So this kid is like unhealthy skinny. Thankfully she’s next to this perm-ass beeyatch from “Nip/Tuck” who bugged the fuck outta me the whole hour or so we were able to watch that show before losing interest last season. Can’t wait for her.

OK, wait, were those the credits? They were like a phrase and a half long. Seriously. I’ve farted for longer stretches than that. Oh! Just did!

HEY! PILLS! PILLS IN THAT BOOK! HOW CAN SHE PAY FOR THEM? WHERE CAN THIS POSSIBLY BE GOING?!?!?!?

Ah, Jessica Walter. Slumming. Hey, isn’t that John Stamos’s wife from “Full House”? Fuck. I shoulda watched more “Full House.” Is “Full House” on right now? Could somebody look into this for me?

So I know he’s adopted and all, but I’d like to think that the anorexic’s black brother is not adopted, but is simply just black and nobody really bothers to explain it, like L.L. Cool J. in “Toys.”

Jesus Roosevelt Christ, these scenes are like nine seconds long. I just took a sip of my drink and now four people have had babies.

OK, so I’d like to go on record as saying Jennie Garth looks like 30 times hotter than she did during the entire run of the first series. TATA! JOE E. TATA! WE HAVE TATA, PEOPLE! Awww, and he’s yelling for Willie. He better get more fucken screen time than this. The world needs Tata, people. America needs Tata.

OH GOD! HORROR SHORTS! HORROR SHORTS! GAAAAAAD this is super not good.

“It’s feeling a little thin, guys; we need to thicken it up.” Thanks, drama teacher. Thanks for that. Incidentally, I guess this is the aforementioned “Jewish Temptress” here, with the wig hair and the alleged drug habit and the stealing of the gigantic purse crammed with twenties and the drama club? Feh.

… ummm, OK. So our DVR just skipped an hour and a half ahead. To the ending credits. We cannot rewind. We cannot fast-forward. We have a recording of the show, and we cannot watch it.

If I were riled up enough about this I’d speculate about some manner or another of consipiracy to keep us from this program, or some edict sent down by an angry god bent on further enraging me. But I’m now suddenly completely clear on why this keeps happening: Our DVR clearly cares deeply about us, and has our better interests at heart.

I mean, think about it: It’s spent countless hours with us, sitting quietly by as we fritter our lives away watching “World’s Explodingest Police Videos,” and tonight it finally hit its limit. 90 was a bridge too far.

“When a dedicated teacher and his family return to his childhood home of Beverly Hills so he can look after his ailing but still expansively vivacious mother, they all have to adjust: his athlete wife becomes personal trainer to the rich parents of their kids classmates; their sensitive, talented theater geek daughter gets a job at the local cineplex and befriends a Jewish teen temptress who s a genius at self-promotion; and their confident, intelligent adopted son may find himself the subject of unwanted attentions, both romantic and small-minded.”

I would like to call particular attention to the line “… their sensitive, talented theater geek daughter gets a job at the local cineplex and befriends a Jewish teen temptress who s a genius at self-promotion.” Dude, what? Seriously? What? Was there a 10-key error and somebody accidentally typed in 1920 instead of 90210? Is this the episode featuring guest director D.W. Griffith?

I am both deeply apprehensive and totally sucked in by zombie 90. My chief concern is that they’re gonna colossally fuck up and try and make this show legitimately good, thus shattering the core values upon which the original 90 was based. Original 90 was good because it was fucking retarded. From the ham-handed moral lessons to the godawful writing to the thoroughly, deeply mediocre cast, everything about it was jaw-droppingly lukewarm and consistently infuriating. A single well-written or well-acted episode could shatter 90’s legacy like Ahndrea Zuckerman’s glasses the time she got hit by a car.

But I have faith. Faith in the TV, faith in The CW — Faith that no matter how much legitimate talent they throw at this show (and from the looks of the cast, it’s not much!), the spirit of 90 will prevail, and the suck will burn free of whatever dim patina of quality they try to enshroud it in, rising phoenix-like to burn dully until roughly halfway through the second season, when it’s abruptly canceled due to scheduling conflicts with the 277th cycle of “America’s Next Top Model.”

