Part 2 of Season 3, Episode 2: The Twins, the Trustee and the Very Big Trip - Another working title for this one? Men Behaving Deplorably, Especially Steve

Take a look-see at Part 1, right the hell here, and dive on into Part 2.  NOW:

We're right inside the Craftsman living room, where Brenda, in a gorgeous dress-and-hairdo combo, sits on the couch and watches TV.  The doorbell rings because, along with Cindy and her constant phone-answering, that's all that ever happens on this show.

She peeks out the window, smiles, then opens the door adorably with a sunny, "Bonjour, travelers!"

Donna and Kelly stand on the porch, and following Brenda's greeting, Donna bursts into tears.  I would take both of their dresses behind a middle school and get them pregnant; their VERY 1992 hairstyles, which I unsuccessfully attempted to replicate dozens of times as a thoroughly unfashionable preteen with only a bottle of Rave hairspray to her name? Not at all.  Also: Tori was so good at this stuff in the early days.   A true underrated comedienne many times during the first four seasons.  Anyway, Kelly explains to Brenda that Felice is still making Donna go to Paris, even after Kelly's abandonment of the trip.  Of course Our Felice is.  Of course.  Probably so she can have the Manor to herself for some farewell dicking-down from the middest man who ever lived.  You're not giving up a guy that beige without a fight and one last au revoir with his undoubtedly disappointing dong.

Brenda brings the girls mugs of something, Donna saying, "I'm not blaming Kelly; I just wish she would've blown off the trip while my mom still could've gotten her deposit back," and then, turning to Kelly: "I think it's great that you're bonding with this new life force, but are you telling me this has nothing to do with Jake?" Really gonna need the hat tips to Joke to cease entirely up in this bitch.  That predator is West Hollywood's and its citizens' problem now.  Go clumsily slobber all over someone else's face and be gone.  Forever.

Donna moans that she can't do a whole summer in Paris by herself, and Brenda tells her that she'll make friends, then whips out her fluent French that's never been mentioned and purrs, "La ville de la lumiere.  La ville des jolies poules." Google tells me this translates to, "The city of light.  The city of pretty chickens," and because I'm both extremely dumb and extremely lazy, I will choose to believe this.  They continue to discuss Donna's Paris-aversion, Donna jokingly asking Brenda, "So, what are you doing after tomorrow?" Brenda's all, "Oh, yeah, right.  I'll be a stowaway in one of your suitcases...since I'm not talking to my parents, it'd be kinda hard to hit them up for the money to send me there."

Kelly, a mere 20 minutes away from the first hints of the start of her clandestine affair with Dylan - which, mind you, begin 20 SECONDS after Brenda boards the airport shuttle, like, she's not even out of the fucking parking lot WHAT IN THE ACTUAL - adds, "Plus, you'd have to leave Dylan." Donna whines, "What about me? I'm leaving David!" and Kelly speaks for us all, telling her, "Oh, this is different.  Because David is a non-entity and on the cusp of bringing us whatever is the opposite of Song of the Summer.  He should literally be taken out to sea and Big Pussy Style clipped after subjecting innocent eardrums to his non-talent and complete absence of shame.  Brenda and Dylan are living together.  They're making a statement.  A beautiful statement." She asks Brenda how it's going.

Brenda, tightly smiling through ALL the lies: "It couldn't be better."

Part 1 of Season 3, Episode 2: The Twins, the Trustee and the Very Big Trip - A better title would be An Exhaustive Analysis of Why Every Man on This Show Should be Caged

They're all deeply unwell.  Let's dive in and point and laugh at them.

We begin here: inside David's camera view (filthy), panning through a hospital window into a nursery where a nurse is doing nurse-like things with soon-to-be nursing babies.  Nurse.  And then David's Voice Over starts up and ruins everything, as always: "There were hundreds of babies born in Los Angeles County two days ago.  Black babies, white babies, big babies, and small babies.  But only one baby so special that she'll go through life with the name..."

...and then an RN who's just trying to do her goddamn job - i.e. take care of the progeny of the wealthy and disrespectful - blocks David's shot of Baby [a 32-year-old SPOILER ALERT for anyone who cares, which is no one] Erin in her bassinet and he whines, "Damn it lady, get outta there!" something he's most likely heard Mel shout in their home many, many times, at various dental hygienists in the wee morning hours, probably following an evening of scaling and root planing their vaginas.

