‘Real Housewives of Atlanta’ Recap: Kenya Moore Is Not Beyonce


I feel like every single Real Wine Tasters of Sour Grapes Cay recap I’ve written this season is exactly the same and they all sound like this: Kernya Moo-ah is absolutely insane and thank God she is around.

That’s all I have to say about last night’s episode, really. It can be boiled down into that, into that one sentence: Kernya Moo-ah is absolutely insane and thank God she is around. She is crazy, but everyone else is being so boring, so all we can do is talk about her.


Seriously, what else happened last night? NeNe Leakes moved, and we have vowed that we would not be discussing moving in any of these recaps. We’re not watching the Real Box Pickers of Manhattan Mini-Storage. No, we are not.

So even a glamorous move where NeNe goes to LA to become a big fat television star is not interesting enough for me to talk about. I will, however, discuss that three people on the show this season have moved. Three! There are only six people in the cast (seven if you count Kim) so that means half of the people on this show have moved. Half! How do you expect me to care about this?

Moving is the third worst thing in the world — behind only cancer and AIDS in terms of worseness. I don’t want to watch that on TV just like I don’t want to punch my nausea and fatigue symptoms into WebMD so it can tell me I have cancer, AIDS, or cancerous AIDS. I don’t want any of that.

We did get to meet NeNe’s granddaughter, Bri’Asia. OK, I just have to say this, but that is a reality TV show name. That is not a real name that belongs to a real person who has a job and sits at a desk and goes home to a quiet life with her husband and kids, soccer practice and episodes of The Good Wife on the DVR. No, people who live that life do not have a name with an apostrophe and a capital letter in the middle. Do you know who does? Reality stars. Well, reality stars and drag queens.

That means your little Bri’Asia is going to grow up to be cackling her head off and fighting with other people on television in front of the whole world. She will only wear designer clothes and will describe herself as a fashionista, a word that will still sadly exist in 2032 like some sort of linguistic cockroach. And that is fine if you want her to wind up just like her grandmother.

NeNe is famous. She is very rich, bitch. She is everything. But that does not mean her granddaughter is going to follow the same path because she has a reality star name. Larry Bird III is just some fat kid who dribbles Monster energy drink on the front of his shirt while he plays World of Warcraft on the Internet.

A name is not destiny. So if you name her a reality star and then she becomes the first female CEO of Bank of America or a checkout girl at the Piggly Wiggly she’s going to sound like she is totally out of place. Congratulations Bryson and Ashley, (which are both normal names) you have given your daughter a life of dashed dreams as a reality TV personality.

Oh, also, NeNe didn’t even find out that her son got a girl pregnant until Ashley was six months along and NeNe ran into her at a party and Ashley was like, “Yeah, I don’t know why Bryson won’t tell you, but here it is!” She rubbed her baby bump in front of NeNe just like Beyoncé did on the red carpet at the Video Music Awards, but no one thought Ashley was Beyonce. Not one single person.

NeNe and Cynthia take Bri’Asia shopping and NeNe buys her a whole mess of dresses and capes and twirly lacy things and head wraps and tiaras and clip on earrings and anklets and all sorts of other shit she does not need and has no occasion to wear.

You might as well bought that baby a pair of crotchless underwear, because that would be equally as appropriate. What this granddaughter needs is not to be turned into a reality TV star which her name has destined her to be. No, she needs bibs and onesies and pacifiers and sun hats and rattle toys that roll around on the ground. She needs all those boring and awful things that no one wants to buy. She does not need dresses. There is no Winter Formal at Cynthia Bailey’s Daycare Center and School for Modeling. There is not.

And Bryson doesn’t even wear anything but sweatpants when he leaves the house, so where is he going to take his baby that she needs a blouse, a dress, and a matching coat (and in the Atlanta heat)?


What else happened this episode? Kandi and her man Todd (whom I want to marry) talked about how they’re not getting married around Kandi’s daughter, who has wonderful glasses. (Her glasses were the most exciting thing in the episode.)

Kandi went furniture shopping with Portia, who we found out does not have a prenup which (insert rave siren noise right here). Phaedra gave her 2-year-old son sweet tea which, well, probably isn’t the worst for him but, you know, probably isn’t the best.

They had a going away party for NeNe which was nice, and Phaedra gave her a photo of all the girls from Anguilla. It was the first picture they had ever taken as a group that wasn’t in front of a step and repeat, so that was sweet. Oh, and Kandi wore a pair of sparkly bootie shorts that are illegal in 38 states and all of Canada. Oof.

So what else are we left with? Just Kernya Moo-ah. That is all. That is all we have now, ladies and gentlemen.

