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Last night's episode of Real Housewives of Trash Island brought us back to Punta Cana for another round of sex jokes, and then it ended with a song.

I'm not really sure why they felt they needed to divide the Punta trip into two episodes because really nothing that remarkable happened in this second go-'round. All the fussin' and the fightin' happened in the last installment so all that was left was a bunch of people spluttering around a foreign isle, showing their butts and acting foolish.

Yeah, at one point Joe Gorga was golfing with all the boys, I guess because these maroons think that's what you do when you are men of leisure as they are, you go and you play golf, except none of them could really play golf so at one point Joe pulled down his pants and mooned everybody. Or wait, no, that wasn't when he mooned everyone. That was later? Earlier? It really is all too muddled to tell. The point is that Joe showed his bare ass at some point in Punta Cana and Greg the manservant's eyeballs fell out of his face and rolled down the beach and into the ocean and floated in the currents all the way to Antarctica and they are still there, blinking, amazed at what they saw. So, good for Joe Gorga, for always acting like a grown adult and never seeming latently obsessed with men's private parts.

Oh! Speaking of private parts, there was a thing where the two Joes were like getting along or whatever and eventually their braggadocio bragging devolved, inevitably, into a debate about the size of their John Jeffereys and Joe Gorga was all like "I'll pull it out, I'll pull it out," and went so far as to undo his pants a little, and you could tell that he was, inside, awash in such a thrill that he could barely contain himself. Meanwhile Greg had fainted and collapsed and Lauren was trying to revive him with smelling salts but it wasn't working.

The big thing of the Punta Cana trip, part two, was that Teresa decided that she wanted to make her next cookbook, her third, a "fusion" thing between Italian food and Italian food. I mean Latin food. Teresa screwed that up last night, but it's OK, I mean the Italians used to speak Latin, like a hundred years ago or something, so it all kinda makes sense in the end. But the point is that Teresa didn't feel like she was getting the true Latin food experience from the Hard Rock Hotel's club sandwiches, so she needed to be like Bourdain and go out into the field to experience real DR cuisine. Because the DR really is known for its food. That's what everyone's always saying about that. And because no one on this show can ever do anything alone (unless you're Danielle, in which case pretty much everything is alone), she dragged everyone with her to the little town center so she could fondle various meats. Quite literally!

Mostly what Teresa did was go to the chicken carcass store and hold chicken carcasses while the other ladies screamed. Sure she was also asking about their "spices," curious to know what mystical powders and potions these weird foreigners put on their vittles. It was all pretty embarrassing and colonial seeming, as all the bitches had been raving about how much they love Punta Cana but when they were actually, y'know, in Punta Cana they found everything gross and scary. Melissa especially, clucking about how she was getting chicken guts "on my Guccis." Hey Meliss? No one give a cold red shit what tacky brand of shoes you're wearing, so pipe down. Meanwhile Teresa barked at all the food people in her Teresa language and asked them if they'd heard of her cookbook. Teresa have you even heard of your cookbook? I know you know that it's a "New York Times' bestseller's" but do you even know what that means? Or is it more "picture-words make the money come"? All that considered, I simply cannot wait for this third fusion cookbook. Oh man, that's gonna be good. "Hun, I was thinking about making this recipe from the Housewife book, you know, the one for cold Dominican chicken carcass? All you have to do is rub 'spice' on it and throw it on a plate. Yum!" That's going to be a good cookbook.

Exhausted from being culturist and xenophobic and just plain old dumb all afternoon, everyone decided to retire for a bit before heading out to one final dinner in Punta Cana. Yeah, the trip had come to an end. At least there was this one last night to get everything right. So everyone was napping, except for our three young men: cherished silken princeling Albie, black-gutted cinder lord Chris, and their trusty kept man, Gregor of Hoboken. This gave them time to discuss the various business wheelings and/or dealings that the two brothers – one sunbeams, the other moon farts – had gotten themselves caught up in. Specifically, they are investors or promoters or something of a product called "Blk." which is the name, probably, of a scuttled late-‘90s R&B outfit, but also of a vitamin water type of product that is, I guess, black. Black water. Like the river in King's Landing. Delicious! I love drinking black liquid, it's just always a sign that something is both good and good for you. "If it's black, knock it back," is a saying we always said at the orphanage where I grew up.

So yeah, it's not the most thrilling product on the market, but it's all they've got (and obviously Chris, dark knight of the midnight swamps, loves the viscous black substance) and they want to really make it pop. This is for all the marbles, this is the thing that proves them mature and capable men, not just mewling babies forever suckling at the Brownstone's low and supple teat. It's a big deal for sure, but is it such a big deal that they have to waste their last night of Punta paradise fretting about it? Chris and the devoted Greg said no, but Albie couldn't stop stressing about it, his normally smooth coconut face creasing into worried patterns, his marble eyes suddenly dim and faraway. We're losing him, the ever watchful Gregor thought, though he did not say it. It was not his place to say anything.