Let me down, The CW. Let me the fuck down. I’m counting on you.

P.S. — Dear god, I forgot to mention I’m liveblogging this fucker tonight. I have to. I must. Also it was totally Emily’s idea for me to do that.

P.P.S. — So apparently the new 90 does not air until 10 goddamn 30 tonight in Chicago, thanks to the goddamn Cubs and their stinkin’ game happening during prime time. Bullshit, I tell you. “11 Million Viewers Deprived of New Suck,” the headlines should read tomorrow. It’s a goddamn travesty.

So apparently I’ll be doing this tomorrow night instead of tonight. Utter crap, I tell you.

Remember when Steve Sanders dated Hillary Swank for, like, half a season? She was in the straight up credits, man. They had high hopes for her and the Sand Man, or whatever the fuck it was that he called himself. She had a moppet kid with missing front teeth. But I guess the backlash was so great that they wrote her ass out of the show. It concluded with a touching freeze-frame hug of Ziering, Swank, and moppet. Steve cried. But really, Steve cried a lot. He was definitely the crier of the gang.

Anyway! Back in Oakdale, these two dootchbags are kickin’ it A&F style. I think we may have to say fuck it with this Luke and Noah stupid, “Let’s exchange promise rings and hold hands to Tori Amos” bullshit. I think the action’s going down over here at the Frat Pad.

For real, who would you rather hang out with? The last we saw Luke and Noah they had just asked a Muslim girl and a tween to go on a hayride. Ooooor, you could hang out with like, the Sean Cody* guys. I know what I’d pick.

Oh, Jesus Christ! Noah just geeked out about getting to take Muslim girl to the OU Spring Mixer. Oh, but she’s never been to a dance before. She couldn’t possibly go alone. Well, who better than to chaperone than the two kleenest teens in IL; Luke and Noah.

Luke’s hair is just a fright.

Jesus, they just got a lecture about drinking and driving. Then Muslim girl had to go and throw another wrench into things by being all, “Alcohol? I swear to Pete that this girl is not who she says she is.

Oh, the mixer is just awkward. I don’t even know where to begin with this. Should I talk about the explaination of why we humans get our hand stamped at the door? What about the guy from Global Studies class who offers Muslim girl the use of his notes, then was brash enough to ask her to dance? Buh, she doesn’t even know him. So he asks if Noah’s her boyfriend and she says no. But it’s all good because he said “Cool” when Luke was all, “Jump back, because he’s my trick.”

No! He didn’t really say that. That’s dumb. He was unfailingly polite when introducing his future intended betrothed in matrimoinus under god life partner, Noah.

Oh, shit! The Randy Blue guys are there! Suite life of Zac and Cody in the hizzy! They’re in some pissing contest over some boring girl. Omigod, Are they going to skip Luke and Noah’s tender first time and just go straight to sleazy gang bang?

You guys! I can not believe this is happening. Muslim girl says she’ll dance with Noah, but Noah’s all, “I can’t. I promised Luke my first dance.” Then he whips out a delicate leather booklet with a pencil attached by a bit of satin cording with, like, “LUKE: Dances one through for ever!” written all over it. I think that Chick-a, Cherry-Cola song is playing.

!!!We’ver been blind-sided by a tender Lily and Holden in the shower together scene. Oh, I can’t even watch it in fast forward. This is definitely more uncomfortable than the Henry and Vienna luuuuuv making, because they just looked like androids. Lily and Holden are totally your parents.

Now, either Zach or Adam/Cody asks Muslim girl to dance and Noah freaks out. Luke is clinging to his polo shirt begging to have a night to themselves. So she dances with this dink. That they dance to smooth R&B is a given. If 90210 has taught us anything, it’s that the young kids love smooth R&B.

