Hey BundyClub crew, David Faustino here, sprawled out on my couch with a beer sweating in my hand, just like old Al would approve. Man, it’s been too long since I dove back into these episodes with you exclusive degenerates. You know, the ones who get it, who remember when TV wasn’t some sanitized bullshit but pure, unfiltered chaos. We’re talking Married… with Children at its prime, when we flipped off the censors and made America laugh at its own dysfunctional ass.

Picture this: Gary’s over at the shoe store, restocking like he’s on a mission from God, but nah, he’s just dumping all the old crusty kicks on some Filipino orphans. Charity, right? Al’s all pissed because his empire’s crumbling faster than Peg’s cooking. Griff and Al, broke as hell, try to pay the lunch delivery girl with these ratty old sandals. And get this, she takes ’em! Boom, lightbulb moment, boys. Shoes got trading value in the real world. Meanwhile, back at the Bundy ranch, Kelly finally nails her masseuse license. Proud dad moment? Hell no. She tries it out on Bud yours truly and damn near turns me into a paraplegic.

I can still feel that fake cripple scene in my bones. We shot it in one take because Christina was on fire that day, cracking up so hard she had to redo her lines three times. “Bud, your back feels like a wet noodle!” she’d squeal, her hands kneading me like dough. Off camera, Katey Sagal’s yelling, “Don’t break the kid, Chris! We need him for the pervert jokes!” Ed O’Neill, classic Al, just chain-smoking in the corner, muttering about residuals. God, I miss that set smell cigarette haze mixed with polyester feet.

But let’s rewind, fam. This episode? Total riff on our shoe store hell. Remember how the store was this dingy corner of the soundstage? They’d truck in real shoes by the pallet, and by week’s end, we’d be knee-deep in ’em. One time, Ed slips on a stiletto heel mid-scene high heel, mind you and face-plants right into a pile of men’s loafers. Director yells cut, but we’re all dying. Ed pops up, covered in dust, goes, “That’s why I hate this job. Shoes are the devil.” We reshot it five times just to get more footage of him eating shit. Cut to the blooper reel you members got exclusive access to last month pure gold.

Gary, man, that guy was a trip. He came in later seasons, replacing Ike, but fit right in like he’d been dodging Al’s rants forever. Off set, he’d regale us with stories from his stand-up days. One night at craft services, he’s going off about bombing in Vegas, how some drunk heckler threw a loafer at him. Ed’s like, “Gary, that’s our demographic.” We laughed till we cried. And those Filipino orphans bit? That was ad-libbed gold. The writers threw it in last minute after some network suit complained we weren’t “globally minded.” Screw that, we turned it into Al’s nightmare donating his precious inventory to kids who’d probably use ’em as soccer balls.

Now, Kelly’s masseuse arc? Christina Applegate, babe, she owned that. She got her license for real, you know? Came to set waving this laminated card, all proud. “David, let me practice!” First take, she’s gentle. Second take, she’s going full Hulk on my spine. I yelped for real, and the crew lost it. Amanda Bearse, our Marcy, she’s directing a few eps by then, jumps in: “Chris, you’re gonna sue us for workman’s comp!” We milked that scene for days. Bud hobbling around, whining, “Kelly, you turned me into Peg’s twin!” Off camera, Chris and I would prank the props guys, hiding massage oils in their toolboxes. Slippery chaos everywhere.

Speaking of behind-the-scenes madness, let’s talk the lunch girl. That actress? Total unknown, but she improvised the sandal trade like a pro. Al hands her these filthy flip-flops, she’s eyeing ’em like buried treasure. “These worth more than your tips,” she says. Griff’s nodding like an idiot. We broke character so bad, Ed had to corpse-laugh through half the takes. After wrap, we all chipped in and bought her real lunch from Roscoe’s Chicken ‘n Waffles. Best day ever. That’s the Bundy way treat the little people right, then mock ’em later.

But yo, club members, you want the real dirt? This ep filmed during that heatwave in ’93. Soundstage like a sauna, no AC because producers cheap out. We’re sweating bullets in those wool suits Al’s shiny shirt sticking to his gut, my Bundy boxers riding up. Katey in her muumuu, fanning herself with a script. One scene, Peg bursts into the store yelling about no money for tacos. Mid-take, a fan blade snaps, rains metal shards. We duck, production halts for hours. Ed turns it into a union rant: “This is why actors die young!” Safety meeting turns into beer run. By nightfall, we’re back, funnier than ever.