Cut to Kelly, David and David's predatory video camera standing at the window.  He bitches, "I gotta do it one more time!" and Kelly reminds him that the baby will be home the next day and that, "At this point, the only way anybody can tell it's a girl is because they wrap it in a pink blanket." She fails to add that he's a fucking plague upon film-making in general and the world specifically.

The latter of which he proves by, in the tradition of true pig-slop deviants everywhere, smirking and saying, "I got news for you, Kel.  That's not the only way they can tell it's a girl." THAT'S YOUR SISTER YOU SWINE.  I guess it's just in keeping with the interbred overtones this show loves to spotlight, and the depravity of the City of Beverly Hills on the whole.

Walsh, House of.

In the Lair, standing at a mirror, Jim straightens his tie and puts the finishing touches on his daily sartorial tribute to one Gordon Gekko; Cindy musses with her hair and wishes she were dead because guess what her clinically insane husband is going on about at 7 a.m.: "What we've got here is a manipulative little girl who is spoiled rotten to the core!"  As someone who also suffers from obsessive compulsive disorder, I implore Jim to seek out some sort of weekly behavioral therapy sessions and maybe a hero's dose worth of daily Zoloft and Buspirone.  Before Cowardly Lion-ing herself out of the French doors and over the balcony's edge, Cindy speaks the gospel: "I can't listen to this anymore!"

So will Jim, most certainly the Treasurer and Co-VP of the Beverly Hills Men's Rights Activists' Association, take heed and calm the fuck down and maybe listen to his wife for once? OF COURSE NOT.  Take it away, Jim!: "Honey, I don't blame you!  If anything, I blame myself.  All those years, she was 'Daddy's little bunnyfish.'  Whatever Brenda wanted, Brenda got.  Kisses and hugs.  No questions asked.  No wonder she has no respect for parental authority.  She's out of control, OUT OF CONTROL!!!!" I'd say the person currently shrieking "OUT OF CONTROL" in his wife's face is, perhaps, the only one "out of control" here, and also, this is a man who is undeniably emotionally ill-equipped to continue whatever high-powered CPA job he currently holds and his employer should be alerted immediately.

But unfortunately, Cindy believes that trying to reason with a brick wall works: "She is in perfect control! And she has been ever since you decided to go to war with Dylan McKay.  Stomping around the house, threatening to use the full extent of the law, that's not gonna bring our family back together again!" Preach, lady.

Jim, however, CONSUMED with thoughts of his daughter's segggs-ual relations, can only reply with, "I just can't sit back and do nothing, knowing that she's shacked up with that guy." Cindy, who has far more patience than I, asks, "What do you propose we do about it? Lock her in a chastity belt, keep her in her room until we're ready to become grandparents?" Jim responds, "For starters." James Eckhouse seems like a likable person so he almost sold that line and made me laugh with his delivery there.  Anyway, they're going to give the stalemate a few more days to see how it shakes out and I'm sure Cindy is looking forward to at least a few more mental collapses and spittle-drenched tirades from Jim in the meantime.

Part 4 of Season 3, Episode 1: Misery Loves Company - Want to cry along with me each and every time Shannen Doherty appears on-screen? LET'S GO.

Part Un.

Part Deux.

Part Trois.

Back at it.

Inside, in a real move-the-needle moment, Steve busses and Brandon chides him about missing a spot.  I'd seriously rather spend the evening with The Zuck and her non-entity of a boyf than have to endure much more of this brainless rich-dunderhead-works-at-restaurant / is-a-total-failure / morally-superior-friend-has-the-last-laugh absurdity.

Worthless Nat emerges from the kitchen carrying approximately all the eggs.  He calls out to Steve to help him in the backroom, and we're about to slip into some Imbecile Breaks Eggs Waka Waka Comedy (truly the lowest form of comedy) so buckle up.

Brandon scolds, "You better hurry, Stevie.  Don't want to tick off the boss man." Steve spouts off some delusions about Nat loving him: "This is working out great!" I'm sure his barber also said, "This is working out great!" as he spun Steve's salon chair around after putting the finishing touches on the in-hibernation frillback pigeon slumbering on the back of his cranium, so I don't know how much stock I'd put into his words here.

