Why Can't "I" Be "The Real Housewife of Alabama?"
This is one gorgeous woman. She is typical of those hot, rich chicks who are on reality television shows such as, "The Real Housewives of Atlanta."
THESE ARE JUST A FEW OF THE "EXTRA'S" I PLAN ON HAVING ON MY SHOW.
Some time last week I was "channel-surfing," on my DirecTV system, and for some annoying reason, I ended up momentarily on a reality show entitled, "The Real Housewives Of New York." And what a show that was. Every New York housewife featured on this show was both goregous and rich.
Even their friends were gorgeous and rich. Some of these beautiful women were even meeting in a high-end (naturally) restaurant for "lunch," but all I saw on their crystal-table top tables were small salads with a glass of water and expensive wine, both in expensive crystal glasses.
No meats. No pasta. Nothing that, to me, would even resemble "real" food.
And what got me was the reason these gorgeous and rich women were having a ritualistic-event that they called "lunch," was to help a fellow New York housewife grieve over her upcoming divorce where she stated that he soon-to-be ex-husband, a jeweler or something upscale, would give her in the area of $14 million dollars as a settlement. She even had the "stones," to whimper, "ohhh, I know that "Muffy," (her gorgeous and spoiled daughter) and I just cannot live on that meager amount of money, ladies."
At this point the rest of her gorgeous lady friends, with their manufactured-tears and all, in unison, patted this "poor" New York housewife on the back, but not too hard, for she had just had a liposuction session with her soon-to-be "new" rich and influential husband, the owner of a chain of car washes in the New York area.
No, her new man did not work at any of his businesses. He didn't get out of bed until 1 p.m. every day due to his all-night poker-playing and entertaining fellow New York "fat cats," with his soon-to-be wealthier wife. You know. The grieving New York housewife.
Now correct me if I'm wrong. But don't we already have "The Real Housewives of New Jersey," "The Real Housewives of Dallas," and "The Real Housewives of Malibu?" What is the obsession with spoiled, wealthy, and gorgeous "plastic princesses," we have in our country? Someone please tell me. For I think this "real" housewife thing has already gotten way out of hand.
Why don't these producers give us a similar series, "The Real Gullible Husbands of Anywhere, U.S.A.?" I would like that. To see a gaggle of wealthy, middle-aged guys who pay a plastic surgeon to make them "appear" to be in their early 30's, sitting around a "rich-only" bar crying in their vodka martini's about how they walked-in on their wives having sex with the Rooter Rooter man. That would make my life complete.
But this story was not written in anyone's wishing well, but out of "my" own burning-desire to be "A Real Housewife of Alabama."
"But Kenny," you gasp. "you are a man, not a woman," you argue," to which I reply, "hogwash."
Didn't you realize that in today's "gender-sensitive" America, male or female doesn't figure into any equation that pertains to work ethics, pay, getting a job or even me wanting to be a "real housewife," of my beloved state of Alabama?
The term, "housewife," is a null area and free of any gender-related ideas or thinking. Even the United States Supreme Court would vote in my favor if I sued the Bravo network for discriminating against me for wanting to explore this new area of my life.
This story would saturate CNN, Fox News, Headline News, Nancy Grace and Maury Povich and their networks. Ahhh, what a news story "I" would make too.
There I'd be in my new pair of Faded Glory jeans that I had bought at Walmart and be decked-out in a western-style, flannel shirt with the top three buttons opened as to show off my hairy, manly-chest to all of my female viewers. Hey, the "Real Housewives," of whatever city, wear dresses so tight that the women look out of breath for trying to sit down in them, so why can't "I" wear my idea of male-based clothing that is somewhat revealing? Fair is fair, right, Supreme Court Justice, Clarence Thomas?
As as for hot looks, "I" could handle that also. I just happen to know a few professional cosmetologists who would give their next commission to have "me" as their client. Plus, with the negotiations with a noted plastic surgeon or two, promising to name them in my show, "The Real Housewife of Alabama," he could give me "the" look that makes all women swoon with lust. And for free.
Do we live in a great country or what?
Now when I get my wardrobe and looks just how I want them, I need to get an honest managerial partner, a man or woman whom I can trust, for around eight percent of my gross profits from my show will go to them. I think I know just the guy, Alan Cantrell, a real man, with a real name, and my CPA who does out taxes each year. Cantrell would "jump at the chance," to have a client such as me and my payroll, for up until now, he has had to survive on log trucking companies, retail stores and their taxes, and individuals such as I, who depend on him for an honest and carefully-filed income tax return.
So now, the word must get out to the entire television-watching public. And what better way than to appear on "Late Night with David Letterman"? David, as I will soon call him, has many guests who are as zany as I am. Probably more. And yeah, if the numbers are right, I will bounce on over to NBC and be Jay Leno's guest and before President Obama realizes it, Kenneth Avery will be a star of his own hit reality show on Bravo. What a grand day that will be.
If you have followed my stories on HubPages, then you will recall a similar dream of mine, "I've Always Wanted to Be a Breck Girl," but "this" story you are reading is more-settled than the "Breck Girl," piece.
I do not intend to wear eyeliner, rouge or lipstick. I do though plan on appearing with my professionally-styled "five o' clock shadow," shining like the evening star and maybe just be barefoot as the cameras shoot me and my buddies, who are facing their own divorce battles, sitting around my make-shift lavish living room at a nearby Holiday Inn Express in a nearby town managed by a good buddy, Chad Clark, talking about how much our "ex's" will be getting and all that stuff that accompanies split-up's.
Why the Holiday Inn Express? Well, you go and do the economic math. Until those huge paychecks from Bravo, the checks from my cut of the advertisers who sponsor my show, and personal endorsements start to roll in, I will have to make-do as best I can. So let the American reality-television-hooked citizens of the United States and the world "think" that I live in such lavish digs.
A typical script might go something like this:
BILL: say, Kenneth, you look sad and blue.
ME: do what, Bill? Oh yeah. Well that's from being told by my soon-to-be-estranged wife that I will be forking-over $500.00 a month after she leaves me.
CHARLIE: $500 a month! (Whistles) What a jerk her lawyer is to make you pay her that much.
ME: Thanks, Charlie. And her lawyer, (sips coffee), is not even a divorce attorney, but a part-time litigator when he is not running our local E-Z Lube.
BILL: awww, Kenneth, forget it. There will be other hot girls you can marry.
ME: where, Bill? And if you find them, keep them away from me!!!!
CHARLIE: whewww, never seen you this upset, Ken!
BILL: me neither, well, there was that one time when Rusty Wallace was leading the Daytona 500 a few years back and was beat-out by Dale Earnhardt, Sr., that made Ken real mad for he lost $5.00 to me on a bet that Wallace would win.
ME: (laughs), Awww, Bill. I remember that. Good times. Good times.
CHARLIE: I got it, guys. Let's hit a few cowboy clothing stores and get our minds off of our divorce settlements. Whattaya say?
BILL: Count me in.
You see? "I," with a handful of close buddies, could easily pull this thing off without any hitches.
Well, except one. I have got to convince my lovely wife, Pam, that my buddies and I, and a few hot chick "extras," I have to use in my show are only that--extras and nothing else.
Yeah. That will work. Uh, huh. Pam will buy this alright.
Bravo, here I come.