Ok, guys, this fucking sucks. I don’t like having to watch more than one story on this show. This show is becoming like that one episode of the X-Files where the pennies melted together. I don’t like it.

Wait, Luke and Noah just went into an alley, supposedly to make-out. No! Boys! Stop! You’ll get busted for cottaging! Way to be out and proud, guys. If they kiss, I’ll eat my hat. Woah! Hand on thigh action!

Denied! Holden calls because someone has called Snyder Farm looking for Muslim girl. But Luke doesn’t answer his phone. Take that, DAD! Then it cuts to scuffling Pumas on the pavement, interrupted by two goddam g-men.

“Uh, excuse us guys. We’re federal agents.”

Luke and Noah bust apart. Because, you know, the feds often storm right in on men being seen together in public. They have values in this community!

No, they’re looking for Muslim girl. Luke totally rolls over and is all, “She’s inside.” He points and everything. God, you guys, I can’t keep up!

Feds bust in, manhandle Muslim girl. Muslim girl is still talking to either Zack or Cody, we still don’t know, ZorA gets up and punches the fed. Oh, well he’s under arrest now. Suite deal, bitches. In the kerfuffle, Luke and Noah sneak Muslim girl out the back door. Was this directed by Mack Sennett?

Nice, guys. Everyone knows that, when approached by the police over a manner you know yourself to be innocent of, the best course of action is to run away. They try and encourage Muslim by saying that the feds can’t just haul her away without listening to her side of the story. Sure! No way do they need probable cause. I’m surprised we don’t then get a serious lecture about the goddam PATRIOT Act.

The feds haul Muslim girl into custody. There’s outrage. God, it just goes on and on.

I can’t.

*I’d link, but it’s just filthy.

This really happened. This isn’t some insane BH90210/CMB fan fiction mash-up bullshit. Jesus, I know there are some fucked up people on the internet, but I hope to god there’s nobody out there who loves 90210 and CMB so much that they would write this down on a piece of paper.

Pretty much until Shannon Miller came along, Color Me Badd was Oklahoma’s favorite collective Native Son. They were up there with Will Rogers, Bud Wilkinson, and the guy that invented the shopping cart. This ep with the gang from West Bev is monumental. See, Had I gone to the high school I was supposed to go to, Northwest Classen, CMB would have graduated like, 5 years before me. I was that close.

I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that Donna Martin loves CMB, and tonight, for one night only, CMB are playing at the Whiskey (because Baggy Silver is on a first name basis with the whole damn bar). Pshaw says Baggy, that shit’s by invite only. What we have to do, see, is go to the BelAge and sneak into their room. That way Donna can also find out that her shrew of a mother is having a lame affair. Kills two birds with one stone, really. Jesus Christ, can you imagine wearing argyle coochie cutters on the day you find out your mom’s cheating on your dad? That’s a day that you will never, ever in your life forget and you will forever be dressed like that.

Oh, for Pete’s sake. I had somehow managed to block out the fact that this is also the episode where Steve hires a stripper to come to Casa Walsh, then Ahndrea, human killjoy extrordinare, shows up and ruins everything.

I have no patience for this today. David Silver keeps flexing his tiny boner saying he can get the lady gang into the BelAge to meet CMB, which we know he does, and it’s all downhill from there. Things kick into high gear when you hear the reverb on the fake snare.

Another reason this episode hurts is because nasty-ass Brenda is wearing an outfit that I unsucessfully tried to replicate on many occassions. It pains me to know that she thinks she can pull off black jeans and a stretchy scoop-neck top better than I can.

Donna’s just learned that her mom’s a total roundheels, so she calls her dad to tell him all about it. Where’s Dr. John Martin? Oh, he’s at the Medical Conference. Donna just calls them and asks for her dad to give her a call back at 310-KL5-6316. Yeah, the number for the BelAge is KLondike5-6316. I’m sure the Medical Conference will just send out a midget bellboy who’ll be all, “Paging Dr. Martin! Dr. Martin, you have a telephone call at the front desk!”