As Steve scurries back to the kitchen, he puts Brandon in a non-fatal chokehold and the gang just laughs and laughs while also dying on the insides at having to feign delight at the low-rent clownery of two mega-chodes.

Nat apparates table-side as if from nowhere, and scares the ever-loving shit out of me, not unlike something something Steve's hair something something every time that sun-bleached steel wool bastard appears on screen something.  He asks to speak to Brandon in private...

...and then takes him two feet away to sit at the counter.  Worthless Nat: a true Virtuoso of Subterfuge.  He tells Brandon that he's going to fire Steve, GASP, saying, "I don't know how to break it to him."

Brandon, nothing but a simpering, skeevy snake with a good head of hair, smirks and fires up the ol' gaslight: "Maybe you should just tell him the truth.  I'm sure he can take it." Nat ponders, "I can't even figure out why he wants this job.  It's not like he needs the money.  It's like he's got something to prove, ya know?" I hope when all is said and done, Nat finds out everything and goes all Laney Boggs StyleZ, "Am I bet? Am I a BET?? AM I FUCKING BET????"  And then beats Brandon to near-death with his fucking precious spatula, the handle of which is currently lodged in Steve's pubes.

Whatever whatever, Brandon seems to feel a bit of remorse and tells Nat to give Steve another chance and then there's clinging and clanging and crashing from the kitchen and, in the grand tradition of the iconic Chandler Bing, someone should really ask Steve on the daily, "How do you not fall down more?"

Nat hurries back to hopefully kick half-witted Steve's half-witted perm as Brandon chortles and ambles back to the table, asking everyone, "Omelets, anyone?" My sides? Decidedly not splitting.

Part 3 of Season 3, Episode 1: Misery Loves Company - Want to cry along with me each and every time Shannen Doherty appears on-screen? LET'S GO.

Study up!: here's Part 1; here's Part 2.

BHBC.

Brandon's still a-runnin'.

He jogs up to Donna, who's sipping a drink out of a glass that matches her bathing suit and generally being adorable.  She tells him she saw Brenda and Dylan a little bit ago, down by the showers.  Yeah, we ALL saw them by the showers, Don:

Yowza.

Currently at the showers, however, is AHHHHHHHHHHNdrea and the kiddie camp small fries, who've most certainly by now heard tell of their summer school marm's tenure as Editrix-in-Chief of the ever-loving Blaze and are collectively devising a plan to casually wade themselves into the Pacific Ocean and never look back the moment she turns away from them while she scans the Club grounds for any sign of Brandon and his peacock walk, which is always.

Lucky for her at this moment, he arrives!...

...and she in turn orgasms, pushes three children to the ground to get to him, and starts pawing at his arm.  She introduces him to the kids and asks after some badminton equipment.  Brandon, who really didn't want to talk to her in the first place, quickly tells her its whereabouts and then asks if she's seen Brenda/Dylan.  She points over to a bike rack...

...where they stand, talking and giggling  About being Hot Sluts, I assume.

He jogs on over and sure knows how to bring down the mood real quick: "Mom and Dad joined the Beach Club.  Cabana 33."

Brenda's all, "Oh, my god, Dad and his embarrassing JCPenney clearance table shirt said he had a surprise." Brandon advises that they should probably take off, and Dylan, whose mussy hair still manages to get me every.  Single.  TIME. says, "I'll go up there with you right now if you want me to." Brenda tells him no: "They might not even know you're here."

So Dylan is OUT, walking away but stopping and turning around to say, "Fine, Bren, if that's the way you want it, you're callin' the shots...whatever you want! I'm through playing games."  And then goes to catch some gnar-gnar combers and contemplate life and love atop his rhino chaser.  Probably, I mean.

The fucking Synth Ghee-tar DOOM track starts up as Brenda steels herself and walks past Brandon in a march toward her destiny and unavoidable downfall.

Part 2 of Season 3, Episode 1: Misery Loves Company - Want to cry along with me each and every time Shannen Doherty appears on-screen? LET'S GO.

Check in on Part 1, right HERE.

Nighttime.  Back at the Pit.

Inside, David and Donna sit at a table, David perusing the menu; Donna, looking pensive.  Apropos of nothing, she blurts out, "I can't go to Europe."

