Let's Make Fun of all the Clothes from Famous Original Beverly Hills, 90210

DON'T MISS OUT ON ALL THE FUN: rendezvous with parts 1, 2 and 3 here, here and here, then come back to get all up in part 4's business.  Also: THIS IS IT.  Season 2 will be in the rear view after this one, and I'll begin recapping Season 3 which will eventually conclude when I'm in my mid-50s.  Something fucking depressing to look forward to, I guess.

It's not too late to Runaway Bride-it, Jackie: away from that catastrophic headdress (which is clearly striving to be this but failing miserably); away from Mel and his deviousness and odd, wig-like hair here; away from the David-as-a-stepson of it all.  Alas.

Don't front, Kelly.  We all know the true meaning behind those tears of stepfather-induced terror.

Cut over to a shot of a squinty Dylan, plotting Jim's murder and/or his summer fling with his girlfriend's best friend which will alter the entire trajectory of the show and piss off an entire generation of girls and boys who will carry the anguish with them well, well into adulthood.  Or something.  Just me? Yes? Oh.

We arrive at Dorkmeister Z and her Six LeMeure-coded hat and maybe? okay? dress, alongside Brandon, smug-less, thank gawd, but with that fucking Conair barrel-curled piece of forelock jutting out over his forehead which really just gives me the shakes with a side of a suddenly bile-filled trachea.  Also, while we're here, we hear the minister drone on about Mel and Jackie and their "singular devotion that time and time again has been tested." Pardon the interruption, but when has all of this testing occurred? No doubt, it's about to get real, real bad, real, real quick for these two yutzes, but thus far, it's been pretty smooth-sailing, other than all of the fucking annoying ~wAcKy~ misunderstandings that could've been cleared up but quick if these cretinous supposed "adults" had just opened their goddamn yaps and communicated with each other rather than involving their high-school age children in their non-dramatic non-problems high jinks that took place in the "And Baby Makes Five" episode. 

HURRY!! CATCH UP!!!! Part 1: here.  Part 2: here.

The nightmare blunt rotation that is Steve, David and Brandon enter, carrying flower arrangements and scolding the girls about not aiding them in their manual labor.

Kelly exits to go clear the air with Brenda in her bedroom, and Brandon, who is OF COURSE doing the least - carrying the smallest, pint-siziest baby bouquets the florist probably had to offer; the currently in utero Spawn of Silver could schlep a heftier load - leans in and hisses in Donna's ear, "I smell trouuuuuble," after Kelly's retreating figure, like, okay, Truman Capot-not.  Nothing comes between this rhododendron-toting, gossip-mongering bitch and a cat fight.

 Catch up on Part 1 here.

 THE FINAL EPISODE OF SEASON 2.  I began the season almost TEN YEARS AGO YOU GUYS, on January 5, 2014, with the excremently-christened "Beach Blanket Brandon."  And yes, that title and episode still haunt my nightmares and night terrors, my day-mares and day terrors.  Here's to hoping that Season 3 is a little less of a slog.  It is infinitely more melodramatic, so that's a win for us all, I guess? BUT AT WHAT COST? Sadly, we already know the answer to that one, *sob*:

We begin where we ended in the last episode: Border Inspection.

Inside some holding room: Dylan looks like we all would if we knew that the nerdlinger wrath of one Jim "Butch" Walsh was high-speed comptrolling its way down the Golden State Freeway at that very moment.

Brenda, supes cute in a very Taylor Swiftian Red-era ensemble, is, justifiably, freaking the fuck out, since she knows her dildo of a father is going to go completely and totally unreasonably ballistic on her, especially in comparison to the time her brother almost drunkenly killed a man, or the other time where he was on scary, scary drugs and left his car for dead and lied about it for days and days, and I know I bring this up every mother-fucking chance I get, but COME ON PEOPLE.  As a child I recognized the hypocrisy, but was mostly just like, boo, poor Brenda, but I'm now An Old and have lived in the world (pathetically, mostly, but that's of little importance) and I'm like, STRAP JIM TO A RADIATOR IN THE HOUSE OF WALSH WITH HIS FAVORITE PAIR OF SUSPENDERS AND BURN IT TO THE GROUND.  Mostly-mostly: poor all of us women of a certain age, who grew up watching this crap and thinking it was the norm, no matter the unfairness of it all, and believing it was just How It Was.  And it's only going to get far, far worse on this toilet heap of a show of which I will never, ever get enough, please help me it's been so long.

Dylan and his dreamy eyebrow scar assure Brenda everything's going to be okay; that yes, her father is a gigantic ass-face who likes to swing his probably-micro-penis around and generally tyrannize his daughter and hold her to ludicrous standards to which he doesn't hold his smug-mugged son while huffing and puffing about like he's fucking Charles Bronson With A Receding Hairline, but that it will all work out and and it was worth it and that they had a weekend that they'll never, ever forget, and I'd say that takes the lucrative title of Understatement of the Episode Thus Far.

Out in the hall, here comes plaid-cloaked Certified Tough Guy© Jim Walsh, best known in accounting circles as This Fucking Dweeb.  Border Agent from the previous episode leads him to Brenda and Dylan's holding room, explaining, "It's not that we didn't believe her, but we have these rules and regulations." Jim gets Hyper-Masc by placing his hands on his waist and shooting the door a filthy look.  I'm quaking.

SUCK IT, JAY SHERMAN.

Upon his arrival, their grab-ass and face-sucking is put on pause and they manage to peel themselves off of each other, Brenda whipping around with a, "Dad, hi," rather than the, "Don't even start with me, you fucking anal rot," I would've thrown his way.

The kids try to explain themselves but Jim and his ill-fitting slacks with diaper insert are having none of it and he goes Full Bitch as he turns on his heel all, "I said, let's go." Settle down, Death Wish.