Let's have a laugh in the midst of *gestures at the entirety of the universe*.
Synth Drummage and a Sweet Ghee-tar Lick greet us above the BHBC as the camera pans down the gorgeous Los Angeles coastline (LA forever and ever and ever)...
...to Club employees bustling about, some of whom are hanging a sign that reads, "Annual Santa Monica Bay Interclub Volleyball Tournament" and then something about all of the proceeds benefiting Friends of the Bay.
We cross the beach volleyball court over to...
...to Brandon! Working! Carrying not one but TWO folding chairs! His friends and family will be hearing about this feat through at least Thanksgiving. How he manages to speak whilst hauling this monumental burden is beyond me, but speak he does, and in the most grating and Brandonly way possible: "Well, well, welly, well, well." My cochleae have officially retired, packed a bindle, leapt from my ears, and skipped town following that monstrosity of a non-sentence. He then greets an even bigger dweeb than himself: "If it isn't Mr. SAUNders." Yes, that happened.
And here he is in all his "Mr. SAUNders" glory: clowncore wig applique attached to odd Tour de France cycling cap; windbreaker on what I'm assuming is a windless, 97-degree August day, with the arms pushed up just so and the front unzipped to the lowest depths of Hades; and though unseen at this angle, I assume a pair of mid-and-lower-buttocks-revealing dolphin shorts. He's leaning against a folding table littered with trophies and there's another sign hanging above it that declares "TOURNAMENT REGISTRATION," that he'll be working. Fantastic! This pest will get to sexually harass each and every unwitting female who's entering the competition. A real treat for their psyches.
He then proceeds to prove my theory correct almost immediately: "Do you realize in about one hour, this place is gonna be packed with some of the most incredible hard-bodied babes from all over Southern California? You remember last year's tournament? This place was one big meat market. And I am going to do my shopping early." What does it mean when bile starts coming out of your eye sockets as well as your mouth? Do I need to go to the ER, or should I just stop watching scenes that involve this barely sentient sub-of-a-subhuman?
Brandon, though - done with his seven minutes of work for the day - applauds Steve's efforts: "Aha, a man with a master plan."
Steve, the most insecure television character ever written, brags, "Mmm, confidence, mon frere. We make an incredible team. I'm gonna win this tournament. You're gonna flash that smile."
Cue cheesedick grin.
Cue Steve's astonishing delusion: "Boom, we'll get whoever we want." I beg of Steve: reevaluate your entire existence as well as your apparent aversion to having full-length mirrors in your home. He looks off into the distance: "Mmm, if my eyes don't deceive me, I see our first customer"...
...and he spots heretofore mentioned Nikki Witt, who's really going to go through the fucking wringer during her short tenure on the show in terms of the rapid succession of terrible men she'll have to fend off / pretend to be attracted to / date, so kudos to her on her fortitude and apparent cast-iron stomach that prevents her from ever feeling queasy in the face of gross dudes and their really gross personalities.
Back over to Steve, he decides she'll make the perfect first victim of his unwanted advances: "That young damsel appears to be in distress. Hmm, perhaps I should offer some assistance." He gives Brandon a devilish look, laughs like a goon and struts off to go torment a poor, unsuspecting girl who's just trying to live her goddamn life.
This dork, having no friendship standards to speak of, watches his pal go and says to himself, "And they said chivalry was dead." Nothing like enabling your bosomest of buddy's foul behavior, you dildo.
Over to Steve and his trusty mullet approaching Nikki, who stands scoping out the cabanas. She's wearing headphones so she doesn't hear him saying, "Hi," or maybe she does hear him but accurately senses he is a fucking moron and decides to not engage. Unfortunately for her, he taps her on the shoulder: "Excuse me"...
...and she turns around to face him with her amazing sunglasses and gives him a thoroughly uninterested, "Hi."
He launches into what I assume he believes is some top-tier seduction: "Hello there. I assume you're here to sign up for the volleyball tournament. Allow me to register you personally. Steve Sanders." Anyone else's panties now in a crumple on the floor? Just me????
Nikki does the only thing you can do when faced with Steve SAUNders: she lowers her sunglasses and gives him a dirty look, then brusquely introduces herself: "Nikki Witt. Actually, I'm looking for my aunt's cabana."
At this moment, we hear some dreadful keyboard music start up in the background, but it clearly gets Ms. Witt's motor running because she whips back around to stare in the direction from which it's coming and asks, "What's the music?" and her query isn't posed with an ounce of disgust or embarrassment or anything. Steve says the only thing he's ever said that makes a lick of sense - "Oh, it's some geekster rehearsing in his cabana. Drives everybody nuts." - but Nikki is intrigued and sets off to locate the auditory violator.
