Here it is, the “B” entry for my first round of “The Angry Alphabet”…
I grew up at an inopportune time in the history of American television. Back in October of 1990 when I was a sophomore in high school, FOX began airing Beverly Hills, 90210. Girls young and old swooned for the sideburned-double team of Brandon Walsh (Jason Priestley) and Dylan McKay (Luke Perry), while guys drooled over Brenda Walsh and the blonde bimbettes, Kelly and Donna. Now, back in 1990 I didn’t know too many guys named “Brandon,” and it was actually something I kind of enjoyed. It meant my name was kind of unique, and somehow, in my mind anyway, made me somewhat exotic.
But from the moment FOX first aired this shitball series, I’ve since been bombarded with the following “hilarious” question: “Oh, like Brandon Walsh?”
No! No, motherfucker, not like Brandon Walsh!
For one reason or another this disturbing trend hit its pinnacle in 1995, when I was waiting tables at a local Applebee’s in Pennsylvania. I don’t know if it was because the clientele was primarily composed of post-pubescent, pimple-faced high school freaks, or if 90210 was simply at its height of popularity. Either way, customers couldn’t have been more pleased with themselves when making that joke. (And by the way, it wasn’t funny the first time, let alone the 142,000 time.) Do the math, morons! Here I was a 20-year-old guy named Brandon. For the love of God, I preceded that nimrod Brandon Walsh by a good 15 years. So, no, not like Brandon Walsh, assholes!
So, until the letter “C,” have at it, you vultures!