Check it: the Part 1 recap can be found here.
And now onto a complete barbiturate of a Part 2. Prep your adult sleep sacks for a nice, long nap after this one, babes. (Am I selling it?)
Synth Drums. Volleyball match in progress.
Pan over to another court, where the duo of Kelly and Dylan are competing. Go team? Absolutely not.
They volley back and forth with the other pairing...
...Kelly makes her squeaky baby noises the entire time, which really made me reconsider this whole "being alive" concept...
...Kelly sets Dylan up...
...he spikes it...
...they win! I don't care...
...double low-fives...
...laughing...
...shaking hands with the losing team...
...beach loungers and a cool down. Kelly flirts, "That was pretty good for a surfer boy," and Dylan flirts back, "Oh, yeah! So, what do you wanna do to celebrate our first victory?" Might I suggest walking into the vast body of water a few hundred yards thataway, you lowlifes?
Whatever, it's decided that Dylan's going to go over to Kelly's house - she's sitting for sinister Baby Erin because Jackie regretfully has a date night with Mel, a real post-partum depression accelerant if ever there was one - and they're going to watch Casablanca, a movie he's desperate to share with her because he's a brooding, pick-me cliché of a Bad Boy; and which she's never seen because she's a dumb bitch - as am I, having never watched it myself.
Also: he really needs to stop being so attractive while also being an absolute scumbag.
Sighhhhhhhhh. All of this "hot" volleyball "action" is putting me to sleep, and trying to capture non-blurry screenshots of the happenings is scrambling my brain. We're now over at the Steve / Brooke bout against another couple of Nobodies.
A pretty hearty crowd is gathered on the bleachers to watch as Dylan and Kelly settle in next to Brandon and Andrea and gloat about their victory and get caught up on the status of The Two Terrible Haireds, who are handedly winning their match, 14 to 3.
Steve's about to serve; Brooke and her local Midwest news anchor coiffure are geeking him up: "Come on, Steve! Come on!"
Volley...
...volley...
...blah blah blah.
They win. No one cares. Except for everyone in this shot, apparently.
Trotting over to the sidelines, Steve says, "Hey, looks like we're the team to beat," and she calls them the "dynamic duo." He then launches into the lamest date proposition ever: dinner at the Peach Pit.
Brooke says it sounds like fun because, much like the juggling-aficionados in Part 1, she doesn't get out of the house much, then calls over and invites Brandon to join them: "Steve's talkin' about goin' to this place, the, uh...what, the Arm Pit" - yes, that would be a more apt name for Worthless Nat's consistently in-the-red, on the brink of financial ruin, money pit of a greasy spoon, but alas - "Wanna toast to our victory?"
Brandon hesitantly accepts: "Sure, I'd love to, if it's okay." Steve, the Sad Trombone sound effect in human form, chuckles weakly and, seemingly fighting back tears, says, "Yeah, sure, fine."
And here we are.
At the counter sits Brandon, Brooke and Steve. Brooke's laying in on real thick with Brandon, leaning into him and oozing, "You don't give yourself enough credit. You're like some kind of Renaissance Man." Jesus fuck. But she obviously (correctly) sensed that this was exactly the right tack to take with him, because he is lapping it up with a spoon and a smuggy little glint in his eye: "I'm just the sports editor, it's nothin' special."
Steve gives us another classiqué Steve SAUNders Special - silk-blend shirt buttoned up to the heavens above - and sits absolutely stoic and ramrod straight on his stool on Brooke's other side.
Brooke, meanwhile, continues her figurative tongue-bathing of Brandon's taint: "Sure it is. You write, you play hockey, and you have a job." That's all it takes? Brooke appears to be easy to impress. But Brandon, LIVING for what he believes to be his birthright - incessant praise and adulation - insists it's nothing: "It's not a big deal. It's not."
