Well, it only took us 18 long episodes, but finally the golden goose of drama alit on the wonderful ladies of Beverly Hills and, as Lisa Rinna so deftly pointed out, it took a big golden shit on Dorit’s head as it circled above. This all happened at Lisa Vanderpump’s Diamonds and Rosé Party brought to you by the Agency, which was also serving as this season’s 47 rosé launch. It sort of looked like Trivia Night from Big Little Lies and I prayed to everything holy that by the end of the episode one awful husband would end up dead at the bottom of a flight of stairs.
There were two big, multipronged fights happening, but both of them really centered around Dorit, a Furby operating system that was installed in a sex doll and then married to Patrick, the starfish that lives in a pineapple under the sea. Sadly this almost certainly ensures that she’s going to be back for next season, which exasperates me to no end. This is Trump’s America, and these are the sacrifices that we need to make.
It starts when Dorit is at the bar with Kim Richards (looking surprisingly good) and tells her that things aren’t going well with the women. Kim starts digging, hoping that Dorit has some trash to talk about her nemesis, Lisar, and, of course, she does. Dorit brings up the Hong Kong fight when Lisar asked her, “Do you trust your husband?” Now, this question, which seems awful when taken out of context, was actually a valid question at the time. They were arguing about “Pantygate,” and Lisar asked if Dorit trusted her husband because, if she did, then she shouldn’t have cared whether or not her husband got a flash of Erika’s vagina. This was actually a very salient point.
Dorit repeats it back to Kim and says that maybe Lisar is projecting her problems with her husband, and you can see Kim lick her lips with a giant cartoon tongue, like she’s Scooby-Doo trying to lick a faceful of ice cream off his mug. This is the same dirty insinuation that Kim made against Harry Hamlin two seasons ago. Dorit’s dirty m.o. seems to be saying these things with an implication but not really straight out saying them so that she can later deny that she made the association. The same thing happened with Lisar and her Xanax problem. Dorit was never like, “Lisar has a Xanax problem,” but she was leading these horses to rosé and just waiting for them to drink.
The best part about this fight wasn’t the fight itself. We’ve gone over these points repeatedly throughout the season (and just wait until we have to rehash Pantygate again in a minute). The best part was that we finally got to see a brief glimpse of Lisa Vanderpump manipulating the action, which the women have been accusing her of for years. As Kim is telling Kyle and Lisa about how awful Lisar is, Lisar yells across the party to greet Kim and tell her that her grandson Hucksley is very cute and most certainly does not have the same name as a rescue dog. When Lisar yells at them, Lisa says to Kim, as if under her breath, “Tell her we’re talking about her.” And Kim does!
That’s it. That’s what it takes, and that is what Lisa has been doing for seven long seasons without any of us knowing it, just slowly guiding how these things are going to explode and doing it without nearly anyone noticing. It’s brilliant. Sadly this time Lisar does not take the bait, but now it’s Eileen’s turn to do what she does, and that is draw everyone’s attention to an argument that isn’t hers.
Lisar is telling Eileen and Erika about how Kim yelled out to her, and rather than leave it alone, Eileen yells out to Kyle to get her to come over and start talking to Lisar about it. That of course brings Dorit and Lisa over. Then Kim wobbles over, like an empty Zima bottle you knocked off a coffee table. Then Erika has to excuse herself because that is her job. “It’s time to make the doughnuts,” she says, flicking her rosé-colored hair as she saunters across the party.
Everyone was gathered around in this little scrum, and the worst part about it was that Dorit’s husband, PK, a broken beer bottle full of sharts, kept staring at them, lingering off to the side. He’s poking his pudgy little head in, watching the action unfold and just dying to get into the fray. God, these two just want to be on reality TV so bad it’s disgusting. The other day I was on the subway and a baby had diarrhea. The father held the baby, naked from the waist down, out by its underarms as the mother went to fetch a clean diaper from the bag. Before she could get back, the baby’s ass just started to pour brown ooze like someone had turned on the poop faucet and it just splattered there right on the concrete of the platform. That is what it is like watching the Kemsleys on reality television.
I’m not even entirely sure what Dorit and Lisar were fighting about, but eventually Lisar brings up how Dorit treated Erika, and once again we’re back talking about Pantygate and I just want to die. PK, a rat sculpture made out of pubes, decides to come over just at that moment to “bring his wife some water,” which was just a lame excuse so that he could join the fight.
He had absolutely no business being there, but Erika took the bait and asked him a question. Instead of answering the question, he launches back into how Erika is “inherently cold” and keeps calling her “honey.” Erika is not going to stand for that, and tells him not to call her honey. He responds, “I call people honey.” Well, of course he does, that is because PK is not just a moldy burrata stuffed into a sheep-skin condom, but he is also an awful jerk who hates women and demeans them by refusing to use their names in their face. He tries to call Eileen “honey” too and she tells him to “just stop,” which is sort of how every human being with even half of an eye would feel after watching this.
It was all so awful and it finally ends, and then, out of nowhere, Eden Sassoon decides that she needs to say something and shouts at Lisar, “I gave you everything, you bitch,” and it is far too little too late, and everyone sort of giggles like it’s cute that Eden thinks that anything she says or does matters at all. Oh, Eden, please take your Carrie Bradshaw–goes–to–the–ballet dress and leave us alone, forever. Thanks.
As Eden and Erika and Kyle all pile into their cars once again, we’re reminded of that little scrum from earlier, when they all stood around rehashing the events of this season. Did you ever notice how this is what happens at every single party? By the end, the women are huddled in the corner screaming at each other. The husbands stand in a half-empty room together, joshing each other for trying to get involved and being defeated. All eyes are on their wives, as if the drama conjures energy, as if it can bring people back from the dead.
That is what seemed to happen at Lisa’s party, as Dorit and Lisar’s conflagration drew everyone over to them. Not just Kyle, Lisa, Eileen, and Erika, but ghosts of Hosuewives past, too. Kim Richards came over, finally happy to be able to stand in heels at an event. St. Camille of Grammer popped by, too, to let her halo spark some light on the controversy. You could see other spirits arriving, too. Adrienne, Queen of the Maloofs, a race of mole people that live under the mountain, was digging underground trying to reach the party in time. Carlton Gebbia flew over the scene on her broom, her head held back in a cackle. Joyce Giraud, a balloon that no one wants, wafted by on the breeze before popping. It seems like someone said Brandi Glanville’s name three times, because she appeared from the black abyss with a podcast microphone, hoping to catch a little bit of stray gossip. Taylor Armstrong is still in Colorado, but her top lip is big enough that it got all the way to the Inland Empire, which is almost Beverly Hills. Dana “Pam” Wilkie could not make it because she is in jail or dead or on a one-way trip to Mars where she’s going to grow $25K sunglasses in her own poop or something.
Who know? Who cares? Eden does, because all of those ghosts came together and they each put a hand around one of her spindly arms and dragged her soul through the night sky, over the million-dollar houses and empty sports cars, the overpriced boutiques and the personal training gyms. They sailed her past the stars, past the palm trees, and up to Malibu where Yolanda Bananas Foster was waiting in her beautiful gray leather jacket standing behind the glass door of her glorious fridge. “Come,” she said to Eden. “Join us. Leave your fields to flower.” And one by one they piled into that enormous fridge as a single bolt of lightening struck the ocean off in the distance, making a flash of light. But the crackle was gobbled up in the briny expanse of the sky.