|Starting from the left we have Grego, Kara, Roxy, Joan, Ann and Jana|
It's another crop of silicone balls on stilettos, teetering around like circus clowns on stilts, which is a tired cliche, but so too are these women a tired cliche. Their husbands lurking in the periphery are a little more interesting, but they don't interest me in the way they might interest, Jana Webb, for example.
|An unrelated picture of a trophy wife and the men who lurk about her in ejaculatory anticipation.|
Jana, an opportunist (a.k.a entrepreneur), who long ago left the stench of rotting decapitated chickens in the dust of her Albertan farm town upbringing, says she'd never mess around with another woman's husband, but she's obviously lying.
She freely admits married women are wary of her, and that she's a "single blonde" with an entire "roster" of sexual partners. Presumably she keeps a discerning eye open for new recruits. The problem is that most men are not much of a challenge for the libidinous appetites of female predators who look like Jana. It is only a matter of time before easy prey becomes an unarousing annoyance and bore.
Married men, on the other hand, while still not much of a challenge, can nevertheless be a tad more enticing to Barbie doll types on the prowl, who enjoy the game of a strategic hunt even more than the kill itself. For the huntress, there's something exquisitely satisfying about stalking and conquering another woman's territory.
As for me, I'm more a curious observer of human behaviour than a predator, and like Kurt Cobain "my will is good". My interest in the hideous husbands of plastic women, therefore, revolves more around the generally understood notion that wherever there is a filthy rich man, whether married or not, there's almost always a slimy trail of corruption and debauchery.
These men, however, or at least the people they employ, are quite adept at covering their tracks. So unless you're a shrewd investigative journalist with insider contacts, hacking skills and a bone to pick, or perhaps someone driven by the inner fire of a personal vendetta, you will probably have to resign yourself to speculation and suspicion.
My own suspicious nature directs my scrutiny towards Magna CEO, Donald J. Walker, and his desperate-to-stop-the-aging-process-former-model-Stepford-wife, Joan Kelley-Walker.
While motorcycle-riding Don, who incidentally is the ex-husband of heiress and tabloid fodder, Belinda Stronach (which curiously no one mentions) is up to his shady proclivities, whatever those may be, ole Joan is mindlessly popping brain cells in these totally out of control bubble baths she's constantly having.
|Joan Kelley Walker doing what she does best.|
Speaking of fading beauties who love to brag and are long in the tooth, next we come to an odd duck named Kara Alloway and her portly lawyer husband, Graham Alloway. Kara insists (to Jana, of all people, an expert in the fitness world) that tubby Graham "loves yoga", is "the teacher's pet" and "is REALLY in touch with his body".
But this is merely one of her delusions.
More will come and some may see her flakiness as charming, which seems to be the case with her husband. He speaks to her in that indulgent yet paternalistic way privileged, confident men of reasonably good humor speak to the ditzy women they "keep" or marry, as if these women are not self-aware human beings at all, but beloved, ridiculously pampered poodles.
For Kara's part, she's adapted to the poodle role well and sounds like a yappy fluff ball, babbling idiot or the "born again Christian" she claims to be (which in some circles all mean the same thing).
She holds some bizarre ideas regarding Jesus Christ as well, believing he was nailed to a cross, died a barbaric death and descended into the torments of hell before being resurrected, not to save lost souls, but so that 2000 years later she, Kara Alloway, could be "fabulous", "party" and "want for nothing".
Even more moronic than that, Kara purportedly thinks that most Christians are misguided, not because they deviate into sin, but because they have "hairy armpits and wear long skirts and Birkenstocks". This, according to her interpretation of scripture that she clearly has never read, goes against God's will that "Jesus freaks" wear high heels, "the higher the heel, the higher to God". It should go without saying, then, that there's something exceedingly stupid about Kara and she does McGill's reputation NO FAVOURS by claiming them her source of higher education.
As for our next housewife, the voluptuous Roxy Earle, I don't know where she was educated, but she too sounds pretty stupid, as she prattles on in her vocal fry voice about spending the equivalent of a small mortgage on her fucking dog. She cannot think of ANYTHING else to do with all that money she has access to, even though she lives in a city with an epidemic of homelessness, poverty and other social ills a few bucks could help alleviate.
Otherwise, besides being clueless regarding the underclass and how they suffer, Roxy is bubbly and likable the way giggly extroverts are. But as is often the case with this mold of person, there's not much substance beneath the adipose tissue and mammary ducts. She's the second wife of Raghu, a wealthy investment banker, who is comparatively slight in build, has an affinity for loud paisley and is 17 years her senior. Is this marriage the result of "true love" or a business arrangement? Either way, the sleaze factor should be apparent with those few above details alone.
And the sleaze does not stop there. Next we have another vacuous piece of ass named Grego Minot. She is married to Pierre Jutras, nighttime/restaurant mogul and president of The Spoke Club, which is open to private members only. That's the way Sleazy with a capital S works - shrouded in mystery like a secret Masonic lodge dance ritual involving young, scantily clad granddaughter-aged girls entertaining geriatric men (essentially making these "men" pedophiles as far as I'm concerned, but that's another issue), with white hair and sunk in faces, who drool as they clutch Cialis in their tremulous hands in a haze of demented horny confusion.
With regards to Pierre, he might not be classified as geriatric quite yet, but he looks even more cosmetically tampered with than his pretty "yahooing", life-of-the-party wife, another woman sorely lacking in substance.
This finally brings us to Ann Kaplan-Mulholland, whom I sort of liked, but think she should reconsider letting her well-respected plastic surgeon husband, Dr. Stephen Muholland, touch her with a scalpel because she's looking rather Michael Jackson-esque.
Maybe munchkin Stephen with his slicked back hair and noble crusade to improve the already improved lives of vain socialites desperate to stay young would do a better job than whomever Ann is currently seeing.
But maybe not.
With a bout of hepatosplenomegaly and Ann swearing off booze for the sake of her dear, two-tiered health care promoting hubby, perhaps he has a little drinking problem. Alcoholics tend to shake, although watching Stevie in action performing an "instant rhinoplasty" at the "procedure party" they just "happened" to throw together, he appears to have the steady hand of a non-drinker...as well, I might add, as the clear conscience and steely resolve of a reincarnated Dr. Mengele.
So there you go. More reality TV exploiters and hustlers for us common folk to keep a watchful eye on, either for escapist amusement or for some other felonious motive one can only assume...
~ Comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable ~
The Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 2: The Boring Housewives of Toronto
The Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 3: The Polished Real Housewives of Toronto