Steve, desperate for, at the very least, an over-the-indecent-nylon-blend-micro-shorts hand-job, calls out, "What about the volleyball tournament?" to which she responds, "I can already tell that I hate you sports." I mean, I don't envy her position of choosing "shit vs. diarrhea," (Steve, being the shit; David, the diarrhea - you get it) though I guess I have some respect for the fact that she's confident in her decision of going with the latter.
So we jump cut over to the aforementioned "geekster" playing his keyboard in his cabana...
...while wearing a baseball-enthusiast kindergarten teacher's favorite first day of school vest.
As he executes one of his patented dip-shittiest-of-dip-shit little spins, he discovers Nikki standing in the doorway, somehow not breaking a rib with uproarious laughter after having witnessed this humiliating exhibition of the talentless.
He turns off the music to the benefit of everyone and greets her, after which she tells him, "You really know how to move," a complete falsehood, Nikki, you fucking liar. While most-assuredly sporting a half-mast boner, he squeaks, "Uh, thank you."
She asks, "Do you know, 'I Want Your Sex'?"
David, absolutely SPRAYING the inside of his gargantuan pants with his load, stumble-bumbles, "Excuse me?" She says, "The song. By George Michael, 'I Want Your Sex,'" and after he says that he does and that, "It's a great track," she tells him that he reminds her of George Michael. I mean...sure? If I squint really hard and it's a foggy day with low-to-zero visibility? Why not.
Fade to an accordion-soundtracked Paris.
A street. We see Brenda (in a plain but très adorable suede vest/shorts combo); Donna (in one of my all-time favorite dresses); and Maggie (serving good ship lollipop).
They approach a club-juggling street performer on a unicycle surrounded by a bunch of clapping people who clearly don't get out of the house much.
The busker hops off the cycle, grabs some balls from a bag and begins juggling those, and the crowd's collective mind is BLOWN. Especially after his pants fall down in a real debauched display of humanity.
His companion, whose mullet rivals Steve's in terms of beefiness and offensiveness, walks around the crowd, holding out a hat for tips.
He arrives at Brenda and they French flirt - something about him inviting her back to his house. He's clearly in his mid-twenties and wearing that jacket, so that's icky, but what the hell else is new with this show.
Maggie tells him, en French, that Brenda thinks he's beautiful; Brenda gives her a faux-outraged look and then grabs Donna's arm and they flounce away, Maggie hurrying to catch up.
Donna's in the dark and asks what just transpired, but Maggie and Brenda laugh and laugh and Brenda tells her, "Uh, it kinda loses something in translation." She and Maggie then launch into another Frenchified conversation, and Donna demands, "English, please? Why do you guys have to speak French all the time?"
Maggie, not unkindly, tells her, "Well, it is the best way to learn, Donna."
Donna rolls her eyes all, "Yeah, right," and skulks away.
As she does so, we see this woman dressed like the most conspicuous spy ever observing from afar. Mischief? Afoot. I mean, not really, but tracking a teenager through the streets of Paris and taking her photograph is some unwell behavior, so whatever.
We head over to a bakery as Brenda and Donna approach. Brenda urges Donna to go in and order in French: "It's not so hard!" But Donna isn't so sure: "That's easy for you to say. You don't have a learning disability." Oh, yeah. Remember that? Yeah, me neither.
In summary: the girls enter and Donna...does a not-really good job ordering a pastry in French, but at least she tries!...
...and this embittered hag is an embittered hag about it - which, TBH, I kind of understand her stance; like, it's not her job to aid Americans with their French-ordering capabilities, but also, like, maybe be even slightly decent and give the kid a break; and also-also: there's not exactly a line out the door with people clambering for your baked goods, broad, so you're not exactly in a rush to move it along - and calls Donna stupid and an imbecile, which sets. Donna. OFF:
"I am not stupid! A person's not an imbecile just 'cause they can't speak perfect French! God, I am so sick and tired of this rudeness! Je suis American, and if you don't like it, then too bad!" At that she turns and stomps out, Brenda following her after giving the woman a little smirk.
Oh, and the whole time they're in the bakery, La Femme de Beret is also there and watching the whole thing play out while tilting her head like a dog filled with wonder waiting for the tennis ball to be thrown. 15/10 acting chops on this one.
Outside, Brenda salutes Donna's assertiveness, which Donna celebrates by shoving a pastry in her mouth as one should do when celebrating or always.
