Try Buying The Beverly Hills, 90210 Visual Aids Off For Ten Grand
All the Dawsonian nostril flares and terrifying boob caverns of S07.E07!
The Again With This podcast that explains these Visual Aids loved Bukowski.
(Ron Howard: "...It didn't.")
Kenny's really got that Ferdinand-the-bull/Dawson-Leery nostril flare of impotent stewage down, eh?
Kenny's gettin' upset!
Possibly because his side piece still hasn't figured out the settings on that spray-tan machine he bought her.
The casting department isn't usually great at its job (hashtag boss's kids) but the smug preggos they found for this waiting-room scene are perfect. (Trivia alert: seems one of them is named Rachel Cudlitz, and that is not a common name...so one wonders if she's the [then-?] wife of Michael "Tony Miller" Cudlitz, who also worked as a sound guy for the show. #TheMoreYouKnow)
What's worse, the poufy white windbreaker with shorts, or the half-hearted mandals that try to look kiiiind of like "real" shoes?
The fool who stands up these boobs and his money are soon parted.
Pity she doesn't stick the landing, like, ever -- but this is still a gangster move from Val.
...Just ask her.
If that plaque's for sparing us her terror cleavage, Donna better not get too attached to it.
"See, but that chaotic hair part reflects her saintly journey down the hill to rescue the deer...?" - Cliff, probably
It us. (Sarah's the drunk one on the left.)
Please contain your jugs, and the pistachios you've apparently affixed to the ends of them.
Jorts, Brandon's toaster sneaks, and a shirt you borrowed from Doug Henning is not the combo you deploy to win back your over-it ex, buddy.
Dick is a dork. Sarah still would, though.
If Mel didn't slap David into his grave before this, he kind of deserves whatever he gets now.
Bubble, bubble, HEENG! and trouble.
Dumb weiner Alex.
Not seeing the issue with Tammy. She's foxy, game, and not that bright -- Steve-nip, in theory.
The Van Halen Video School Of Stealth Babe-ing, Class of '96.
Meanwhile, back at Das Heenghaus...
That Chaplin 'stache is veering dangerously close to beer-hall-putsch territory.
Icy Flapper and her excellent boobs are not having it.
We are not having whatever masters-in-architecture + two cans of AquaNet Max Hold situation is going on on Kelly's head. That will seriously take as long to rinse out as it did to build. We're talking hours.
He may be the Little Tramp, but he can still unhinge his giant jaw to eat the bottom half of your face.
What kind of Battlefield Bea Earth-ur shit is this shirt. We're genuinely asking.
"Can we get some glycerin to the bedroom set ay-sap?"