Episode Report Card 0 USERS: N/A YOU GRADE IT The Lost Picture Show
By Demian | Season 8 | Episode 7 | Aired on November 5, 2005
Previously on Charmed, Piper and the Dolt had suddenly appearing and completely asinine issues with their marriage just to set up their stupid subplot for this evening, Piper's redheaded bastard of a lippy half-sister met her deadbeat drunk of a genetic father three years ago, and The Retarded Bimbo related a tale of woe regarding a long-missing sister of hers that absolutely no one cares about.
Currently on Charmed, the unbearably lispy Retarded Bimbo lifts the lavender scrying crystal from the smoky copper potions pot up in the nonexistent attic and swings the thing over a map of the United States, starting over the Central Plains. There will be hell to pay if that fucking thing lands on Chicago. In fact, I'm almost certain I heard every single Midwestern viewer shout at the same time, "Oh, HELL no!" when this originally aired. All eleven of us. The Retard, incidentally, hasn't spackled on her usual amount of makeup for some reason and, rather than ironing flat her fried hair as has been her wont up to now, has chosen to allow her severely bleached-out locks to dangle around her face and shoulders. I think it's all meant to make her appear fresh-faced and younger -- in other words, the actress's real age -- but it actually just makes her look a hell of a lot worse. Stick to the dramatic Adriana eyeshadow, doll. It draws attention away from your maggoty neck. Raige, her hair in braids, ambles into the nonexistent room from the upper stairs clad in a purple t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and as each and every scene between these two women thus far this season has been absolutely toxic in its badness, I'll skip to the point, such as it is: Ever since The Retarded Bimbo realized her long-missing sister that absolutely no one cares about was in fact abducted by a demon, she's been focused on nothing other than searching for the absent brunette. Boring! Raige orders The Retard back to campus for the day. The Retard protests, wondering what the Glamorous Ladies will do if a demon attacks and The Retard's not there to defend them. Oh, I think they'll manage without you, Maggot Neck. In fact -- dare I suggest it? -- they'll fucking thrive. Raige gestures about the empty attic and mugs, "I don't see any demons. Do yoooou see any demons?"
We do now. Thanks for nothing, Raige. Answering that call-and-response transition, a dark demonic force sent from the flaming maw of Hell whose name we'll eventually learn is "Vaklav" locks himself inside an ancient storefront whose frosted glass door reads "otohP kciwdahC" and -- get this -- flips a little hanging sign around from "Open" to "Closed" despite the fact that, as I've just noted, the fucking glass is frosted so no one outside can see the stupid fucking sign anyway. Jesus Christ. Vaklav smirks to himself and rather menacingly paces over to an old storage cabinet. He slides open one of the drawers and lifts a large, yellowing print from the bottom to place it on a nearby easel. "Time to make room for anothah!" he narrates in a typically British demonic accent. We get a glimpse at the print to note that the collage contains the ghostly and sepia-toned images of thirteen people, each sporting a startled expression and attired in an outfit stereotypical of the decade in which he or she was evidently photographed (yes, I'm speaking primarily of that ridiculous Madonna Wannabe in the lower left, but there's also some greasy tool with a handlebar moustache and a leisure suit, a depressing number of smelly hippies, and a couple who look like they were yanked straight out of a Soul Train line circa 1973). The camera shoots in to focus tightly on the young man in the center of the lower line of images, a James Dean type whose name we shall presently discover is -- wait for it -- "J.D." Oy. Vaklav raises his hand in front of J.D.'s figure, then swirls it clockwise through the air. J.D.'s form glows yellow for an instant before winking out of the collage. At the same moment, a bright, white pinpoint of light bursts open at the far side of the room, disgorging the considerably shocked J.D., who staggers backwards against the wall. "What the hell?" he opens. "Where am I? What's going on?" Incidentally, the soap-opera himbo playing J.D. was apparently last seen slipping it to Shannen Doherty on the now-cancelled North Shore. You can thank me for that bit of trivia after you've finished vomiting over the repugnant associated mental image.