Flashback to my early days as Bud. Season one, I’m 14, cocky little shit thinking I’m hot stuff. Ed takes me under his wing, teaches me poker during downtime. We’d play for fake shoe polish cans. Lost my ass every time, but learned to bluff like a champ. That’s where I got my game, boys. Katey? Mom figure, but zero bullshit. She’d sneak me smokes behind the trailers, tell stories about her rock band days. “David, don’t end up like these hacks,” she’d say, nodding at guest stars. Christina and I? Siblings from hell. We’d sabotage each other’s trailers stuff gel in shampoo, whoopee cushions under seats. One time, she Super Glued my script pages together. Revenge? Laxatives in her yogurt parfait. War.

Griff, played by the late great Michael Lemon, man, we miss him. He was the straight man to Al’s insanity. Off set, storyteller supreme. Told me about auditioning in fishnets once for some musical. “David, never wear spandex. Chafes the jewels.” We’d crack up during shoe piling scenes, him and Ed flinging loafers like frisbees. One blooper, a pump flies, clocks the boom mic guy. Down he goes. Reel gold, members only.

And Bud’s cripple bit? Inspired by real life. I tweaked my back skateboarding between takes yes, I was that 90s kid. Hobbling around set, writers see gold. Kelly “massages” me, snaps my spine. Visuals were killer fake braces, me in a wheelchair scooting after chicks. Christina pushing me, whispering dirty jokes. “Bud, your dong’s the only thing working!” Cut, hysterics. Ed ad-libs, “Great, now I gotta wipe his ass too.” Family TV, my ass.

Let’s get nostalgic deep. Soundstage 33, Fox lot. We’d wrap, hit the Snak Shop across the street for chili dogs. Cast ritual: Ed footing the bill, bitching the whole time. Katey with her massive portions, Chris picking at fries, Amanda dissecting the script. Me? Double dog, extra onions. Talked everything sex, drugs, Hollywood hypocrisy. One night, post-this-ep wrap, we crash Ted McGinley’s pad nearby. Jefferson’s real crib, pool party till dawn. Gary brings bootleg VHS of our unaired pilots. Watched ’em, roasted ourselves. “Bud’s mullet? Criminal!”

Hollywood then? Wild west. No MeToo PC crap. We pushed envelopes Al groping Peg, Bud’s dirty mags, Marcy’s bankster rants. Network execs foaming, but ratings king. This shoe trade plot? Skewered globalization before it was cool. Al trading sandals for chow mein, orphans getting L.A. rejects. Prop master sourced real junkers from thrift stores skid-marked insoles and all. Sniff test? Failed miserably. Ed gagged on camera, kept in.

Kelly’s license? Chris prepped hardcore. Watched YouTube no, VHS tapes of Swedish massages. Came to set oiled up, ready. First rub on me? Ecstasy till the twist. She “cracks” my back with a prop popper. I scream, flop like a fish. Perfect. Bud’s lines: “Kelly, I can’t feel my tips!” Double entendre heaven. Fans ate it up letters pouring in, “Bud, get well!” Little did they know, I was banging cheerleaders off set. Cocky teen life.

More dirt: During reshoots, rain machine leaks, floods shoe store set. Wading in six inches of water, pumps floating like boats. Director: “Action!” Ed sloshes through, “Peg, the store’s a swamp! Like our marriage!” Improv fest. Hours of gold, trimmed for time. Blooper vault, your domain.

Peg’s role here? Underrated. Katey storms in, demands cash for her “beautician” supplies. Al bribes her with orphan shoes. She sniffs one, retches. Real puke face Katey’s gift. Off camera, she’d coach me on girls: “David, confidence, but don’t be a Bundy.” Wise woman.

Bud’s recovery? Montage of me crawling, Kelly oblivious. Chris nails ditzy perfection. We’d rehearse in her trailer, her in lingerie “for authenticity.” Kid in candy store. Zero regrets.

Wrapping the ep vibes: Al and Griff hawk sandals door-to-door, score big. Bud limps to victory, dates masseuse rival. Bundy win, American style.

But hey, club fam, the real magic? Us. You, me, these stories. Like that time on set…

Wait, insider drop: Next con, ask Ed about the shoe polish poker debt he still owes me. Shh, our secret. You’re Bundys for life. Stay dysfunctional. David out.