Season 1; Episode 22 - Home Again: You'll Most Likely Be Emptying The Contents Of Your EVERYTHING After Witnessing AHHHHHNdrea's Excruciating Seduction Of Brandon. Keep Several Toilets Nearby.

So. Here it is. The final (POINTLESS) episode of Season 1 of Beverly Hills, 90210. Aren’t you like, BEYOND MEGA EXCITED??? No? Not at all? Yeah, me neither. What I really can’t believe is that I’ve been writing these things for a little under a year, and I’ve only NOW just reached the end of this mostly gag-worthy season. Real-life, grown-up people jobs really tend to put a damper on things, don’t they? ANYhow, I kind of like that the end of recapping the first season is sort of coinciding with my first anniversary of living here in LA. It seems fitting. Why? I don’t have any fucking clue. I just thought it sounded profound and meaningful. But I do remember being a girl of 10 and watching this show and becoming absolutely enamored with the idea of residing in Los Angeles. Little did I know that 23 years later I would be here, living the dream. And by “living the dream,” I of course mean, “Dream? What dream? I’m a 33-year-old crap-heap who writes about a show that started airing when I was in the fifth grade. And my LA [THAT’S RIGHT, GLEN, YOU FUCKING DEGENERATE] doesn’t even come close to what is portrayed on the show. Although, my boyfriend does have some pretty righteous sideburns, so, there’s that.” Where was I? Oh, right - this episode. Is lame. On a variety of levels. Enjoy. Or don’t. Whatever.



So we start out with some sweet key-tar music, and this: Steve getting clocked by some trash-mound mutant in the West Bev courtyard. And no one doing anything about it because Steve.



And then of course Brandon “Hero Complex” Walsh has to come up and stop Stripey The Mutant from walloping Steve to death. Because Brandon ruins ALL THE THINGS. And he pansily tells Stripey, “Back off!” Also: there are A LOT aborted-fetus-looking people who attend West Bev, I mean LOOK. 



Cut to these four who are strolling along, and Kelly and Dylan are in matching Steve SAUNders Specials,  which is probably a clever foreshadowing of Kelly’s Abduction Of Dylan’s Penis at the beginning of the third season. And even with my absolute hatred of the Steve SAUNders Special (and of Steve SAUNders The Subhuman), Dylan looks pretty damn dreamboat-y right here. And then Donna spots the fight between Steve and the mongoloid and is all, “You guys, what's going on?” and truly NO ONE CARES.



Cut back over to this 27-year-old shitbag (and Donna in a FABULOUS shirt-dress thing), who really looks like he could be one of the Lesser Cobra Kais. 



Totally.



And he proceeds to call Steve a wuss, so even though dude looks like he just rolled out of some rundown trailer park on the outskirts of Fontana, we could totally hang.



And then Steve The Panty-Waist is all, “Next time I’m gonna kill you,” which seems unlikely, given that before Brandon broke it up, Steve was being pummeled like the flesh-colored cotton candy-haired little bitch that he is. So Dylan’s all, “Everything alright? You cool?” and even though Steve is the antithesis of cool, Brandon responds with, “He’s fine, he’s fine,” and then he takes Steve for a walk. Also: I’M BORED. CAN WE TALK ABOUT LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE???



Steve has never looked more like The Greatest American Hero. And he tells Brandon, “He started it, he said something stupid about my mom,” and Brandon can’t believe it, all, “You got into a fight over your mom?” and while I’m not condoning beat downs (yes, yes I am, especially when the person being beaten down is one Steve “Textured Plush” SAUNders), I would think defending your mom’s honor might be pretty important for a guy. But I guess not for Brandon. So basically, someone could come along and inform Brandon that they and a bunch of friends ran a train on Cindy the night before and Brandon would be all, “Meh.” Because Brandon is a poop stain on the underwear of life. And then Steve’s all, “Yeah. It really bugs me when they say she's washed up, alright? Bugs me even more that the jerk was smaller than me,” and then Brandon sucks, some more, again, and says, “Steve, that guy was built like a wide-load truck, man, it could've happened to anyone. Even me...no, probably not me,” even though Brandon could probably be taken down with one slightly overly-gregarious pat on the back. And then Steve laughs and says, “You know what, Walsh? Glad you moved to town,” which you can file under Things Exactly NO ONE Would Say To Anyone EVER In Real Life.

Season 1; Ep. 21 - Spring Dance: A Little Piece Of Me Died While Writing This One. Namely, My Female Anatomy. Because Steve, Steve's Coif, Steve's Personality And Steve's Existence In The World.

Aaaaaaaand, here we go. The Penultimate. The Only One Besides "Isn't It Romantic?" That Anyone Cares About This Whole Bloody (FUCKING) Season. Seriously. The writers should've just killed off Brandon, Steve, Kelly, AHHHHHHHHHHHHNdrea, Donna, David and Jim in some kind of Melrose Place-ian exploding field trip "accident" and renamed the show Beverly Hills Awesome: With Brenda, Dylan, Coked-Up Jackie, Our Felice and Sometimes Cindy and called it a goddamn day. Alas, this never happened. But pathetic life-failures winners such as myself can continue to dream of this reality. So. Let's hit this. 