Steve shoots the two insufferagettes to his right a completely-justified cunty look. Not because Brooke owes him a damn thing - she's unquestionably into Brandon and that's her revolting prerogative; Steve doesn't simply deserve her adoration because he was a real lecherous skeeve nice to her - but because they are truly the most unbearable gruesome twosome to have walked Planet Earth's hallowed halls. I mean, My GOD.
Brandon finally crawls out of his own anus and seems to sense Steve's disdain, throwing him a bone with, "Now, my friend Steve is a man of many talents, isn't that right, dude?"
Steve grits out, "Anything you say, man."
Brooke, apparently also sensing something is amiss - her sense of self worth? - leaves to go check out the jukebox, but she should actually be checking out literally any other man in the restaurant, because these two fools are unequivocally not the ones.
After she exits the vicinity, Steve, clearly serving as Kevyn Aucion's inspiration behind the '90s' bleached brow trend, shoots Brandon a filthy look and sneers, "Thanks a lot, pal."
Brandon plays dumb and insists that he's not coming onto Brooke; that she's Steve's date (no, she isn't); and that "It's obvious I'm nothin' but a third wheel here, so I'm just gonna take off, okay?" Steve softens and says, "I'm sorry. I'm buggin'. I like this girl." You like them all, you utter rod.
But Brandon stands firm that he should leave, and he does, but not before being accosted by a horned-up Brooke at the door (why she's dressed as a mumsy 33-year-old legal secretary at a mid-sized law firm, don't ask me) who, after Brandon advises her he's departing, continues to embarrass herself with her poor taste in men and non-silken moves, Betty Booping, "Oh, we just got here. Besides, I'm playing Elvis on the jukebox. Don't be cruel." My vagina just sutured itself - yes, entirely of its own accord - alllllll the way up, thanks for asking.
But it gets WORSE - HOW - with Brandon pulling out the most belabored pick up line in human evolution: "Why, will I get in trouble with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Beautiful Girls?" With lines like that, this bitch is lucky he's pretty.
Over at the counter, Steve agrees with me, appropriately scoffing the loudest scoff to have ever scoffed.
Brandon hears this and glances back over his shoulder, before pivoting back to serious and telling her, "I gotta be at work early. I really better go."
Brooke, determined to let at least one god-awful guy from a different LA County school district lay the pipe to her this summer, is disappointed but quickly recovers with, "Okay. Listen, I'm listed in Palos Verdes. Why dontcha gimme a call sometime?"
She leaves Brandon to mull this suggestion over, which he does while mouthing gimme a call sometime, which, I gotta say, made me laugh. Jason Priestley can really nail little moments like these.
Craftsman. Speedster. Mustang.
Inside, Dylan enters the living room, where Brandon waits, buttoning his shirt and teasing, "All right, I get it. Brenda's gone, you need a little advice, so you come see ol' Dylan, the court of last resort."
Snooooooze: while Dylan puts his shoes on, preparing to go ~somewhere~ Brandon seeks his advice re the Brooke and Steve of it all. Dylan sides with nonsense, saying, "[Steve] met her first. You gotta respect that." Yeah! Who cares about what she wants!
Brandon whines, "But why is it, I finally meet a beautiful, sane girl who's into me and I can't even ask her out?" Apparently Trish and Marcie don't make the cut, though I would make the case that any girl willingly agreeing to go on a date with Brandon is, at the very least, profoundly touched in the head.
Anyway, Dylan stares at him incredulously, Brandon says he'll just take a cold shower (please; I'm about to eat); and Dylan proclaims, "All's fair in love and volleyball." What the fuuuuuuck.
They stand to head out, Brandon asking, "Where're you goin'?"
Dylan: "I'm just visiting an old friend." Oh, brother.
And WHOM is the old friend, you may be asking, except that you're not because you're not a moron and you already fucking know: no, it's not this demon child...
...it's this one. The Spawn of Silver is crying and Kelly attempts to calm her down...