As she does so, ~someone~ is taking pictures of her and the "clever" plot device they used in the "Ashes to Ashes" episodes occurs...
...wherein a black and white still photo of the moment pops up onscreen, and it's truly one of the many, many banes of my existence.
My banes...
...they are unceasing.
And WHOMST is taking the pictures? If you haven't figured it out by now, you've not watched enough dismally predictable '90s' television and I pity you, really - I pity you.
So Beret finally approaches after being an unhinged stalker for the last five minutes, and she'll continue to be one since she's essentially assisting with the trafficking of Donna (as predicted in my Part 3 recap of "Too Little, Too Late; Paris 75001"): "Excuse me! My employer, he would like to meet you."
Donna accepts the piece of paper Beret thrusts at her, asking, "He would?" Beret queries, "Do you have any modeling experience?" And by "modeling," she of course means something truly, deeply dark and hostile.
Donna's and Brenda's only response is to turn to each other and stare, speechless.
Smash cut to a very robust line of people awaiting their volleyball tournament registration and some generalized sex harassment from Steve.
And, sighhhhhhhhh.
Whatever. They're going team up for the doubles competition, since Kyle (remember him? Yeah, me neither) is out of town for the summer. I hope they both get more than a couple of Wilsons to the dome.
Sickening. These two are manning the registration tables. Brandon smarms, "I can't believe I'm gettin' paid for this," with Steve DERANGED adding, "If we don't find a couple honeys in this bunch we are losers." Too fucking late, you bimbo.
Snaps are pulled instead of tranq darts being fired by a sniper on the side into the flesh of these two disease-brained buffoons.
Steve looks up at the next victim of his ghastly personality: Brooke Alexander in her full-on bad haircut / terrible shorts / soon-to-be revealed-racism splendor.
Steve is initially tongue-tied because he's never seen someone with nearly as bad of a hairdo as him. He gets her name and her sponsor, then asks for her partner's name for the mixed doubles tournament. She tells him, "I don't have one. I don't wanna sound conceited, but frankly I didn't think anyone was good enough at Palos Verdes. I was hopin' to pick up a partner here." She and Brandon are gonna get along juuuuust fine.
As equally as smug, Steve informs her, "Today's your lucky day. It just so happens that I'm available." Disbelieving, she responds, "No offense, but I'm really taking this seriously. I'm captains of my school's varsity volleyball team and I wanna win that trophy."
In true cheesemeister fashion, "rockin'" music starts up in the background as Steve stands from his chair, leans into Brooke and says, "Then I'm your man." No thank you, please.
What follows is an ultra-corny, Top Gun-esque montage of Steve playing volleyball (with an unseen opponent) to prove his abilities...
...as Brooke observes from the sidelines.
There's lots of spiking...
...slow-mo diving for balls...
...more spiking...
...and him making what I assume he thinks are "sexy" looks in Brooke's direction.
Fade to sometime later: the two of them are sitting at the Snack Shack - Steve now giving Oldest Living Bad News Bear - with drinks in hand. We come in on the middle of their conversation as Brooke asks, "Samantha Sanders from Hartley House is your mom? Well, you must know a lot of celebrities." Yes, and they all hate him, too.
Brandon appears in the background, doing, I guess, an additional seven minutes of work - really puttin' in that overtime! - and Steve calls him over to make the introduction between two of the most insufferable people in allllllll the LAND.
Blah, blah, Brooke is also from Minnesota! So they immediately bond over that and it turns out Brandon played hockey against Brooke's brother at one point and OMG let's fall in like for three episodes until one of us realizes the other is a real piece of shit. And they do!
But not before pissing Steve royally the fuck off. He sits listening to their tedium with a puss on, ready to unalive himself, and frankly, I can't say that I blame him.
Brooke heads out to go home and after she walks away, Brandon makes a blithering horndog face as he sits down and declares to his friend, "She's foine!"
Steve, perhaps the most cock-blocked man in America, warns, "Hands off, Brandon."
And then in true Women = Possessions form, Brandon says he was just admiring his friend's taste; Steve stakes his claim with, "I saw her first"; Brandon assures him, "Buddy, relax. This whole place is jumpin' with babes. We're on a roll, remember?"; Steve relents; Brandon reiterates that he would never move in on Steve's "territory." I think I'm gonna be sic- oops, too late, I just vomited all over my laptop and hands and figuratively, my soul.
Over to Donna's photoshoot! We see a reflective umbrella and hear a camera clicking away...
...then pan over to yet another substandard male with ill-intentions helming said camera...