I...there are no words left. It's not even the end of Season 1 and THERE'S NOTHING LEFT TO SAY. Steve's a pile of puke. Brandon's a pile of puke. I hate them both. What more do you want from me, people?

ANYway, they're walking down the hall talking about some Spring Dance and Revolting Steve with his flesh-colored hair is all, "Oh, Brandon. Spring is in the air and it is driving me crazy. Smell that?" and Brandon asks, "What?" and Steve says, "That sweet, overripe flower scent. Nature's doing its thing and it's turning me into a total dog," because he is the exact opposite of well-adjusted and thinks that anyone of the opposite sex would give him one nano-second of thought, time, breath, attention, regard, consideration. And then Brandon's all, "Down boy," and Steve's all, "Oh, oh, put me on a leash," and then I choked on my own bile and passed out for an hour or five and my boyfriend found me and rushed me to the emergency room and I plan on forwarding all of my medical bills to one Steve "Looks Like A Merkin, But Isn't" SAUNders.

And then they stop dead in the hall and see my Hetero Life Mate Darla Diller, who you might remember as "Janine," Roger "Robert" Azarian's "girlfriend" in Poor Little Rich Boy: The Autobiography of Roger "NO ONE INCLUDING ANYFUCKINGONE CARES" Azarian.

And then Darla walks by and THIS HONEST TO GOD HAPPENS and instead of actually continuing on with this ludicrous scene, I think I will instead write the suicide note I plan to leave behind for my family and friends. But first, I'll give you the nauseating details of Steve telling Brandon that he's already rented a hotel room, AT SIXTEEN, in the hotel where the dance is being held so that he can fuck Darla. Queasy yet? Totally? Yeah, me too.

Programming Note: I WANT TO LIVE AGAIN! But Really, FUCK YOU Guy At Disneyland Whose Contaminated Sneezy Droplets I Walked Into While In Line For Pirates Of The Caribbean. Because You Failed To Cover Your Mouth. Because You're A Pig-Dog.

Ahh. This picture of These Hot Sluts
will take the pain away.

I'm certain everyone's been waiting with bated breath and/or has been residing on pins and needles for my next Brandon and Steve SAUNders tirade-and-obscenity-marinated slam piece pièce de résistance. I mean, my email inbox has been completely empty as always teeming with messages from desperate fans, imploring me to write more, more, MORE! And to that I say: step off, people! What, are your lives so pathetic like mine and completely dominated by a 23-year-old television show? Get a grip! I have no life, at all a life too, ya know. And by "I have a life too," I of course mean, "I've been sicker than shit with some kind of Demon Crud and will probably Poor (Almost Dead) Scott Scanlon myself any day now."

Don't you think you've run the
"Poor (Nearly At The End)
Scott Scanlon" analogies into the ground,
you ask? Answer:
THAT'S NOT POSSIBLE.

But really, to NO ONE ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH'S everyone's delight, I am - hopefully - on the mend, as I finally dragged my hypochondriac ass to an Urgent Care facility yesterday (in The Valley; GROSS, RIGHT? But it was actually the nice part of The Valley, so no, I didn't run into anyone with a grown-out perm masquerading as a comb-over and wearing tawny-colored, rayon-blend EVERYTHING) and got hooked up with something called a "Z-Pak," which totally sounds neon and hip and part of the lyrics from "Summertime" and regurgitated straight out of 1991, so there's no way it's NOT going to work, right? RIGHT?


(Oh, and I also "Pulled a Jay Sherman" and fucked up my back while hitting some fungos to a bunch of overprivileged asshole kids from West LA...meaning, I've been coughing for three weeks straight and strained my left lower back/buttock area. And have been shuffling around the house in my white tennis shoes and grubby Tony Soprano robe acting like a real bag of dicks. But really, I think God is actually just a huge Jim Walsh fan and decided to Teach Me A Lesson about taking on his Beloved Walsh Patriarch.)

Oh, Jim, you smarmy fuckwit wrapped in a douche pouch
wrapped in a mound of wrinkled foreskins wrapped in
a Talbots crew-neck sweater.

What I'm trying to say is that once this Steve-SAUNders-Of-A-Bacterial-Infection exits my body, I'll be back to business as usual, i.e. coming here to spread my written diarrhea upon the world. And by "the world," I of course mean, "the handful of people who were not-at-all blackmailed by me into reading this smut." Until then, I'll be busy scouring the internet, looking for the variety of diseases my symptoms are indicative of. So far, I've narrowed it down to AIDS with a side of goiter. Bacterial infection, MY ASS. It's ALWAYS something far worse, like cancer or shooting yourself in the gut on your birthday. (See? It never gets old!) Until we meet again!

Season 1; Ep. 20 - Spring Training: If You Don't Have Time To Read This, Here's A Sypnopsis: Everyone Associated With Youth League Sports Is God Awful. And Yes, That's What This Entire Episode Amounts To.

In which I DON'T GIVE A FUCK ANYMORE. We've truly hit a new low here, people. A plot about the politics of Little League baseball??? Seriously??? This is what it's come to? IS THIS REAL LIFE??? NO ONE, INCLUDING ALL THE WORLD, CARES. We also have to deal with some douche kid named Noah (no, not Hunter...