...then hands her off to Dylan so that she can go make a bottle. Dylan, helpless in the face of childcare, calls after Kelly's retreating figure, "I don't know anything about babies."
Kelly, GORGEOUS in that floral halter dress: "Oh, relax. She won't bite. She doesn't have any teeth."
WHATEVER, Dylan shooshes Baby Burden while gently jostling her, walking her around the room and rambling at her: "You got a nice setup here, you know that. Can you tell? Yeah. You gotta mom and a dad. You gotta brother, David, sister Kelly. You like that? Let me tell you somethin', though. You take it from me - don't let 'em get too close. You'll just get burned. Rule number one: the only person you can trust in this world is yourself." Okay, I Am a Rock - she's barely beyond fetus status at this point. Settle down.
As he's performing his little soliloquy of sadness for Erin, he walks past a bookshelf, on which sits a baby monitor...
...the transmitter of which is in the kitchen where Kelly prepares the bottle, and of course she hears everything, which initially amuses her...
...then makes her feel blue, because, you know: poor little rich assholes with trash parents, forever bonded by their celestial souls or some such garbage. These two can peace out forever, or I guess until Part 3. BYE.
Accordion a Paree. We see this couple, walking their dog on (?) a fountain? Oh, the French!
The camera wends its way through this town square of sorts, and we come upon Maggie and Brenda sitting at a cafe table, discussing the international sex ring to which Donna is in the process of being trafficked. Maggie assures Brenda, "Donna's a big girl." Brenda counters with the fact that Donna missed out on a day of shopping: "Now that's serious."
More talk about: sleazy photographers; Maggie's experience as a model and The Things She's Seen; Donna not falling for Pierre's game since she's madly in love with her true disgrace of a boyfriend back home; Maggie smoking...
BRENDA SMOKING SOUND THE ALARMS. I mean, smoking is disgusting and not a habit anyone should pick up, but Brenda's brief addiction will be viewed and treated by everyone on the show as if she's developed a hard-core dependence on gargling with black tar heroin during her time in Paris.
Maggie then sums up Donna's predicament in one fell, disgusting swoop: "Let's face it, Brenda, sooner or later, with the camera or without it, Monsieur Pierre is gonna want Mademoiselle Donna to take her clothes off."
Brenda responds as only one can: she inhales deeply from the cigarette, coughs, then wheezes out, "These are really good." Shannen Doherty's line delivery was la perfection.
Cut to Brenda and Donna's darkened room. Brenda's in bed and Donna enters, tip-toeing by.
Brenda awakens and asks, "What time is it?"
Donna stands at her dresser, holding papers while taking off her earrings: "I'm really sorry to wake you. The most wonderful thing happened to me tonight!"
Brenda turns on the bedside lamp and asks, "What happened with Pierre?" With a, "Oh, this!" Donna shoves the papers at Brenda. "A contract! Well, except it's all in French, which you'll probably have to help me translate. We can just do that tomorrow."
Donna apparently thinks this explanation suffices, because she declares she's tired and begins to undress for bed. Brenda demands to know what kind of contract it is and Donna casually tells her, "Well, Pierre wants me to sign with this agency. He says my type is really in demand right now."
Brenda, taken aback: "Wait a second. You're gonna drop out of the program to be a model?!"
As Donna prepares to get under her covers, she breezily says, "Come on, Bren, I wasn't doing so well anyway. I'm really wiped out. Good night," then turns off the bedside lamp.
Brenda, in turns, switches it on once more after glancing at the contract and exclaims, "Donna, this contract is for two years!"
Poor, poor Donna, not a care in the world, thinking all of this is above board and won't end up horribly, horribly wrong: "Please, it's three in the morning. We'll talk about this tomorrow. Good night."
Lights out once again on Brenda, who confusedly sits in the dark and sighs because she certainly didn't agree to come to France to act out the plot of a fucking later-career-Liam Neeson movie, but here she goddamn is.
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