After David asks why, she readily pulls out her passport - that she was just...holding open for no discernible reason? - and shoves it in his face: "I can't show that picture to anyone! I look horrible!" David assures her she looks cute, but she remains unconvinced.

Here comes Steve, Peach Pit uniform on whatever the opposite of "fleek" is.  He approaches the table and meekly inquires, "Can I take your order?"

David and Donna both look up and, flummoxed at what stands before them (i.e. Steve's hair), gawk at this all-out clown, given that they've never witnessed him put in a hard day's work in his life.  David, with his freshly bronde forelock, starts laughing and Steve warns, "Can it, Silver," then takes a big, showy look behind him and fills them in: "Look, it's a bet, all right? Brandon bet me that I couldn't hold down a job." David asks, "Does Nat know this?" like, Jesus FUCK, at least someone is asking this and trying to maybe advocate for Nat.  But Steve is a vapid, soulless ghoul with no conscience, so he merely threatens them: "No, and neither of you two weasels are gonna tell him, right?"

Steve and his tresses are true menaces: to Nat; to his friends; to society; to mirrors and hairstylists across the Westside.

Part 1 of Season 3, Episode 1: Misery Loves Company - Want to cry along with me each and every time Shannen Doherty appears on-screen? LET'S GO.

 A NEW BOMBSHELL - i.e. Season 3 - HAS ENTERED THE VILLA.  We've arrived at what is at once my favorite and least favorite season of the show.  I haven't watched these episodes in yeeeeeeeeeears, so I know some story lines are going to come as a (probably puzzling) surprise, e.g. Steve working at the Pit for a total of 25 minutes? Why the heck not? That's called engrossing TV, people!

Pre-credits, we're instantly inside the empty halls of West Beverly as some electric drum-heavy "mystery" music plays.  Skulduggery must be afoot!

The camera slowly pans over to the true jump scare of one Steve "Top Button" Sanders and the mullet he rode in on.  He priggishly nods, immediately after I say aloud to my laptop, "This fucking dildo." Coincidence? I don't think so, friend.

He then whips around (the ever-growing baby Bedlington Terrier protruding from the base of his skull leading the way; seriously: that thing billows in the West Bev breeze as he spins his head as though he's Finesse-ing his hair to beautiful like there's no tomorrow) at the sound of:

Mrs. T! and her SHOULDERPADS! saying, "Oh, Steve! I've been looking for you." You're better than that, Mrs. T.

Steve chuckles all nervously, and if you've yet to figure out this is dumb Steve's dumb dream, wherein Mrs. Teasley tells him that he didn't pass any of his classes - which, fine, believable - and will have to take his Junior year over, I don't know how to help you.  They go back and forth a few times and then! Dream School Bell rings, and we cut to:

Steve's glass-blocked holding pen and him JOLTING awake from the nightmare and cartoonishly gulping and gaping around the room.  My ultimate nightmare, you ask? Steve's tight tendrils.

Exterior, Peach Pit.  Steve's humiliation of a license plate with a Corvette attached is parked out front.

Inside, Steve regales Brandon with a very theatrically detailed description of the dream and it's abundantly clear that Brandon couldn't care less, probably because he's too busy thinking about how truly great his hair looks now, finally, two fucking years into this goddamn thing.

But still: he assures his ringleted friend, "Well, we're not [Juniors].  We made it.  We're gonna be Seniors...but first: two months of glorious, uninterrupted freedom," and then walks around the counter and flings an arm around Steve's dense underbrush and they basically plan out how they're going to be sex pests at the beach club all summer, picking up "hot, beautiful, babe-licious, sexy, half-naked, lonely racists with terrible hair chicks," and both of these absolute predators should be on some kind of a watchlist.  Steve breathlessly calls it, "Hot fun," and I need a quaalude-dosed iced beverage with a side of the number for a good lock-down mental facility, post haste.

Oh, and then they pull snaps off of each other instead of pulling knives on each other and saving us all from another six seasons of their utter buffoonery.  Also: glad that Steve's so gung-ho about his pending, literal seniority that he'll almost torch it to the ground in a few months' time with some harebrained pre-The Net-style shenanigans, costarring some poor, impressionable sack with a coiffure nearly as bad as his own.  Flop Era, thy permanent resident's name is Sanders.