Chris assured Albie that they would deal with everything when they got home, but for now it was time to have fun. So Albie turned on a false and troubling smile and they sauntered off to dinner, three cocksure young men prodded and warmed by island breezes.

Dinner was a hibachi sit-at-the-grill kind of affair, so everyone was spread out around the square viewing bar. To liven things up, it being the last night and all, the boys decided to hold a little mock contest called Punta Princess or something. Basically the gag was that the women on the trip – Jacq, Caroline, Teets, Meliss, Joe Gorga in a wig, and Kathy – would be assessed like in a beauty pageant, rated on everything from fashion to creativity to smarts. Teresa got the panel's fashion vote because of all the crazy outfits she managed to pull together, even down one suitcase. Then Kathy won something, maybe it was creativity I don't really fuckin' remember, so that was good for her. And then came the intellect one, which was a toughie. Hard to say who the real brain was here. I guess Jacqueline and Caroline weren't really participating at this point, because Caroline definitely would have won brains over any of the other pool toys, so instead they just went straight to Melissa and asked her who the vice president was, the current vice president.

It was a funny kind of thing, because on one hand Melissa was glad for the attention, she is always glad for the attention, but on the other she had just been put majorly on the spot. The look of dread on her face as she couldn't come up with the answer was sad and great. The other wives, well mostly Teresa, shouted incorrect answers in a vain attempt to snatch the win, but unfortunately for Teresa, Hillary Clinton is not the VP. Nor is Bill Clinton or Dick Cheney or Mr. Belvedere or Mr. Cannelloni from the butcher shop when she was a kid. None of them, none of Teresa's guesses, are the vice president. Finally, after some helpful whispering from other people, Melissa yelled "It's Biden! Biden, it's Biden. Joel Biden." She was right! She earned the intellect prize and I guess that means she won. Here's your Punta Princess 1986, everyone.

Melissa's big prize was a chance to do a song performance at the huge opening night gala for Blackwater: A Different Kind of Poison. Yes! Finally a gig. She's literally been dreaming of this her whole past few weeks. This was a big deal. It was a big deal for Joe too, because, as he tactfully said to us, "I put that recording studio in there and now I want to see some payoff." That's a good, realistic way to look at your wife's artistic ambitions, Joe. Good, sound thinking right there.

Anyway, whatever the reasons, Melissa was going to perform at the big Blk. Rain party. She was real nervous! Which is fair, I mean that is scary, to sing in front of people for the first time, especially when you can't sing. (I mean look, she's not terrible, but she's definitely more Florence Foster Jenkins than she is Edith Piaf.) But she did it anyway! Yes she screwed her courage to the sticking place and thrust her midriff out into the world and she sang. Of course we didn't hear her sing. We saw her dance with her backup dancers, but we did not hear her sing. No instead Bravo played a recording of her song over the footage, which was a strange choice. One made, I'm assuming, to protect Melissa from abject embarrassment. But whatever, if she'd done terribly it certainly didn't show in the faces of the audience, as everyone whooped and danced and clapped while their little Meliss thundered around on stage. At the end she was a tearful mess, clutching a bouquet of flowers given to her and thanking god and her deceased father for this wonderful, momentous moment. Hey girl, this ain't about you! This party is about Blackwater, Dick Cheney's water line made from the sweat of mercenaries. I get that it was a big deal for her, but was it really that big a deal? I mean, it's not like she hasn't performed before. Granted when she performed before she wasn't singing and she was wearing fewer clothes, but still, it was performing. And Joe was also there, whopping it up and pounding his fist into the air. So it was kind of the same thing!

So that was that. The beginning of Melissa's fabulous music career. The beginning of lots of new things. Teresa and Kathy had a chat at the party and agreed to stop fighting and be like sisters again, because I guess they knew filming was winding down so what was the point of ginning up conflict anymore? Or maybe they really are better. Maybe they're friends again.

And maybe Melissa's career really is taking off. Maybe she'll be huge! Maybe Blk. will be huge too. Maybe it will be the drink of choice for demons and warlocks, this "precious black liquid," as they'll say in the ads. Four out of five witch doctors prefer Blk water to any other kind of potion. Maybe that will happen!

Maybe then Albie will calm down a bit. Maybe he'll start to feel once again those island breezes, the mysterious winds of Punta Cana returning to him as sense memory. Maybe he'll feel calmed and relaxed, free and unburdened as he did down there. Maybe. It's a good wish. It's a nice hope.

For now, though, we wait. But not much longer! Next week is the finale, and boy oh boy oh boy it cannot come fast enough.