Because I’m hilarious and amazing, you as a reader are not really allowed to judge me. As a result of this glorious concept, I can do and say things that mere mortals can’t usually get away with in a social setting. On Tuesday night, I exercised this privilege by watching the premiere episodes of 90210 with some friends of mine. I reverted to a completely collegiate frame of mind with two classmates from graduate school. We grabbed some chips and dip, a few beers, and crashed on the couch with a few vicious and cynical eyes. We were open to enjoying the show, but we pretty much expected the worst.
Luckily, the show didn’t disappoint, at least when it came to moments of ridicule. From the characters to the writing to the hideous and wooden actors, our commentary was ripe with vitriol. We attacked the clothes, the waif-like bodies, the mediocre looks, and the clumsy delivery. Then the theme song started. Where was Brandon’s fake double punch to Dylan’s chin? Where was the classic camaraderie, the sunglasses machismo, the group shots, or my favorite part – the transition from black and white dud to colorful, smiling beauty? Instead, we got a flustered amalgamation of a Neutrogena commercial and an ad for Assisted Living once they threw in the beach shots and laughing head of Lucille Bluth. Or are we supposed to call her the version with all the booze and none of the bite – Tabitha Wilson? For two hours, we rarely stopped laughing as we found ourselves dragged through the most asinine plots and horrendous acting.
As a few more beers started to take hold, we focused a lot of our hatred onto Lori Loughlin, the former Aunt Becky from Full House and the current fugly mom on 90210. The show involved a rather superfluous plot line of “Annie,” or the new Brenda who looked wayyy too much like LL, taking a private jet ride to San Fran for a date with the richest guy in school. When her Lucille/Tabitha got in a car wreck, the parentals flipped their shit on her. My classmates howled at the screen, relentlessly teasing the parents for being such pyschos about their daughter, and one rhetorically asked, “Who does that?” I hit my friend on the knee and, as my voice shockingly dropped several octaves, I responded with “Uncle Becky.” As we cried through our laughter, the phrase “Uncle Becky” elicited uncontrollable laughter. To be honest, it still does.
And so, after we polished off several beers, an entire can of dip, a bag of chips, and two hours of our life, the only thing we really took away from that night was a new found appreciation for each others’ humor. Well, that and the phrase “Uncle Becky” to describe anything creepy for the rest of our lives.