...THANK EVERYTHING) who couldn't be more offensive if he came into your house and shatted on your face while you slept. Oh, and there's a subplot involving Brenda and a dog, and everyone is just really dreadful and I hate storylines involving animals, because I'm the type that won't see a movie if there's a potential for pet neglect/death, and I also see news stories about wildfires or tornadoes or hurricanes wiping out hundreds of homes somewhere, and my first thought is never "I hope everyone made it out okay," but rather, "I hope all the animals in those houses made it out okay." I'll exit this paragraph on a high note, however: no David! Or Scott! For the third episode in a row! I think Poor (Soon-To-Be) Dead Scott may now be Poor (Is-Now) Dead Scott Who Shot His Friend David ("You're So Precious To Me") Silver Before Turning The Gun On Himself. And I'm okay with that. LET'S DANCE.

We open with a bunch of this. Brenda running. In Steve SAUNders slouchy socks and really, really offensive shorts. Whatever.

So then this sweet muffin of a dog comes to run alongside her. And he's so handsome! But because his owners are more than likely rich dickbags who view pets as mere possessions, he's loose on the streets. I see that Beverly Hills pet-parents are just as derelict as Beverly Hills human being-parents. Awesome. ANYway, here is what Brenda says to the dog: "Hey, puppy. Where are you going? Getting in shape, huh? Well you better go home. C'mon, puppy. Go! Go home! Puppy, go home. Please, puppy, go home! Go! Look, I mean it. Get lost, go home. Please. C'mon, go home. Go home, get out of here. Damn it, puppy, go home." Just like me, that dog has zero fucks left to give about this plot line, this episode, and really, this fucking season as a whole.

HORK. We cut over to this: a bunch of pieces of white trash, sashaying around a baseball diamond. And Jim's all, "Hey, Dave!" to the Bob Saget-y guy on the right, and then he says, "Meet my expert coaching staff. My son Brandon; his friend, Steve SAUNders," and apparently, no one has a problem with the fact that Steve is WEARING A BELLY-SHIRT. OH, YOU DON'T BELIEVE ME??? HERE YOU GO:

BELL.Y. SHIRT. YUP. This, paired with the almost-mullet is just...too much for me and my stomach lining to bear. PLEASE DOUSE YOURSELF IN GASOLINE AND LIGHT A MATCH STEVE. ANYhow, Bob Saget's name is actually Dave Franklin, and he's the president (or "El Presidente," as Jim calls him, PUKE) of the West Beverly Hills Baseball League, and MIDRIFF-BARING Steve thinks that they should get Dave's son, Davey (oh, how twee) on their team, and of course the elder Franklin is a pathetic, living-vicariously-through-his-son piece of shit, so he tells them, "I think that could be arranged," and then he asks Jim, "So, for the tryouts, you up to hitting some fungos?" and even though my brother played Little League for FOREVER when we were kids, I had never heard that word before transcribing this episode and looking up the definition. I just thought Dave was propositioning Jim. You know...sexually. And Jim goes to hit the kids fly balls (which is basically what a "fungo" is) and Steve asks Brandon, "So how tight is your dad with Franklin?" and that also sounds pretty sexual, but whatever, and Brandon says, "Well, they work together, so they're pretty tight I think," and all this Jim-Danny Tanner fan-fic erotica is giving me a case of the vapors. And Steve is lacking in EVERYTHING EVER and is all, "Well, than you can bet ol' Franklin's gonna make sure his good buddy gets all the best players."

And then the Non-Hilarity continues when Steve asks Brandon, "Say, is your dad any good?" since he's apparently just fallen out of Leave it to Beaver, because who other than fucking Wally and The Beav would use, "Say," before beginning any sentence??? ANYHOW, Brandon non-answers Steve with, "He loves baseball," and Steve says, "But is he any good?" And Brandon tells him to see for himself, and of course, we cut over to Jim attempting a to hit a "fungo" and then he jerks his upper body around and makes this face, which looks like an angry beej face to me (continuing the sexual overtones of this whole scene) except that really, he just screwed up his back. Also: I think my dad owned at least seven of the same sweatshirt Jim is wearing in this scene in 1991.

Programming Note: NOOOOOOOOOoooooooo. But Sadly, Yes.

The Bane Of My Existence

Like my Forever Nemesis Brandon Walsh, I'll make this short: because I am a lazy snatch-dog, all of my screenshots for this blog came from another source. I would simply copy the image URL from this one particular website, paste them in a post, spew out some witty (not really) and clever (NOT AT ALL) observations (comprised of mostly nonsensical "sentences" and a lot of profanity) and call it a goddamn day. Early on in the blog's life, my boyfriend was kind enough to enlighten me on the idea of computer gobledigook something-something nerdlinger iPad Star Trek Star Wars twenty-sided die something or other technological who-ha. I didn't listen, preferring to play the role of the bitch-ass hare, desperate to finish the grueling race (or the DEPLORABLE SEASON 1 OF BEVERLY HILLS, 90210 CAN YOU BLAME ME) as quickly as possible. ANYhow, this essentially boils down to me probably taking out an innocent website because I used too much of their bandwidth. In conclusion: my boyfriend is smart. I am not. I'm also a petty thief. And, yes: I'M A MONSTER.

