There’s no use crying over spilled milk, so plucky Scranton Bestwestern and her gal pal Nickel (SL’s equivalent of the dark-haired guy from Wham!) resolve to forget their udder failure as wannabee dairy queens and make another brave foray into the Altus social whirl. This time they join a quilting bee hosted by what appears to be the Grandmothers of the Daughters of the Revolution. Nick’s free spirit decries the lack of “edge” in the simple double-wedding ring artistry of the bemused old girls and suggests a more “cutting edge” approach to their craft (i.e., “How about a few cigarette burns? Maybe some graffiti? Perhaps the incorporation of blood, or fecal matter?” (honestly, I only made the last one up)). Frustrated by the lack of enthusiasm with which her notions of aesthetic enhancements are met, Nick leads Paris the Heiress out the door, shouting offers to bear the accidental offspring of any of the Grandmothers' great great grandsons, if they act now (offer good for 5 short weeks!). Surprisingly, no Southern granny jumps at this chance to mingle her gene pool with that of the Commodores.
Commercial break. See Fox attempt to span the demographics – everything from Dodge to Old Navy. Is it me, or is Lil Kim, a woman who has pasties custom-tailored to fit her aureole, a strange spokesperson for a clothing chain?
Next Albuquerque and Niq (I know she spells it some cutesy way, I just can’t be bothered to remember how) join the Sonic boom and take on McJobs. (Do you know that term is in the dictionary now? It means a low-paying, low-skilled job with no chance of promotion. I am not making that up). Shreveport teeters up to cars with burger-laden trays on her sandpiper legs and I have to question what kind of advertisement she makes for the food. You’d think the deeply carnivorous customers would want to sit her down and make the desiccated waitress quaff a little protein herself. The manager asks the lissome lasses to reword the tasteful Sonic marquee and, giggling at their own bon mots, the girls put something like “Special Doody Anal Buttplug Weiner Dogs” (they tried to spell “booger” but it was too complex; the spelling of “Weiner” is verbatim).
The Sonic Lady is – quell surprise! – unamused by the witticism and instructs the girls to “Take that wiener out! No one said anything about a wiener!” (I repeat. I am not making this stuff up). “That is seriously not funny.” (Actually, I thought it was pretty funny. I’m so immature!). Notably, the manager does not choose to mention the word “anal,” which the Young Ladies have managed to spell correctly; these girls never get credit for anything. The Sonic Manageress decides to discipline Beavis and Buttlette by making them don Sonic Shake costumes. I remember when my daughter was a tot; when she was naughty, I would make her go to school dressed as a Filet O Fish sandwich. She sure learned her lesson!
I have, from post to post, referred to our stalwart farming family as the Clutters, an homage to Truman Capote (obscurity, thy name is Ginger), but given that the Clutters were actually slaughtered in their bunks about 40 years ago, I’ve decided the name might be a skosh goth for this American Gothic. Besides, I do not wish to be perceived as making geosocial slurs or anything, so from now on I’m going to refer to the clan as the Hicks. The Hicks are feeling embarrassed by the girls’ misadventures, so Pa Hicks marches them straight out to the woodshed for a sound whipping. Okay, that only takes place in Pa’s darkest fantasies; actually, he chats with them quietly for about 30 seconds.
After a hard day’s work rolling on the floor of the Piggly Wiggly dressed as a giant beverage, followed by that really boring lecture, what’s a gal to do to unwind but hit the town Hot Spot and Watering Hole, Altus’ answer to Studio 54, “Hog Calls.” (Repeating. I am NOT making this stuff up). To me this name conjures up Ned Beatty squealing like a pig in “Deliverance,” but to Altus youth Hog Calls represents Xanadu (without Olivia Newton John, or the roller skates, or the attractive people). Paris does a pole dance--hard to tell which is pole and which is Paris--while Nicky kisses someone icky (she’ll eat ANYTHING!).
Frankly, the only person on this show you can root for without feeling dirty is the youngest peasant, Braxton. While the Dynastic Duo continually fail to pull their own weight (in Paris’ case, about 6 oz., unless she takes off her mascara), toddler Braxton hitches up a stool, washes all the dishes, polishes the silver, rewires the FryBaby, and still has time for a little religious reflection before bedtime. Braxton is unquestionably adorable, and every time I see him I feel his little paw metaphorically squeeze my heart. I guess you would call that a Braxton Hicks contraction.
Next week: Paris shucks a yokel. Or maybe the lad is simply confused by the “heroin chic skinny” thing and tries to use Paris to pick his teeth. Nicky finds a cure for cancer, and has her clitoris bleached.