Kelly’s just come face-to-face with a real life skank-ass groupie who tells her all about how much she loves to give beej to Color Me Badd. Oh, but the joke’s on her! The guy from CMB who dresses like a trusty at Big Mac doesn’t dig whores in boas. He likes nice girls who give him crispy dollars at the Coke machine. Girls like Kelly Taylor. She goes back to their room and finds out that CMB are just like the rest of us. See, they told her all about the time the met Bon Jovi, so they know just what it’s like to be fans.

Too bad Donna has to talk to her mom about fucking around, so she misses the concert. Fortunately Kelly invites the damn band to the P. Pit! She introduces them to the gang, “My friends Fake George Michael, Fake Kenny G, Fake Vanilli, and Painfully Real Guy Who Drives A Mini-Truck.” They pull up some chairs and bust into (I Adore) Mi Amore. You do know there’s an extended talking in Spanish part in the middle of that song, right?

I don’t have this in me today, Internet. Earlier me and HGB got into a shouting match over who got to use the Swiffer. It took a lot out of me. Since neither one of us could behave, I had to put the Swiffer away and nobody got to sweep. See, now you know why I live in filth.

See, it’s an incredibly hip underground club that changes its location every week. In order to gain admission, one must exchange an egg. Until that time, the gang stands around school and says “underground club” about 13 times. Emily and Ahndrea get into a soft-butch pissing contest over that skinnyass Walsh. So Ahndrea lays down a wicked burn when she agrees to go to the underground club just for the sake of solid high school journalism. But Valentine has the last word when she pulls an egg out of her hemp bag and presents it to Zuckerman, all, “Here you go, Zuck. We’ll see you there….If you’ve got the plums.”

God, the first 20 minutes of this thing are all about lying to your parents and how it’s really wrong, because your parents trust you.

Because this is an undergound club, everyone is dressed in black. Dylan pulls Brenda aside to break the truth to her: There will be drugs inside. But things will be ok because they don’t have to do them. Sure enough, there’s a guy with a biggo 4 on his shirt. U4IA is in the house. And there goes Valentine, copping right there out in the open.

Turns out she’s not the only one with an eye out for adventure. Baggy Silver flirts with cirrhosis and chugs a pint of Old Harpers. Killer Kelly Taylor (who totally got dissed when Valentine was all, “Oh, wow, it must really suck to be the only one here without a BOYFRIEND! Especially a needle dick like BRANDON WALSH!”) can think only of her car interior.

On the way to the miraciuously line-less and drag queen free ladies room, Brenda and Kelly spot a guy on the nod. At that very second Brenda’s boot comes down on a giant plastic animal vaccination syringe. DRUGS ARE BEING DONE! ABORT! ABORT!

But it’s too late. Walsh and Valentine are clinched on the hood of the ‘Stang, their blousy jeans dampened by an endless flood of lost inhibitions. Brenda and Dylan try to meddle, but they are laughed right back to the Speedster. As they storm away the U4IC couple quote Motley Crue.

In the meantime, Steve and Ahndrea are running behind. They get there just in time to see the pigs come in and break things up. Ahndrea jumps out of the ‘Vette and charges into the fracas. For real, she can’t stand idly by and let breaking news happen around her without taking some serious fucking action. Unfortunately, the only flash on her beat was Walsh’s chicken chest peeking out from underneath Valentine’s bomber jacket.

Sometime after that he found his shirt, because he is definitely wearing in when he confronts some painful truths about drug use. He explains that people who do drugs think they’re so cool. Whether it’s the drugs that are cool, or those doing them, is unclear. Either way it doesn’t matter because in the end, it’s all a big fake-out. Drugs are dangerous because they take away your real emotions, thus making it all that much more difficult to tell the difference between life and tripping.

This lesson is brought to a close when Ahndrea stops by the P. Pit after a long day of shopping at Tuesday Morning. She just wants to see if Brando is ok. She’s concerned that he hasn’t learned his lesson, so she takes him into the kitchen where they recreate the “This is your brain on drugs” commercial.