Can anyone spot the difference between Steve's hair
and a LaPerm cat?
BECAUSE I CAN'T.

What I should've done in the first place was steal the images, then save them to my own desktop. But really what I should've done, if it weren't for me being a whiny, worthless sack of blood-speckled feces, is while watching each episode on my laptop, taken screenshots, edited them, saved them on my desktop, and then inserted them in the blog posts. But I didn't. Because, like Steve SAUNders, I am The Worst, Always And Eternally. I may as well get a tight-rodded perm, fashion it into an odd, bushy mullet that sticks out an inch-and-a-half from my neck whenever I look down, button my silk-blend shirt from Structure up to my chin, and call it a fucking LIFE.

Don't do it, Poor (Just About) Dead Scottie! DON'T DO IT!

What does this mean for you, you (didn't) ask? Well, you don't have to read this godforsaken blog for a while. What does this mean for me, you (really didn't) ask? This means I'm going to "Pull A (Soon-To-Be) Dead Scott," shoot myself in the midsection, and bleed out all over Mrs. Scanlon's Persian rug. Why, you (SERIOUSLY FUCKING DIDN'T) ask? BECAUSE NOW I HAVE TO GO BACK AND WATCH EVERY. SINGLE. EPISODE. OF SEASON 1. AGAIN. And take screenshots. AND WATCH EVERY. SINGLE. EPISODE. OF SEASON 1. AGAIN. A.GAYYYYYYYYYNE. I...can't with this. I. CANNOT. Do you know the jig I was going to bust out when I was done with Season 1? Which, if you recall, was a mere TWO FUCKING EPISODES AWAY??? OH THE HUMANITY.

These Hot Bitches. GET OUT OF TOWN.

Also HOT BITCHES? Dylan's sideburns.

Luckily (or pathetically, however you want to look at it), I know the episodes well (*cough*what a geek*cough*) and should be able to just fast forward through the episodes and find what I need fairly easily. Yes, I watch this dickbag show on a continuous loop. BUT. Before, it was usually much faster than this, as I wasn't having to stop and write out a synopsis on how much Jim "Jay Sherman" Walsh's Back Of Fur grosses me out or the Glory Of The Brenda Bang or how tiny and douche-ridden Brandon is or how Early-90s-Dylan McKay + My 12-Year-Old Self = True Love Forever, Sluts. 

Never change, Awesome, Coked-Up Jackie ♥

What I think I'll do, to the relief of NO ONE, is properly screenshot the forthcoming episode, "Spring Training" (Hint: I HATE THIS MOTHER-FUCKING EPISODE), post that, then continue on with the arduous (yes, because I equate blogging with coal mining or living in a mud-and-excrement-packed hut in a third-world country) task of gathering all of the screencaps from the previous episodes. I just can't wait to revisit Poor Little Rich Girl Maryanne, and Surf Betty, and Thieving Tiffany, and Crazy-Eyed Trashy Sheryl, and Black James, and Disco Fever Danzel, and Awesome Coked-Up Jackie, and Probably-Sexual Predator Glen, and Rape Victim Wanda, and AIDS-y Stacy, and My Archenemy Butch, and Mental Defective Melissa, and Amanda And Her Teeth Of Corn, and Krazy Karla, and My Homeslice Curtis, and Mongoloid Sean Judson, and Just Really Awful Sky And Jack, and Brenda's Non-Cancerous Left Breast, and finally, Future #1 On The FBI's Most Wanted  List Roger Azarian. And by "I just can't wait" I of course mean, "Does anyone know if you can overdose on Centrum Flavor Burst Chews? If so, how many do you think I'd have to stuff in my facehole before I attain sweet, merciful death?"

***VERY NON-IMPORTANT NON-UPDATE: While I was writing this posting, the website I thieve all of the screencaps from went back online. THANK GOD. I don't even know if it was my fault that they went down for a couple of days, but let's pretend I'm just that powerful. ANYway, while I am glad for them (and, for the moment, my blog; I've republished all of the Season 1 posts, REJOICE! Or continue scratching your ass, whatever), I am going to forge ahead with replacing ALL of the stills with my own. Eventually. I mean, it'll take some time, as I have a job and really like to take naps whenever I can (i.e. anytime I am not at work). But at least all -33 of you reading this blog will have something to cling to while you await my next scathingly brilliant masterpiece. And by "scathingly brilliant masterpiece" I of course mean, "my writing is the equivalent of trench mouth with a side of pencil eraser-sized tonsil stones and just a dash of cankers." So, never fear, fellow Hillster losers aficionados! The blog that you mistakenly stumbled upon one night while drunk off Charles Shaw White Zin is still at the bottom where it's always been on its way back to the top!

Season 1; Ep. 19 - April Is The Cruelest Month: I Would Say July Is The Cruelest Month. Since That's The Month I Had To Recap This Crap-Ass Episode.

In which I desperately try to not to call Matthew Perry's "Roger Azarian" character any variation of "Chandler Bing," up to and including "Ms. Chanandler Bong" or "The Chan-Chan Man." ALL THE MONEY says that I fail miserably. Also: Donna is outed as a complete moron, which will continue to be proven in the coming seasons by her choice in men, e.g. David, Ray, David, Cliff, David, Noah, David, Wayne, Noah, David. DAVID X INFINITY. Anyway, full steam ahead.

