anxiously (and looking lovely in a very smart ensemble with her hair straight and flaxen) when the door opened and breeze blew in all the way from the coldest tundras of Siberia. In walked a woman in a long black coat that she was clutching up to her neck with a bony hand. On top of her head was the fur from one entire Siberian Mammoth. Yes, it was Sonja Morganskya, a former KGB mole once known in her day as Red Sonja. The doorman asked to take her hat and coat, and she clutched it to her body tighter and turned her body away from him, utter a pointed, "Hmph!"—much like Blanche in the opening credits of The Golden Girls—and walked toward Alex.

They had to talk about very important things, like getting in a fight at a gay marriage march and Sonja throwing Alex out of her house. Alex said hello and Sonja reached under the table, gingerly removed her pump, and then banged it on the table until Alex would listen to her. OK, that didn't really happen, but it should have. Actually, it was a very honest and mature discussion. Alex said, "We don't have to agree on what happened and I don't want to rehash it. Let's just forget about it, call it a draw, and move on." She's right, if they go into "I did this then you did this," they're going to end up fighting again. Basically that is what Tamra and Gretchen of the Orange County Real Housewives have been doing for about 19 seasons now, going over and over and over the same old fight. It isn't even a dead horse anymore, it's just a pile of splattered brains and guts and dried blood clots that gets all over everyone's stockings and all up in their wigs when they pound it. It's gross. So Alex and Sonja shook hands like Reagan and that guy with the splotch on his head and the cold war was over. Perestroika!

Downtown, two other fashionable ladies were meeting for dinner. This time it's Kelly Killoren "Street Runner" Bensimon and Brazilian Cindy. Cindy comes in and she's all shaking and upset. Kelly is all like, "What's wrong?" And Cindy is all, "Oh my god, it's a travesty. I'm so upset." And Kelly is all like, "Want a lollipop?" And Cindy is all, "No, it's too horrible. I can't even face the tragedy of my life right now. I'm shaking. I think my life is over. I got in a fight with one of my nannies." Excuse me? She got in a fight with one of her nannies? That's the big fucking emergency? And not just "I got in a fight with my nanny." It was, "I got in a fight with one of my nannies!" That is even worse. That means there is more than one! And then Kell-Kell says, "Oh, dear, come here," and pulls Cindy's head to her bosom and strokes her hair like she is a bunny Kelly wants to name George. Yes, Kelly completely understands what Cindy is going through, as if this is a thing that happens to everyone. People just get in fights with their nannies and they get upset and then they have to go to fashionable downtown restaurants to rehash the events with their other ladyfriends who also have nannies. What sort of Manhattan do these women live in?

Anyway, after the nannies have been put to rest (and by "put to rest," I mean killed, because Bloomberg made it legal for rich ladies to actually slay their household help in New York City) Kelly tells Cindy that she doesn't want to go to Ramona's honorary dinner thing because she can't handle Ramona right now. She decides she's going to email Ramona from the table. "OK, here goes. Dear Ram-o-na. I...wait a minute. I cannnnnn.....t make it, no hold on. I cannnn nnnnnooooot attend yooooouuuur. Nope, that's not it." Yes, Kelly—Dizzy Stardust herself—can't figure out how to send an email. There is a great rustle and clack of her metacarpals as she tried to string those crazy symbols in the alphabet together to tell Ramona she doesn't want to attend her party. It was almost worst than that nanny business.

Then Kelly and Cindy met up with Russian "diplomat" Sonja Morganskya and they went to a "Wine Connection" party that Countess Crackerjack's boyfriend, Bronson Pinchot, was throwing. Those residuals for Perfect Strangers dried up long ago, and now he is a wine distributor. He made some event that was like a combination of a wine tasting and speed dating. Kelly asked Countess Crackerjacks how the whole thing was going to work, like what the rules were, and Crackerjacks said, "Spit don't swallow. If there is one thing I have learned in all of my days, in all of the truck stops, canteens, and salloons of my past, it's that at this type of thing you don't want to piss anyone off by spitting. A real lady swallows." "Yes, definitely swallow," Bronson Pinchot piped up with a gross wink.

So, Cindy, Sonja, and Kelly sit down at their little tables to try their first wine and meet their first bachelor. There were only three eligible men at this whole event. One was a middle-aged business man who used to work in securities before the bubble went bust. Turns out that Sonja already had sex with him once after a really wild night at Limelight in 1985. They promised to go shopping together at the new Limelight Mall and relive all the dirty things they did in that VIP room that is now a high-end gelato shop. The second was a 23 year-old acting student who Kelly was in love with. She couldn't figure out that actor's don't play instruments though, and kept asking him to show her how to play her a love song on his bassoon (remember, Kelly, when playing the bassoon and wine parties, you should swallow, not spit!). They ended up getting engaged. The wedding is in a week. The last bachelor was this haughty French gentleman who was far more attractive than anyone at some stupid wine tasting and speed dating event has any business being. Cindy was going to take him back to her place and show him her postcard from Brazil (#IfYouKnowWhatImSayin) but then she found out he hated kids and it was all over. Then he got a booty call from me and came over to my apartment where he yelled insults at me in French and spanked me for several hours. It was just what I needed.