We just have her with a bunch of fake hair on her head that looks like a rumpled up duvet. It’s just her in a boxing ring and too much makeup doing a photo shoot for Krave Magazine (an imaginary publication that exists on one iPad in Kernya Moo-ah’s publicist’s office) while she thinks about how much fun it is going to be when she gets home and gives her new dildo a whirl. That is all we have. This is all we have to look forward too.

Mostly the craziness of Kernya Moo-ah has to do with her fake relationship with Walter which is unraveling, but first we have to talk about one thing that Kernya Moo-ah said.

Oh, you know what I’m talking about. “Every day someone thinks I am Beyoncé.” She said that. She said that with a complete lack of irony. She said that and she actually believes that it is true.

My head has not stopped shaking since I heard it and now my neck is entirely stiff, but it still will not stop shaking. She thinks she looks like Beyoncé.

She actually does. I mean, someone once might have said to her, “Oh you kind of look like Beyoncé,” just like some drunk homosexual told me at a bar once that I look like Paul Rudd. That does not mean that I think that people mistake me for Paul Rudd. It also does not mean that I think like I look like Paul Rudd because, well, I don’t have a beard, chest hair, a boyishly handsome face, and that alluring aroma that only people who have a net worth in the eight figures can emit.

I have none of that, and just because some fool thinks I do does not mean it’s true, it means that person is an idiot.

Then Kernya went on to make it even worse and said, “At the inauguration, everyone thought I was Beyoncé and like 10 people lined up to get my autograph and then there was like 20, then 50, then a 100 people were lined up for my autograph because they thought I was Beyoncé.”

OK, that did not happen. That just did not happen. That is such an obvious lie it’s like when that little Connie Kowalski told you in fifth grade that her grandfather owned Burger King and you were like, “Connie, you’re stupid,” because everyone with a pair of ears who was not given sweet tea in a bath before their third birthday knows it is a lie.

I can see how one dope could say, “Look, it’s Beyoncé,” and ask for an autograph, and then everyone else would just be like “OH, I hear Beyoncé is in there,” and then they’d get in line too and you’d have a little scrum, but once the first person got close enough to actually look Kernya Moo-ah in the face he’d be like, “Oh, never mind, false alarm.”

Because Kernya, as beautiful as she is, does not look like Beyoncé. She doesn’t even look like her sister. Portia, on the other hand, actually looks like Solange. She does.

I would know she’s not Solange, but she bears a resemblance. The only way Kernya looks like the Queen B is that they are both black, both skinny, and both have light hair. Both Neil Patrick Harris and I are tall, white, and gay and that does not make us the same person, it does not at all. Same goes for Kernya and Mrs. Z.

The other thing about the whole Kernya Moo-ah lie about everyone thinking she’s Beyoncé is that Kernya Moo-ah would not let anyone think for a second that she is Beyoncé.

The first guy who was like, “Look! It’s Beyoncé!” would get a “No, I’m Kernya Moo-ah,” thinking that that person would know that she is the second black Miss USA, but they would not. They would not know her from her direct-to-DVD movies, they would not know her for anything.

She would never let herself be mistaken for another celebrity because Kernya thinks that she is a real celebrity. She does. It’s true. She’s so freaking Bonkers (and that is an actual psychological diagnosis) that she thinks she is a celebrity.


So then Kernya took Walter fishing and, well, we all know it’s over.

She was crazy and pressured him into getting married and having babies, and he wasn’t ready. He doesn’t even want to look at her naked body when it is covered in soap like he’s some sort of Jergen’s Body Wash fetishist or something. He is done with her. He’s fishing and checking his watch and has this amused smile on his face that says, “I’m not going to dump you, I’m just going to treat you like shit until you break up with me.” God, Walter, that is a dick move.

That is such a thing for a “nice guy,” to do. He can’t think of himself being the one to do the dumping, so he just waits for Kernya to end it herself.

So they just stand there, casting their hooks into the lake pulling back nothing but pieces of trash and little dried up plants. Kernya stares off across the pond into the morning light that is coming at an angle where you think the rays are actually visible, where you think you can see the sun.

It seems so bright, so warm, as the flies swarm around them, not being a nuisance, just being part of the background. That’s what Kernya sees: the sun, the pond, the bugs, her fishing line, like a tear in the air, launching toward the lake. That’s what she sees, fixates on.

She’s looking so hard, looking so hard at the light that she can’t even see it right next to her. The end is here.

Follow Brian Moylan on Twitter @BrianJMoylan

[Photo Credit: Bravo]


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