We open with 17 hours of this. Chandler Bing...crap. Well, if not "Chandler," can I refer to him as "Sandy," Carol's boyfriend who dies of complications from a death blow he receives as a result of getting into a car accident while driving drunk on A Very Special Growing Pains?

No? (Also: WHY DIDN'T BRANDON  "Pull a Sandy" AND DIE AFTER GETTING INTO HIS DRUNK DRIVING ACCIDENT??? GOD.) Okay. How about I refer to him as "Roger Not Azarian," his character from Dance 'Til Dawn?

No?!? C'MON, PEOPLE! IT'S THE SAME FIRST NAME. Whatever. Also: this was one of my very favorite, favorite, FAVE.OR.ITE. movies as a kid. It basically starred EVERYONE EVER. Meaning: Alyssa "Samantha Micelli" Milano, Alan "Dr. Seaver" Thicke, Tracey "Carol Seaver" Gold, Kelsey "Frasier" Grammar, Tempest "Vanessa Huxtable" Bledsoe, Christina "Kelly Bundy" Applegate, Brian "A Lot Of Things" Bloom, and Edie "Ed Rooney's Secretary" McClurg. See? EVERYONE. I loved it so. This, and Camp Cucamonga... 

...which basically starred EVERYONE EVER Who Didn't Turn Up In Dance 'Til Dawn. Meaning: Jennifer "The Rachel" Aniston, John "Cliff Clavin" Ratzenberger, Chad "Our House" Allen, Richard "Wilhelm from Seinfeld" Herd, Candace "Donna Joe Tanner" Cameron, Danica "Winnie Cooper" McKellar, Breckin "Travis Birkenstock" Meyer, Josh "Paul Pfeiffer" Saviano, Sherman "Weezy's Husband" Hemsley, G. Gordon "Watergate" Liddy (!), and Jaleel "Did I Do That?" White. Weren't the late-80s/early-90s just like, THE BEST as far as entertainment? No, you say? It was a heap of feces-covered refuse? Because of programming such as Dance 'Til Dawn and Camp Cucamonga? I'LL BURN YOUR HOUSE DOWN.

Season 1; Ep. 18 - It's Only A Test: Of My Patience. Get It? No? Whatever. I Don't Have The Energy. Enjoy This Soul-Sucking Episode. That's All I Got.

In which...whatever. This thing took me FOR.EV.ER. to finish. Obviously. But THANK ALL THE HEAVENS, it's just this one, and then four more, and then WE'RE DONE WITH EXECRABLE SEASON 1. And then we get to the kind-of-crummy Season 2 Summer episodes. And then some not-so-great, ACTUAL Junior-year episodes. So, okay. Like, MANY MORE EPISODES TO GO BEFORE THE FAIR-TO-MIDDLING PART OF SEASON 2. But I mean, there are still moments of "good" to come in Season 1; things like...Matthew Perry's performance as Rich Kid Mental Patient Roger Azarian? Except that that's more "unintentionally hilarious" than anything. And...I guess like, Brenda and Dylan Doing The It on the night of the Spring Dance? So fine, they're few and far between. But we're going to wade through the remaining crud together. Crud like this one. Where Brenda might have breast cancer. But totally doesn't. And Loathsome Steve and Equally As Loathsome AHHHHHHHNdrea kiss. And then an entire nation contemplates becoming Amish and throwing their televisions into the nearest dumpster. So, let's just...limp towards the finish line, okay? Hit it.

We open on these two jerks. Who have apparently become big fans of earth-tone-colored clothing of late, since THAT'S ALL THEY EVER SEEM TO WEAR. It's gross. Not that some of the Sinbadian shirts Steve wears in the coming years will be anything to celebrate. It's called Somewhere In The Middle, Steve. You should take a visit there sometime. ANYhow, Steve's going on and on about some "Alfred B. Cook" course that he's taking to prep for the upcoming SATs. Brandon's all, "You can't study for the SATs," and Steve shows him some brochure deal, and says, "They offer this special accelerator crash course, okay? I'm only thinking of you, buddy. You know what they say: Alfred B. Cook or You B. Fried," and I think this is the fastest that I've ever begun to hate Steve in an episode. So Brandon's all, "It's $500!" and because Steve is lacking in EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD except for money, he says, "So?" And THANK GOD Brandon's there to tell this shitsicle, "Forget it. You can't make up for 16 years of of ignorance in one week," and Steve continues sucking all, "Yeah, well that's true. But it's incredible what you can do in one month." WHATEVER.

Also: WHAT IN MATTED LABRADOODLE PELT HELL is going on on top of Steve's head? Like, if I were Ian Ziering, I would've sued the hair people who worked on 90210 for emotional distress for making me look goddamn HIDEOUS week after week, for years and years. I've mentioned before that the erstwhile Steve SAUNders is actually a pretty handsome dude (EXCEPT NOT ANYMORE BECAUSE CHIPPENDALES). I just...I think they really could've done a better job on his hair than...whatever this is. And we haven't even gotten to his Ultimate Mullet Phase, which is infinitely worse, if you can even imagine that being possible. So anyway. Moving on.

