I watched VH-1’s Basketball Wives the other night. The verdict? Not even good enough to be a guilty pleasure. I stuck with the show as long as I could but had to bail before the end because the screaming from my dying brain cells drowned out the stupid drivel coming from mouths of these overly pampered diva wannabees. I’m not saying these dull women are a bunch of jock-riding, gold diggin’ skanks, but Basketball Wives is proof while you can take the ho out of the ghetto you can’t take the ghetto out of the ho.
This show has an interesting premise: what is the life like for the wife or girlfriend of a pro basketball player? Is it glamorous with all that money or is it a grind trying to raise a family and keep a home while your man is off traveling around the country for over half-a-year? How do you handle it if he’s injured or traded from one team to another? What about groupies and family and friends looking for favors and hand-outs? But you won’t learn any of those things from this show because basketball has almost nothing to do with these “basketball wives.”
From it’s title on everything about Basketball Wives is just a hustle. It’s all about watching women who jocked some ex-NBA players and walked away with more money than imagination or talent spend that money on partying, getting their weaves twisted and fake nails polished, making catty remarks about each other and acting as “hood” and “street” as they can while batting their eyelashes in front of the camera about how classy they are. Blech.
I don’t think these overgrown girls playing dress-up are any worse than the overgrown boys they banged their way to Prada and Krystal if not genuine fame and fortune. The only accomplishment they can claim is they found an NBA player willing to commit to something longer than a one-night stand. Shallow and empty doesn’t begin to cover it. None of these chickenheads seem to have a job, they never mention their children or families, or exhibit any concern about anything but themselves. It would be hard to find a duller, less interesting group people to revolve a show around.
Even the title is as fake-ass as all the hair weaves, plastic surgery and boob implants. Jennifer Williams is the only one of the seven “wives “actually married to a NBA baller and her husband Eric Williams has been out of the league since 2007. Gloria Govan is engaged to Matt Barnes of the Orlando Magic, a journeyman player who’s bounced around the league and is on his seventh team. All the rest are either ex-wives, ex-girlfriends or about to be with Shaunie O’ Neal in the process of divorcing husband Shaquille.
These are just horrible and boring women who shop too much, drink too much and bitch about their pampered lives and the men that done them wrong. They make a strong case against marriage and for either monogamy or homosexuality.
And they aren’t even particularly hot. They wear too much make-up in a losing attempt to approximate what made them hot enough to stand out from the pack. The one that comes closet to not looking like leftovers is Royce Reed, a former Orlando Magic cheerleader who calls Dwight Howard her baby daddy. Or she would if it wasn’t for the court-ordered gag order Howard filed against Reed barring her from uttering his name or nickname orally or in writing. Shaquille O’ Neal’s attorney has also warned VH-1 and Shaunie O’ Neal to not air “any further episode of ‘Basketball Wives’ which make reference to Mr. O’Neal.” That goes a long way to explaining why basketball has so little to do with Basketball Wives.
None of these women come off as particularly smart or likable, but Reed at least has some personality and no illusions she’s isn’t just another booty call who got lucky. Shaunie and the other girlfriends/ex-wives look down their noses at Reed’s silliness and clueless immaturity, but there’s not a dime’s worth of difference between them. They’ve been around the block while Reed is still cruising it doubtlessly in search of another player who will promote her from baby mama status to actually putting a ring on it.
The world is not a kind place to pretty faces that are aging and looking a little tired and dried up. If there’s one thing there’s no shortage of its women younger, fresher, hotter and even more willing to do whatever they have to gash up on to a pro balla. How much you enjoy this show will depend on how much you enjoy unhappy women who catty, dumb, dull and have nothing to say that Real Housewives and Bad Girls Club haven’t already said first and bitchier.
Basketball Wives is fine if you get off watching pampered jock riders babble on about their hair extensions, breast implants, and ugly little rat dogs and how they can’t get a table anymore at the best restaurants on Miami Beach. Even reality trash television has to have a mildly interesting concept. This isn’t one of them.