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Monday, December 19, 2011

"Real Housewives of Atlanta" Season 4, Ep. 8: God gave Kim Zolciak a hole to ___

Who would sleep with someone for money, naively wonders Kim Zolciak
  • NBC Universal
  • Who would sleep with someone for money, naively wonders Kim Zolciak
Fill in the blank. "God gave you a hole to" ... Sip from a bendy straw? Score a golf hole in one? Hide pirated treasure in? Please enlighten us, moral deity Kim Zolciak:

“God gave you a hole to get your money from.” Ohh, to do that. Kim is of course referring to Marlo Hampton, the non-Housewife socialite dating the former fling of Nene Leakes. Last week, Kandi Burruss had Marlo on her hit show "Kandi Koated Nights" (voted number one by crackheads with an Internet connection at 3 am) and asked Marlo where she got her money from. The answer: gold-digging. But Marlo immediately pulled the Beyonce Knowles approach and answered, "God."

The scene: Cynthia Bailey's Modeling Agency opening, aptly titled the Bailey Agency. Kandi is rehashing what Marlo said on her show, and Marlo is dropping "Big Poppa" as a pseudonym for "Sugar Daddy" left and right. Of course Big Poppa was Kim's previous sugar daddy before current baby daddy and Falcons professional athlete Kroy Biermann. "I've heard Marlo sleeps with wealthy men and they give her money or buy her nice things," Kim tells the camera. "Who does that?” Kim wasn't having any of it, so she and Kroy left the party. Speaking of which, Kim moved into Kroy's Roswell McMansion this episode. The producers cut to a maudlin flashback of Kim's Duluth townhouse and all the memories shared in that warm, Herpes-ridden hearth. Kim had her visitors sign their name to a small wall to remember their entrance a la Chez Kim. (Her daughter wrote "Moose" over Nene's signature. Ha!) Of course Kim moved her wigs personally with her in the car, each one more precious than the last with stripperific names like Farrah, Sierra, Dolly, Candy and Ridickulous. By the way, as decreed by Sir Andy Cohen, from this day forward, all sugar daddies shall hence be known as Big Poppas.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Cynthia pretty much hates her life. She hates Atlanta, she hates her deadbeat husband Peter, she hates his failed business ventures and she hates that despite her beauty, she's getting too old to model. She's deadset of making some changes up in the A. Top priority: she's going to bring some "New York class to Atlanta." First stop: the mall. She gets the girls to hit up a mall gallery classily titled Chic Gallery to look at some hideous sculptures of baby crocodiles and turtles cracking out of their shell. Arty. Coming from Noo Yawk, she can spot good art a mile away, like the TJ Maxx-worthy painting approrpiately worded "Who invited all these tacky people to the party?"

Her next mission as an independent women is to open her own modeling agency, or as Phaedra put it, a way to steal money from girls before they become lawyers or doctors with real incomes. You know, Nene was a model. Anyway, to celebrate her first business, Cynthia threw a party with invitations sent out the week of. Shockingly, only three people RSVPed to her party. Cynthia was sure no one would show up. That really is the worst feeling in the world. It reminds me of when I had a pool party and made a huge bowl of rummy rum punch. But when no one showed up, I got completely wasted with my roommate by the pool. By the time people did show up, we were pretty much incoherent. But luckily Cynthia didn't face our sad fate! She shed a few tears, but luckily people showed up her to her little dog and pony show! Everyone but PETER!

Okay, Peter was at the party, but not when his wife Cynthia needed him. Cynthia helped her husband all last season with his failed restaurant, even bailing him out (Bailey-ing him out, am I right?). He does nothing to help her, and her sister Malorie is constantly kvetching too. Still she thanks both of them at the party, and Peter is no where to be found. Peter? Peter? Where are you?

Oh, he's just using his hole.

Cynthia's had enough. Her final mission is to reclaim Sherman's cause and set the city ablaze in a grand fire like the one burning in Nene's loins. With kerosene and a single match, she started with torching the agency, laughing maniacally as it spread to women's weaves and knock-off handbags. Soon the stucco building burst into flames as the fire reflected in Cynthia's posessed eyes. Her laugh slowed as she took in the destruction she unleashed, feeling not sad but empowered by her wild madness as the fire spread first down Cypress St., then to Piedmont Park, and soon throughout the whole city. Alas, Atlanta could no longer control her. Cynthia would control her own destiny. Finally, forty-four-year-old Cynthia would have a fresh start.

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