Brandon luckily ditches Steve and heads into the Blaze office, where he unfortunately has to deal with AHHHHHHHHHHNdrea, who's chewing on a pencil. Brandon is rightly grossed out by this all, "You know, I've wondered who's been masticating all the pencils around here," and AHHHHHHNdrea starts to get all suspicious with, "'Masticating'? Why did you use that word?" and Brandon doesn't catch on and says, "Because every time I turn around to grab a new pencil it's like, uch! Teeth marks," which was actually fairly funny.

GADS. Speaking of shitty hair. ANYway, AHHHHHHHHNdrea goes off, all, "Yeah, but you could've said chewed; I mean, 'masticating' is the kind of word they use on the SATs, the kind of word that you learn at one of those expensive SAT prep courses," and Brandon mentions Alfred B. Cook and AHHHHHHHHNdrea turns ALL accusatory, "I knew you were taking one of those prep courses! Let me just tell you something, Brandon, okay? That puts you at an unfair advantage over those people who cannot afford those expensive courses," meaning unseemly people who live in The Valley. And then Brandon basically gives her the same speech that he gave to Steve: "Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold your fire, AHHHHHNdrea. First of all, I'm not taking one of those courses, Steve is. And second of all, I don't think they work. The SATs are designed to test you on stuff you already know, you can't cram for them."

And then AHHHHHHHHNdrea LOSES IT (her shit, that is) and says, "Then again, maybe you can! Maybe, just maybe there is some kind of system! Brandon, I am so bad at standardized testing [YEAH, RIGHT. AHHHHHHHHNdrea's totally one of those goons who ADORES standardized testing], I mean the colleges, they look at them as if they're gospel and I don't know what to do, I mean, this..." and then Brandon literally shakes her out of her babbling psychosis (although I wish a slap would've been involved as well...and possibly a roundhouse kick or two to her ugly combover-hair) and tells her, "Get a grip! We're talking about test you can retake twice if you want to. A test that's..." and then she interrupts with, "Going to determine whether I go to Princeton...or Pacoima." And then Brandon uses his Mad Investigative Journalistic SkillZ and asks if she's been talking to Steve. She says she has; that she "ran into him at my locker." Also: AHHHHHHHNdrea's jacket might be cute on anyone else. ALSO-also: Gabrielle Carteris should've been a co-plantiff in Ian Ziering's imaginary lawsuit against the show's hair styling team.

Programming Note: I Am Essentially A Lazy Asshole. But Now I Come With 10% More Riboflavin! (And By "10% More Riboflavin" I Mean "A Job".)

In which I FINALLY GOT A JOB AMEN HALLELUJAH FUCKING MY GOD. I was seriously beginning to think that I was going to have to start working at some "hip" LA eatery where the proprietor looks like a low-rent Melissa Manchester and wears lingerie and doesn't pay minorities and talks about cumin all the live long day.Or, that I was going to end up at some dumpy diner where the owner is fucking worthless and makes bad jokes and very obviously lives in The Valley because HIS HAIR, and should really only wear shirts with a blue collar because seriously. And then at some point I'd have to dress up as some nightmare kitschy cliche-of-a-waitress named, oh, let's just call her LaVOYne, and speak with a not-found-in-nature/humanity/the galaxy/New York-or-any-surrounding-areas accent and basically induce hatred and strokes in EVERYONE IN ALL THE WORLD. ThankHEAVENfully, I didn't have to do either of those things. But the moral of the story is: FINDING A JOB IN LOS ANGELES BITES THE BIG ONE. "THE BIG ONE" being "A GIGANTIC, PHALLIC-SHAPED TURD." But now that I am actually employed and am part of The Establishment, I ♥ The City Of Angels. Move over, Glen. 'Cause this is my LA now! Bitch. Also: You're creepy. Also: Paula Poundstone called; she wants HER ENTIRE WARDROBE BACK. Also: I finally made it to Venice Beach. It was gross and smelled of incense, urine, and overly ripe-vagrant. YOU CAN HAVE IT.


Where was I? Oh, right. Something no one cares about except me: my job. I actually have to take the subway downtown to get there, like Some Kind Of Adult! Okay, here it's called The Metro, but that's boring and mundane, so subway it is! And basically, my life is now a lot like this:

And OF COURSE I have to relate it to a TV program from the 90s. Would you expect anything less?



In terms of Business Casual Office Attire, I've been attempting to bring some Season 2 Brenda Walsh Menswear Realness. But I'm deluding myself because NO ONE will ever look as GLORIOUS as she did in this type of ensemble. NO. ONE. Also: pretty, pretty hair. Moving on.


What I'm trying to say, to all  -27 of you (not including my Imaginary Friends...oh, who am I kidding? They don't read this dreck, either) is that eventually, once I get used to my new schedule (meaning, no more drinking boxed wine and mainlining Nutella 'til the break of dawn), I should be able to get back into Blogging Mode. I know! Aren't you so beyond excited that you're doing this right now:

(Sorry; my Homeslice For Life Benjamin [Hi, Benjamin!] sent me this yesterday along with the news that he will be making a trek down to LA from San Francisco for a visit in a few weeks [why do you care about this? You don't.], and now I need to insert it into as many of my life settings as possible. Basically, this will be queued-up on my phone at all times, so that I can use it as a reaction to whatever good news comes my way. Also: SHARON NEEDLES 4EVA.)