David Silver is playing in this seedy club, singing this Candlebox sounding song, while the girl from the Nanny pretends to rebel against her parents. And she’s an artist! Oh! Gad! I just remembered the time on 90210 when Scotty’s sister put the moves on David at some dance. She stood in front of the stage in eyelet trim daisy dukes chirping and clapping. Donna was all, “Step off!” Then it turns out that she was was being molestered by her Oklahoma uncle, so she blamed the West Beverly journalism teacher. Well! That was the girl from the Nanny! The same skeeve who abandons her newborn on the doorstep of a lame one night stand.

I consulted some sources and confirmed the fact that the girl from the Nanny, Nicholle Tom, is the sister of the plug ugly Heather Tom, aka Victoria Newman on Y&R.

There we go, the rabbit just died. Turns out he’s totally privledged and might sell cars for his dad, that was unclear. His mom plays tennis and calls him “Sunshine.” Nanny Girl is a fast food waitress whose mother had her when she was fifteen. David must have known she was from the wrong side of the tracks, so that’s why he felt it was OK to straight up call her a tramp and made a pro forma offer of abortion money.

She can’t go through with the procedure, so she moves in with her mom who spends all her time telling her daughter how she’s ruined both of their lives. Now she’ll never go to art school and her mom won’t be able to live out her hopes and dreams of becoming a police sketch artist. It’s time for baby to go, so she loads up the hatchback and heads for Beverly Hills. Apparently, in 1997, it was still legal to put your baby in a forward facing car seat and have the tyke ride shotgun.

Have I mentioned that the music for this gem is by Mark Mothersbaugh? How the hell did that happen?

Silver just lost a big account, so his dad fires the nanny. No, not The Nanny. Now Silver has to take his kid to jam with his friends. Good thing all his friends are total pricks and stomp out of the garage when the baby starts crying. The eventually go on to turn him away when he comes to them for a place to stay after his dad kicks him out.

Jeez, this movie is making me really tense. Baggy Austin Green flipping out and screaming at his baby is kind of upsetting. Especially since it’s such an obviously rubber baby. I like to think that Baggy Green was all, “Look, just to be on the safe side, can we get a prop baby in here? I’m super fucking method and I don’t want to harm any babies during the filming of this movie.”

I think the next Sophie B. Hawkins is narrating the Baggy-gets-his-act-together montage. It took forever for 90210 to come out on DVD because there was all this music rights BS preventing the release. So now that it’s out, some of the songs are different. Turns out that Ms B. Hawkins is doing so well that she can refuse the ghost of Aaron Spelling the right to use “Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover” in the DVD release.

I could write a dissertation on the parallels between Unwed Father and 90210, but I have to get up tomorrow and put on more Professional Lady clothes. Hopefully they’ll turn out as well as they did on Monday.

Now, if anyone who saw me today is reading this and thought my outfit was lame, I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourself. I’m still in a fragile state when it comes to my looks. My cold sore has finally healed, but it left a scar. Apparently I scar easily. When I slashed my hand in college, the reason that the surgery didn’t completely repair the mangling I gave myself is because the palm of my hand is puckered by a moderate keloid. I have marks on my neck from that I ill advisedly stuck my face into Gus’s sleeping belly and he launched off my face with all four feet. I’ll carry these memories to my grave.

Oh, since my birthday is in April, I’ve been planning my next tattoo. I’m sure I’ll start saving my pennies any day now. I have some exciting ideas percolating. These feelings are a bit unexpected. I thought that my last tattoo would be the final one. But now I don’t think that’s the case. I think about getting old and what that’ll look like, but, in for a penny, in for a pound. I’m going to run with it. My friend, Kristen, once said that she had so many tattoos that she felt like she was covered in stickers. I’m starting to look like that myself. Here I go! This spring! Or once I get a job and have money to throw at my skin!

