We’re back with the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and the drama rages on!

We are thrown back into the very redundant storyline of Kim Richards maybe, or maybe not, being sober anymore. She’s a hot a mess whether she’s back on the booze or not, and these woman are taking every opportunity to let her know that.

Brandi Glanville took a trip to Yolanda Foster’s house in Malibu. Just an FYI—when I die, bury me in this amazeballs house.

Anyhoo, I was quite confused by this visit because, as Popdust previously reported, last episode Brandi accused Yolanda’s 17-year-old daughter of being an alcoholic, which was so strange and super aggressive. Brandi is your typical coward. She gets backed in a corner, gets afraid, and spits fire. Yolanda should have slapped the bitch last week and sent her ass walking down Pacific Coast Highway.

Regardless, it seemed she forgot about it, or just knows that Brandi is batshit crazy. Yolanda asked Brandi to go on a 21 day cleanse, which means no alcohol. Brandi’s calling card is being a drunk lunatic. This cleanse will last for 12 hours max, peeps.

Kyle Richards and Lisa Vanderpump discussed the current situation with Kim. The ladies sipped tea and both agreed that Brandi plays a big role in Kim’s current situation—whatever it may be. Lisa still hates Brandi, so she happily takes any opportunity to blame something on her. In Brandi’s defense, she truly is all these bitches talk about. If Brandi didn’t get hammered and act a fool I’m afraid the show would be a bunch of middle aged woman discussing their latest trip to Bed Bath and Beyond.

Eileen Davidson was having dinner with her husband, Eddie. These two have been married for like 100 years, but they’re still pretty awkward. I definitely took a walk to the kitchen during this snooze fest scene. Eddie wrote a screenplay and wanted all of Eileen’s actress friends to come do a table read. Actress is a very loose term in LA…

Lisa Rinna and Queen Vanderpump rode together to Eileen’s house for the table read. Rinna is still hell bent that Kim is back on the booze train. She thinks it might be a good idea to stage an intervention. It’s honestly cute that these loonies think their interventions ever A) go well and B) come from a good place.

Despite her slight obsession with Kim’s past addict ways, I do genuinely think Lisa Rinna is concerned for her. Vanderpump wants no parts in said intervention however—and I can’t blame her. These bitches are cray cray.

Brandi was at the beach with her gorgeous BFF, Jennifer Gimenez. She is a recovering addict and has been sober for many years, so she was the perfect person to discuss Kim’s current situation with. Ironically enough, Ken called Brandi to invite her to Lisa’s upcoming birthday party. He seemed SO thrilled about it. If he had the choice between willingly spending an evening with Brandi or playing in oncoming traffic, homeboy would be front and center on Sunset Blvd.

Cut to Eileen’s house for the table read. All the ladies are there, minus Brandi and Yolanda. Yolanda was at home taking her 65 vitamins and planning a scavenger hunt. Another day in the life. Back at the table read and it’s a beautiful fucking train wreck. These women truly believe that they are all Oscar winning actresses. Kim was playing with a puppet. God bless her.

Brandi and Kim were en route to Lisa’s birthday party. They brought along Paris Hilton's mom, Kathy, who looked like she would have rather spent her evening in an electric chair. The party looked pretty odd because other than Mohammed, Queen Vanderpump’s bestie, there were only Real Housewives in attendance. Ken and Lisa were on their way to the party. Lisa thought they were headed to Chateau Marmont, but Ken insisted there was an issue at Pump that they needed to deal with before. Much to her surprise, she walked into a surprise party full of Botoxed plastic surgeried psychopaths.

Lisa gave a speech thanking everyone but Brandi for coming—but, when she got back from the ladies room, Lisa asked her to sing a song because she knows she hates doing so. Brandi sang and it sounded like a dying animal. Then, the rest of the women got up for a stab at a potential American Idol audition. Now all of the women were singing and I wanted to hurt myself. Brandi called them the “Menopause Mamas”. Spot fucking on.

Next week - looks like more Kim drama!

Don't miss The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills Tuesdays at 9pm on Bravo.

The year was 2008. The month was..well, I don’t remember but it was...whenever Forgetting Sarah Marshall was playing in theaters.

About 12 minutes into the film, there he was—a statuesque hybrid of Edward Scissorhands and Willy Wonka with just a dash of The Peculiar Purple Pie Man, of Strawberry Shortcake fame.

I was enchanted: That face, that swagger, that devil- may- care- je- ne- sais- quoi. I waited until the credits for his name to come up. Russell Brand.

I’d never heard of him. Perhaps he had a website? Maybe a second rate agent who operated out of a studio apartment in Reseda? Or maybe, just maybe, he was on Myspace (yeah, remeber it WAS 2008).

And so, I Myspaced him, and yes, I don’t know which is more egregious: seeking a date on Myspace or using “Myspace” as a verb.

My opening line was simple and direct, with just a touch of Continental panache so he knew I was Euro Sympatico.

“Hi. Do you want to french?" To which he coyly replied, only moments later, "I don't know what that means, but I most certainly want to do it with you. Meet me at The Chateau Marmont. 9PM.”

So at 9 PM I showed up there, and then this happened.

"Hello. I'm Russell. And you are?”

But before I answered, he asked another question, "Are you having a lovely evening then?"

"I am. And you?"

As we continued to lob preliminaries back and forth, it became increasingly clear that he had no idea who the fuck I was.

"Do you know who I am?"

"No. I'm afraid you left that part out of the conversation."

"I'm Lori. I was supposed to meet you here.”

The fact that I had to identify myself left me wondering how many other girls he was meeting there.

“Oh, yes, of course! Your hair looks different!”

That explains it. It was at least a half and inch longer than it was in my Myspace profile pic.