For now, I'll leave you with the following: the erstwhile Steve SAUNders...wait for it...WILL BE DOING CHIPPENDALES IN VEGAS THIS SUMMER CHRIST ALMIGHTY THIS IS YOUR CUE TO LAUNCH YOURSELF INTO OUTER-OUTER SPACE. I mean. I guess there's nothing wrong with it, really. No. You know what? There IS something wrong with it. Specifically, this:

ALL OF THIS. SWEET SHIT. I just...I can't. No. I CANNOT. WHAT YEAR IS IT? THE GUY ON THE FAR LEFT APPARENTLY CAME HERE IN HIS DELOREAN DMC-12 FROM TOTAL REQUEST LIVE IN 1999. WHY, IAN ZIERING, WHY????? Remember in my "Slumber Party" recap, where I actually praised Mr. Ziering for apparently not aging since the year 2000 (WHEN THE GUY ON THE LEFT IN THE PICTURE ABOVE WAS IN A SEVENTEENTH-TIER BOY BAND OUT OF ORLANDO CALLED, LIKE, O-FACE OR SOMETHING) and being handsome, etc.? Well, I take it back. ALL OF IT BACK. 

Mostly because in this picture, it looks as though he's taking an especially painful grumper while executing an overhead press. This series of photos, by the way, are of Ian preparing for the aforementioned Chippendales gig with a little CrossFit.

Okay, fine. He still has a nice smile. And I mean, he's fit blah blah PUT YOUR STEVE SAUNDERS SPECIAL BACK ON I NEVER THOUGHT I WOULD SAY THAT blah. He looks...good. I mean, dude's pushing 50.

And speaking of The Steve SAUNders Special, I think Ian will do juuuuust fine with the tacky little collar-and-bow-tie (plus cuffs!) that is the standard Chippendales uniform. Although, I really think they should allow him to remove the tie, slap on a nape-length frizzy wiglet, and relive his curly-mulleted "youth." I'm sure there will be housewives in the audience who will get off on a little Steve "Lace-Front" SAUNders-action.

So, I guess I'll be back. Soon, I hope. The remaining episodes of Season 1 have all been transcribed; it's just a matter of finding the time to come here and put my brilliance and humor to good use. And by "brilliance"  and "humor" I of course mean "durrrrrrrr" and "I am basically a watered down version of Jack and Sky combined, which kind of makes me want to drown myself in a puddle of my own vomit, tears, and fecal matter."

See you on the flip side! Whatever that means.

(Images via Google and Too Fab, with my Mad Microsoft Paint SkillZ shining through on the last picture, obvs.)

Season 1; Ep. 17 - Stand (Up) And Deliver: A Lot Of Things Would Be More Enjoyable Than Watching This One. Things Like Rabies. Or Being Scalped. Or Death.

In which the author of this blog seriously contemplates elective insulin shock therapy, just to avoid having to write about Brandon running for Junior class president. In March. Of his Junior year. Also to be dodged: delving into the reasons behind Brenda's sudden status as an outcast, which ultimately leads her to associating with two supremely self-important windbags (no, not Brandon or Steve) who fancy themselves "funny" and "relevant," but who I find rather "annoying" and "the predominant reasons behind my ultimate psychological demise." You'll most likely want to beat up your television set after this one, so gather your boxing gloves, a couple of jugs of off-brand wine, and what's left of your common sense (I mean, you are willingly watching the show and reading this rant-soaked blog) and let's set this night to hatred.

We start out with...two boring losers. Brandon? Please stop wearing shirts that look like you've washed them fifty-seven times and now they're faded pieces of shit and you can't afford new ones. Or just buy yourself some goddamn Cheer Colorguard. AHHHHHHHNdrea? Stop wearing...that. ALLLLLL OF THAT. ANYway, AHHHHHHHHNdrea tracks Brandon down in the hall (which probably wasn't hard, considering she most likely stalks him all the live long day) saying, "Hey, yo, Ace! Wait up," and I'm assuming that Tony Micelli got his hands on the script again. And Brandon's all, "Oh, you've got a determined look on your face," and AHHHHHHHNdrea replies, "Nope. What I've got is a proposition."

And because Brandon is emotionally manipulative and a gigantic horndog, he slings his arm around AHHHHHHHHNdrea's shoulders all, "Well, your desk or mine, huh?" and I don't have to tell you that I immediately shotgunned a bottle of apple cider vinegar and a box of baking soda after hearing that inhumanity escape Brandon's facehole. But AHHHHHHHNdrea totally gets off on it and probably thinks it's actually going to happen HURL and then creams her Granny Panties as she says, "Look, it came to me in the middle of the night like a vision," and hands him this:

WOW, what an attention-grabbing flyer! How could you not RUN FOR OFFICE after seeing this thing? ANYhow, Brandon says, "Run for office? No one even knows me here." He forgot to mention that he's also a condescending dickbag most of the time, so people probably wouldn't want to vote for him anyway. Good thing I was around to remind everyone.

