Remy is a 28-year-old high-maintenance bridezilla from South Jersey. They show her and her man Rob walking in Philly. Oh, this shit’s too close for comfort.
He says he aims to be a part-time stripper and bartender to keep her financially happy. She refuses to board a Route 21 SEPTA bus. He says he has more shoes than half the women out there. He wears makeup. He’s saying something about people who might come up to her flashing strip-club money at the wedding. He’s declaring he’s going to hit people at the wedding for doing so. She’s saying it’s Egyptian culture. I’m so fucking lost.
They’re even featured on the Golden Nugget Jewelry Facebook page.
The fuck is this?
Why did Bridezillas come to Philly? God, they look familiar, too. Do any local readers recognize that wide-mouthed woman up top or this makeup-laden lad here?
Take another look:
I’ll tell you what, I think I’ve seen him at work before, on sports stories. I’m pretty sure he’s a sportswriter in town. If so, this is gonna be awkward next time I cover something down in South Philly. But hell, I didn’t make Rob go on Bridezillas.
This is so Arthur Kade-ian, I’m having trouble carrying on. Feel like I’m betraying my city. But persevere I will, begrudgingly.
Because a 5.5 carat ring isn’t good enough for her to the point that she demands another ring when they’re down at Golden Nugget at 8th and Chestnut.
When this cat says “I’m getting screwed here,” I sympathize with him.
When she says she wants three when he agrees to two rings, I wish I’d have been down there to convince him to walk the fuck away as fast as he could. And lo and behold, HE STORMS OUT THE STORE!!! But then he mouses his way back in. For love.
Same can’t be said for a chick from Sewell who’s so full of shit and self that she probably can’t eat more than 10 calories a day. Anyway, now she’s chasing geese around the field where they’re supposed to go get their wedding pictures done. Maybe they’re on the Delaware, because there ain’t much more than a little river or camp lake in Sewell. Sewell. One degree from the Wildwood Boardwalk, but without the funnel cake to divert your attention away from the sewage scent.
They’re trying out Rob’s friend James to be a bouncer at the wedding, a gig he thought was already nailed down. She offers a scenario in which James will have to kick children off the dance floor because she. does. not. want. to. fucking. see. children. dancing. at. her. fucking. wedding. (except her nieces, because they’re cute, which is to say she probably doesn’t think other peoples’ children are presentable in public).
She orders James not to hit on bridesmaids. These bridesmaids:
Probably not much to worry about there.
God, I can’t wait to see how this all shakes out next week. Unless Rob tracks me down and starts swinging. In which case, I’ll take comfort in the fact that I have titanium holding my skull together.
Tasha‘s back for a third airing of insanity (part one and two). Yeah, the one who wanted to make her fiance Jeff look more like Clay Aiken. Who is gay. But neither of them realized this when she did his hair up all pretty in pinkish.
He’s just looking to tap Tasha-ass since he ain’t done so yet. Shit like that’ll drive Clay crayzee.
Anyway, she’s doing the same shit she did the last two weeks. Talking about having sex with animals. Taking about how he’s got five inches of manmeat so she looked up on the computer how that ranked for size purposes.
Now she’s saying she might not show up at the wedding. THREE FUCKING EPISODES LATER.
Of course, she shows up for the photo shoot. In a red dress. He was supposed to be blindfolded so he couldn’t see her. But that doesn’t matter because they’re “getting divorced anyway.” Blah blah blah.
She’s reading her vows off a smart phone, on a red-and-black themed wedding “altar,” feet away from which she’s already talking about ending the relationship. This poor fucking guy.