Unfortunately for everyone, especially myself, I was not able to watch any 90210 or LMN today. Which means that I’m pretty much all out of stuff to talk about. I guess I can talk about books. Remember those? I’ve been quite down in the dumps lately and, if you run your finger down the “Signs of depression” checklist, you’ll see the point about losing interest in activities you used to enjoy. One time I took one of those “Are you depressed?” quizes and the final question was “Do you have trouble making simple decisions?” and I couldn’t decide on an answer. Nice. But now that I feel better I still enjoy crap TV, but reading is totally my favorite leisure time activity.

The other day I finished Atonement and it was blew my mind. I saw the movie and that was super good, but not as good as the book. Loved it. In addition to that, I’ve finally taken my sister’s (Who, by the way, has commented on “Go Ironmen!” and remember, she’s the one who has the insider scoop.) advice and started reading Rupert Everett’s auto-bio. Very good, a different kind of good than Atonement.

So, I’m feeling ever so much better, but I don’t have much to say. I think this boost in my mood could also be due to the fact that I finally got one of my prescriptions filled. Now I have the focus of a surgeon. I didn’t even get shook up when I stepped in a particularly ick pile of cat barf. Hopefully this good cheer will hold up tomorrow, when I have to cart my child out into the painful freezingness. Fortunately I just set my DRV for a little gem called Unwed Father. Best of both worlds, baby.

Seriously, I am so excited to meet new, attractive, imaginary people to pin my hopes and dreams on.

A 100% hot cast is totally in the eye of the beholder, but they’re also harder to come by than one would imagine. Buffy had a 100% hot cast, even that simpering shitheel, SMG. As long as there was no moving or talking involved, she’s not terrible to look at. 90210 has about an 85% hot cast, with Spelling and Doherty being the obvious fug standouts.

I guess it really just comes down to my needing a group of solidly attractive people to make me care about their fake problems.

Oh! Big news in Oakdale! I have not seen Luke and Noah for weeks! Every day I tape As the World Turns, then I watch the intro catch a glimpse of Luke and Noah. If someone else is in the Snyder Farm kitchen that day, then I know they’re not going to be on.

Well, today proved me wrong. Today they were at an outdoor cafe talking about how they’re both 19; they really want to wait to get freaky because it has to be special, with a red, round bed and soft music and candles. Because I hear teenage boys love that shit.

As they’re sharing, Reg, Oakdale U’s GLBT Alliance prexy, came up and invited Luke and Noah to spend the weekend at a lake cabin (not mine, my rustic cabin is in Snug Harbor, theirs’ is at Rocky Point) “with an extra bedroom.” Er ma gur! Alone time! So they have to clear it with Luke’s Dad first. He’s being falsely accused of Smoldering Dusty’s murder and he needs help; Luke’s just being considerate.

Ok, they decide to go. Then President Queer comes back with his PYT in tow. Introductions are made and PYT totally cruises Noah! Noah excuses himself and PYT lisps his appreciation for Noah’s fine form. Luke read PYT’s beads and was all, “Yeah, I like it. So back off, Nelly!” PYT like, rolls his eyes or something, and proceeds to tell Luke all about the no-swimsuits-allowed hot tub at the cabin. Which immediately brought to mind a pool of amniotic soup made up of spooge, lube, popper bottles, and cigarette butts. Luke manages to mask his horror long enough for PYT to imply that drugs would be available to this party. At that point he makes a lame excuse and flees the interview.

Meanwhile, back at Snyder Farm kitchen, Luke comes in and tells Noah (who now lives at Snyder Farm with Luke, but he has to sleep on the couch, which is why they have not yet taken their love to the physical level) that PYT wants to snort coke off his boner. There is more frowning and hugging; they might have even said something about this testing their love. They decide that, while not an ideal situation, they’ll take it because they’re desperate to relieve the mounting pressure in their loins.