“Join me on the patio, won’t you?”

He extended his leather bound arm and whisked me to a corner candle lit table, which was already occupied by his mother and various members of his entourage.

Meeting the family. An event so stressful it should be placed in between death and public speaking. And yet, there I was, being baptized by fire without so much as a flame retardant jacket.

I swiftly surveyed the audience and determined his mother to be the least treacherous of all the faces, so I took the seat next to her. Plus she was sitting in front of the stuffed mushrooms.

I showed up mid topic and was therefore excluded as Russell's posse yammered fluently on alien subjects like Viscount Severn and spotted dick. Inside jokes and British colloquialisms were tossed about, spiked with English accents so thick I wondered if they were speaking…well, English.

I shifted nervously in my seat, frantic to come up with an opener, or at least something to do with my hands. I felt my thumb instinctively make its way toward my butt when Russell finally interrupted. “Let’s go back to my place and snog.”

So I drove us to his mansion where we snogged on his balcony. We made our way over to the couch. We started on the west side and by the time we’d rolled over to the east bank, I was chuck nude. That’s right. He works fast.

Russell kept his pants on so there was no tender love making and after the make out, he inadvertently revealed what was perhaps his reasoning for not trying to go all the way.

“Let’s go down stairs and watch telly. Get dressed, fatso.”

No way. Did I just? Did he just? He didn’t just call me…did he? Oh yes. Oh yes he did. He called me ‘fatso.’

I continued to get dressed on autopilot, the way trauma victims continue to function after an earthquake or a gang rape. I should mention that I’m 5’7 and at this point weighed about 135 pounds. Not fat by any means but not skinny enough to call me “fatso” and have it land as obvious irony. Also, he winced incriminatingly after saying it-as if bracing for retribution.

We went downstairs and into the kitchen where we were greeted by Brand’s mother and his asshole assistant, Sharon.


“Darling. I’m performing tomorrow at The Will Roger’s Theater. Why don’t you come with my mum?”

“Uh…uh huh.” I nodded, still on post-traumatic autopilot.

“Great. I’ll leave your name at will call.”

Yeah. That’s ‘Fatso.’ With an ‘F’.

So, I never took him up on his oh-so-kind invitation.. but then, fast forward five years and this happens at the 2013 pre-Oscars party —at the original scene of the crime—The Chateau Marmont.

“Hello! And aren’t you a fetching enchantress! And who might you be?”

I studied his face. Not a glimmer of recognition. Not even a whisper of detection despite the fact that we had met five years earlier standing a mere 10 feet from where we were at that exact moment!

“I might be Lauren,” I offered cautiously, hoping that switching out a few letters would help foil his memory.

And so we flirted, Russell gazing longingly into my cleavage whilst inadvertently grazing his dong against my hands, which were folded and resting just below my waist.

“Smashing! May I have your phone number?”

Shit. If I give him my number, it’s possible it might just pop up in his phone. Then the jig would be up, and the safety of this undeserved anonymity would be lost. He would know I was “fatso.” The one who stood him up at The Fonda and never called him back.

But I liked him! I couldn’t help it! He was blindingly charismatic, witty, handsome and so very, very English.

So I gave it to him. (310) 582-4othernumbers. Brand stared at his phone in disbelief.

“Lori?? You’re already in my phone! How could this be?”

“Well,” I stammered….”It’s a small town.”

It’s a small town? What does that even mean? How would that even possibly suffice as a reasonable explanation or even a response? But somehow, it satisfied Brand.

Still, this is a man who on many occasions has demonstrated an intelligence quotient that surely soars well into the genius range. Couldn’t it allow for one more gigabyte?

He texted the very next day.

“Have dinner with me. We'll hold hands and muck about." The English are so very merry.

"Can't tonight," I stalled, thereby wedging myself deeper into his affections. Also, I was unclear as to the definition of 'muck,' and feared it might involve my rectum.

But Brand would have none of it, and raised the stakes by calling me on the phone in a move that hearkened back to the late '90s.

“You are such a pain in the ass. I’m picking you up and we’re having dinner.”

So he did. His chef cooked us some unidentifiable vegan slop. We chatted, we laughed, we even snogged again. And never did it dawn on Russell that we were both living some cartoonish version of Ground Hog Day.

We’d done it all before. He had seen me naked! I’d even met his mother! Was this a case of unbridled celebrity narcissism? Or perhaps retroactive drug induced amnesia?

No. This was simply a case of being lost in an infinite sea of celebrity bolstered estrogen. I was the vaginal equivalent of a needle in a haystack and vaginal volume of this magnitude would require a filing system far too advanced for even today’s technology.

And so, this hapless, helpless creature deferred to his penis for all information and direction, and, at least in this instance, his penis came up short.

No pun intended.


She's grumpy, she's surly, she wears a lot of Chuck Taylors. But Kristen Stewart will be damned if she's gonna let you step in vomit!

The Twilight super star appointed herself "barf marshal" at the Chateau Marmont recently and Popdust has the vomitlicious exclusive scoop.

Seems another hipster had tossed her chia chip cookies just shy of the toilet—Mayhem ensued, as there are only two stall in the women's room.

K Stew generously positioned herself between the two stalls for a good twenty minutes, guiding traffic in the appropriate direction.

Stop! Don't step in the hurl!


"You so don't wanna go in there," she explained to aspiring urinators. "This chick totally hurled."

Some she even engaged in conversation-speculating on what triggered the regurgitation and even entertaining a brief discussion on Bella Swan's super powers.

"Bella Swan doesn't have super powers," she explained.

"I know but what if she could like, breath fire or see in the dark or something?"

"….Yeah….. That would be cool……Oh! Don't step in the vomit."