...then over to Donna, looking INCREDIBLE in a blue sequined mini and matching chiffon-y wrap thing, as the photog oozes a bunch of, "Very nice! A little more! Great! Great, great, great! You're beautiful!" We get:
Donna in a very "Like a Virgin" coded dress...
...Donna in a god-awful cowboy 'stume that should be tried for murder...
...Donna in another white number lolling on a chaise...
...Donna in a sheer-paneled bodysuit perched on a motorcycle? This shoot really runs the gamut.
He goes in for a hug, then leads her away and out of frame.
Beret here, now beret-less, watches them go as she and her clipboard look very concerned, indeed.
Cut to Kelly's bedroom, where she's reading a letter from Brenda - you know: the one she's about to irreparably betray - aloud: "'P.S. Tell David that Donna hasn't let it all go to her head yet.'" Kelly laughs and says, "Sounds like Donna's getting an awful lot of attention this summer."
Over to Kelly's bed where David sits: "Yeah, I know. You think she'll get her picture in a magazine?"
Kelly thinks so, along with Donna meeting, "a lot of suave Frenchmen." She and I both bust a gut and never recover after David asks, "What would she want with some French guy when she's got me?"
She basically tells him he's a fucking doofus and his music sucks, but he coyly advises her, "Some people seem to like my music." She asks if he has a secret admirer, to which he says, "Maybe I do."
And then he's off to rehearse and Kelly, able to spot a double-dealing lie-teller as well as anyone, seeing as she's about to be one herself, demands, "David Silver, you have something going on, don't you?" He denies it, pulls on his jacket, and says, "No, no, it's just me and my stupid music," which is the soundtrack's cue to start playing, "You're So Precious to Me." I see what they did there and I tip my hat.
Beach Club, evening.
Inside the cabana, David plays the song on his keyboard then starts SINGING ALONG in a real terroristic move on his part.
Though Nikki, seated and stimulated (noooooo) on the couch, appears not to mind.
As the song mercifully concludes, she breathlessly asks if she can get a copy once the demo is done. Why? To play at loud decibels to scare pigeons away from shitting on your window sills? David lets her know, "It probably won't be finished for a while, but if you give me your address up in San Francisco I'll send it to you."
She decides now is the perfect time to deflate David's testicles: "My boyfriend's band made a demo tape. They're called Waste Management. He's the drummer. But they burned the master in protest when all the record companies turned it down." Sounds like the catalyst for a permanent vow of celibacy on her part.
David, fearful that he'll no longer get the opportunity to dry hump Nikki on the very futon from which she just stood, gulps, "Wouldn't your boyfriend be jealous if he found out you were hanging out with me?"
Nikki: "Nah. We have an understanding. Besides, I think keyboard players are way hotter than drummers."
David: Horrified by his own boner.
Counterfeit France.
Inside the girls' hotel, Donna rushes down the stairs to the lobby to meet up with Maggie and Brenda, who, along with the other ladies milling about, are about to head to Versailles.
Maggie cops a bit of an attitude about Donna's presence and also lack-of-presence over the course of the last couple of weeks, given her position as the newest member of The Supers, apparently. Donna says, "I just took a little break, that's all. I mean, Pierre finished the portfolio."
Maggie, peeved: "Pierre? How stupid of me. Of course you would be on a first name basis by now." I know this is coming off as jealousy here, but as we soon discover (as I recall), it actually appears that Maggie is hip to Pierre's disgusting game and is simply trying to look out for her new friend.
From across the room, Madame D appears with a bouquet of flowers, calling out, "Donna! There you are!" She approaches and hands them to her, saying, "These came for you!"
Maggie comes up from behind and sneers, "And whom, pray tell, could these be from?"
Donna reads the card, then exclaims: "Oh my god, I can't believe it! Pierre needs me to do another photo shoot today! 'There's a car outside as soon as you are ready.'" Seriously, someone call the Feds. Or even better: Felice. She wouldn't stand for a moment of this.
At that, Donna says, "Well, ciao, guys," and turns on her heel toward the door.
Brenda calls out, "You'll miss Versailles. You've been looking forward to that for weeks!"
Donna, the true, oblivious victim in this whole mess: "I know, but c'est la vie."
Maggie and Brenda look distressed as we fade to black, after which I hope the Martins were contacted and some sort of police presence was dispatched to escort Donna back to the warm and welcoming embrace of Beverly mother-fucking Hills...which is also a nerve center of depravity, minors being preyed upon, negligent parents, and some of the worst men you'll ever encounter, but whatever. Home sweet home?
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