Some more time passes. Lily tells Holden he needs a lawyer. Holden calmly tells her that he’s got things under control, and, no, he won’t go to prison for the murder of Dusty Donovan. When we meet back up with Luke and Noah they’re in the kitchen, natch, and they jinx each other by simultaneously blurting out that neither one of them wants to go to the lake house. Their eyes meet, then their fingertips. Noah suggests they take a moonlight walk around Snyder pond. A walk where no dry humping will happen, noooo way.

I wasn’t able to pay too much attention to the story set up, as my mind was blown pretty early on in the episode when Kelly mentioned how ‘trendoid’ Dylan’s ‘wipe-out pants’ were. There was something involving the housekeeper’s niece going to West Bev under mysterious circumstances. Brandon thought she was hot because, even though she was Mexican, she bucked the odds and managed to speak in full sentences and not steal his wallet.

In the meantime, Big Jim Walsh was having a party for a client (manufacturer of the aforementioned wipe-out pants) that was catered by the housekeeper. Brandon got a bug in his ass about something, so he decided to make a huge scene in the middle of the party, calling out the client for possibly paying slave wages to illegals.

Now, we all know that this is probably true, but how fucking assholeish is it for the son of the host to call out the guest of honor for possibly, maybe exploiting people? Thanks, son! Then, in true Brandon Walsh form, he then turns around and makes his Dad feel like a shitheel for even diegning to allow Simon Legree into their home.

This is always happening. The time Nat wanted to sell the P. Pit because he was getting old and had a wicked case of angina? Brandon came in and told him he was a shit for even considering this option. There was another time that the Pit was going to get torn down to make room for a mall. Again, Nat wanted to sell and Brandon told him he was an asshole. Nat agreed and the Pit remained open. Nat continues on the greasy slope toward his early grave; Brandon rests easy knowing that he’s right.

Recently Brian watched Apt Pupil (RIP Brad Renfro) and that got me to thinking. What would happen if a Nazi moved in next door to Casa Walsh? Amazing things would happen, that’s what. I imagine the story would go a little something like this:

Old German man (played by Milton Berle) moves in next door. He’s sweet, volunteers at the Jewish Community Center, and is in failing health. One day Brandon befriends him by helping to rescue some baby squirrels who have fallen from a tree. Inside the house, while Fritz sees to the babies, Brando starts snooping and finds a photo of Fritz in his SS uniform. When Fritz offers Brandon some tea, he blows up, rips Fritz a new one for being true to das Vaterland, and storms out without bothering to wait for an explaination.

The next day Brandon tells Ahndrea all about it. He wants to write a front page expose for the Blaze, “The Nazi Next Door.” Ahndrea tells him that Fritz vols at the Van Nuys Hillel Center in order to atone for WWII. Brando pooh-poohs her lame excuse. He storms over to Fritz’s house and calls him out. Fritz explains that he was impressed into the Waffen SS when he was 15-years-old. The war was almost over, Hitler was desperate; sending children and old men to the front, and, like Gunter Grass, he really had no choice. It was either go with the SS or watch them slaughter his family.

Brandon does not believe Fritz’s hateful excuses and wastes no time in contacting the Wiesenthal Center of Beverly Hills, demanding that Fritz be brought to trial. Because he is Brandon Walsh of the West Beverly Blaze, his calls go right through and Fritz is convicted within the week. As they wheel the ailing Fritz out of the courtroom, he stops to thank Brandon for bringing him to justice and making sure he gets the punishment he deserves. After all, we all have choices in life and sometimes doing the right thing means giving up your mother and three young sisters to die a horrible death at the hands of desperate, war crazed fascists.

That night Big Jim Walsh tells his son that he is very proud of him; he has taken his words to heart and told Mr. Sweat Shop Wipe-Out Pants to hit the skids. Brandon sleeps the sleep of the righteous.

Thank god once again for television, and for SoapNet, and for its daily delivery of she who may well be dubbed without hyperbole the very inventor, the patron fucking saint, of Bershon: Miss Kelly Taylor.

She can NOT EVEN DEAL with you right now. Especially if you are Dylan.