Also: I'm only going to mention this once (even though I kind of already have), because it really bugs the shit out of me but UM, I HOPE THIS IS FOR THE NEXT SCHOOL YEAR BUT IT TOTALLY ISN'T BECAUSE YOU'LL SEE LATER THAT BRANDON'S IDIOTIC CAMPAIGN POSTERS HAVE "JUNIOR CLASS PRESIDENT" EMBLAZONED ON THEM AND DAVID REFERS TO BRANDON AS AN ENTRY IN THE "JUNIOR CLASS PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION" AND THIS IS WHAT, MARCH AND THAT MAKES NO SENSE. BECAUSE BRANDON IS CURRENTLY A JUNIOR. UNLESS THE WRITERS HAD ALREADY DECIDED THAT THIS WAS ACTUALLY THEIR SOPHOMORE YEAR AND DIDN'T MENTION IT TO THE VIEWING AUDIENCE.WHY DON'T I HAVE A LIFE? BECAUSE THIS KIND OF STUFF KEEPS ME AWAKE AT NIGHT. Moving on.

But AHHHHHHHHNdrea, who really needs to go back to the drawing board in terms of hair, clothing, eyeglasses, and demeanor, says, "Yeah, but that's perfect. No one knows you well enough to hate you," and I would like to interject here and say I KNOW HIM WELL ENOUGH TO HATE HIM. ME. RIGHT HERE. And then Brandon is all, "Have a nice day, AHHHHHHHNdrea," and AHHHHHHHHNdrea's got a case of the sads because she thought he was serious about bumping uglies in the Blaze office. And she says, "Brandon, please. The candidate I was backing chickened out; there is no reason we have to let the popular airheads [read: Anyone Who isn't Deep And Profound Because They Live Out Of The District, i.e. AHHHHHHHHNdrea] run the student government. Now are you a candidate, or a coward?" And I'd say "coward" because he's a huge pansy about most things, but whatever.

Season 1; Ep. 16 - Fame Is Where You Find It: What Would Ease The Pain Of Having To Sit Through This One? Crack Cocaine. Crack Cocaine Would Be Helpful.

In which Brandon's already overinflated ego gets engorged even more after he's handpicked to become the next leading man on some teen-centric shit-show. And no, I'm not talking about Beverly Hills, 90210. And Brenda is at once NO NO NO NO NO and FUCK NO when she transforms herself into "Laverne," a god-awfully "New York"-accented, cat-eye-bespectacled, lip-syncing waitress who terrorizes customers at The Peach Pit when filling in for Brandon while he's taking the first, tentative steps towards his EGOT. YES ALL OF THIS IS SERIOUSLY HAPPENING. Grab yourself a vat of Pepto, a pallet of TUMS, and a loaded Beretta (for when - not if - things get a little too alarmingly awkward and uncomfortable and suicide is your only way out) and let's do this.

MY GOD UNFORTUNATELY, we open with this. Brandon's playing hockey all by his lonesome in some park, which looks suspiciously similar to the park where he and Karla "broke-up." I use the term "broke-up" loosely, as THEY ONLY GODDAMN KNEW EACH OTHER FOR ONE GODDAMN WEEK. Moving right along.

I mean...at least it's not a Canadian Tuxedo? His proto-Old Navy cargo pants are hiked up to Jesus, however, and I'm certain that if his hand...pad? protection? glove? weren't in the way, we'd probably being seeing a whole lot of his Little Minnesota.

And then, in another part of the park, MISCHIEF IS AFOOT. 

And this family is completely oblivious to the VERY OBVIOUS creeper looming in the background there, peeking around the tree like some ersatz Boogie Man, just waiting to steal some sandwiches or like, cut the string on their kite. MONSTER.

But no! This totally inept crook actually wanted the woman's purse. Which she was a stupid bitch about and just left laying on the picnic table, all waiting for all the world, or specifically, this guy with his gross, crotch-revealing, light x INFINITY jeans, to thief. 

So he doesn't get very far and then starts rifling through the bag, like, dude? Time to go back to Petty Theft School. And he also kind of gives me a Sparkly Vampire From Those Abortion Twilight Movies vibe, so basically, I want him to be caught, sentenced to life in prison, and sodomized repeatedly every time he takes a shower.

THANK GOODNESS this 35-year-old 2nd grade teacher with her SUPER-Ogilvie-home-permed forelock and MOTHER-FUCKING Steve SAUNders Special is there to save the day! She lays down the the truth talk on him: "Looking for something? Don't make me turn you in, Kirk."

And then Criminal Kirk is all, "Well, don't make me use this. I'll do it. I swear, I'll do it!" and we're maybe three minutes in to this and I already want to take a nap. Or a lethal injection of say, codeine with a potassium chloride chaser.

Oh, but this plucky gal sees right through Kirk! And dispenses some down-home wisdom that only someone dressed and coiffed like that could offer: "You wanna cut me? Go ahead. But you know that won't solve anything. Oh, god, you have so much to live for. Don't throw it all away. Not now, not like this," and Curly Sue, you guys? She is so wise.