There was something about Alex's very blustery birthday (is she Whiney the Pooh?) but when Cindy and Kelly arrived with all their spawn, they discovered it was actually a baby cooking party, and they were going to roast all the young ones and consume them. As they walked in, Alex was actually basting her youngest in champagne. They made a quick exit.

Then there was this whole crazy interlude where Brazilian Cindy put on some Babel Gilberto and invited everyone down to her hair removal salon, Naked Netherregions or Bare Market or something like that, and told them all they weren't leaving until they relinquished every one of their pubic hairs. She is like the Jesse James of waxing. Then there was this crazy talk about how much hair everyone has down there. Sonja, never one to keep a secret (which is why she was the world's worst KGB agent) tells everyone that she has a landing strip. We're sure it's as busy as a runway at O'Hare with a passed out air traffic controller. Cindy says that she doesn't like anything down there, both front and back. I'm pretending like I don't know what that means even though I do and it is horrifying. Countess Crackerjacks, the queen of propriety, was talking about how inappropriate this whole conversation was while crossing and uncrossing her legs. What made Crackerjacks so uncomfortable was that she didn't want the other ladies to know that she doesn't have any pubic hair. None at all. She just has a tumbleweed in her crotch, and sometimes it blows through the pueblos of the American Southwest, picking up bits of dust, dried cactus needles, oversized turquoise necklaces, and the occasional washed up '80s actor.

Alright, now is the moment all you Spiders from Mars have been waiting for: Ramona walking the runway again. If you'll look into the archives here at the Real Housewives Institute, you'll see that her last trip down the catwalk was a disaster. She was wearing some S&M dress, a side pony, and the patented Ramona Singer crazy eyes. Her eyes were like when you're eating a chicken parm sandwich and you bite down too hard and the whole cutlet shoots out the other side of the bread so you're left with a mouthful of roll and then there is a huge piece of chicken bulging out the other side. That bulging chicken was Ramona's eyes.

Well, this time, she was determined to do better. She bit on her chicken parm sandwich very gingerly so her meat only bulged a bit, but then she pushed it back into the roll so that it looked almost normal. But still she walked like she was dancing on a lazy Susan atop a treadmill and had her arm crooked like she was about to do-si-do her partner round the runway. It was all a little embarrassing. All the other models wore those clear masks with makeup already on them that are popular with bank robbers so that their faces would appear blurry on film and no one would really associate them with the whole ordeal.

Not to be outdone, Alex McCord is working on being the world's oldest living model. No, that's not true. There is that gray-haired woman who you always seen in like Centrum Silver commercials and trying not to poop herself in Activia ads. She's older than Alex. Anyway, Alex went to do a photo shoot so she could get modeling jobs. The creepy photographer introduced Alex to her hair and makeup team, Yoko Ono's depressed sister, Yumi Ono (who is sick of people making the "You. Me. Oh no!" joke) and Alexander Prendergast, the world's first blind hairstylist. They do her up like she's playing the role of Mrs. Lovett in the Paramas Park Dinner Theater version of Sweeney Todd. Oh, those are the worst pies in London, Alex. They really, really are.

So, she takes all her Victorian mourning pictures and the poster for Bride of Frankenstein and then has no time to change before Ramona's big awards dinner, so she just goes looking like Lily Munster first thing in the morning and everyone is like, "Oh, lady! Your hair!" But Alex just laughs it off and tries to make it look glam. That's what we love about Alex, even when things don't go her way, she tries to make the best of it. Alex, you can join me and that kid with the weird braces and the fat girl with the toad voice at the outcasts table in the cafeteria any day.

Yes, Ramona was getting some award for the Best Lady Entrepreneur in the World or something and had to give a speech where she plugs her Jesus Jewelry by HSN, I Can't Believe It's Not Noxema facewash, and Turtle Time Pinot Grigio. She talked about showing her father she could make money and be an independent woman. She talked about the joy of having a beautiful daughter (seriously, she is looking good) and a loving husband. She thanked all her friends who could make it and support on a night that meant so much to her. She talked and talked and talked, being real proud of real accomplishments. But somewhere deep down inside there was something still nagging her. Something pulling her hair into a side pony and making her eyes bulge out of her head in disbelief. She realized she would never be a runway model. Sure, she could get into a rinky dink fashion show every now and again and swivel her hips toward the crowd, but she would never be a Kate or Naomi or Cindy. She would never be tall enough or pretty enough or non-bulgy-eyed enough. This dream would never ever ever ever ever ever ever come true, never. She had reached the point in her life where it was time to give up that unnecessary dream and it was like cutting off a third nipple. She got flustered up there on the dais. She futzed with her note cards looking for the ending, looking to the final chapter of her speech, and as she looked out into the room, full of people who loved her, full of people who supported and admired her, the only thing she could see were the spotlights beating down on her face. How she wished they were flashbulbs. How she wished these people were Anna Wintour and Karl Lagerfeld. How she wished she wasn't there but was instead at some party for the launch of a European ice cream brand with all the fashion people, being glamorous and well dressed. But no, she was here at the Rockefeller Room of a Midtown hotel getting an award. These real accolades, this success would never be enough without happiness. And as her fashion fantasies finally faded away, her speech ended. The applause sounded so hollow.