Episode Report Card Demian: C | Grade It Now! YOU GRADE IT An episode that will live in infamy.
By Demian | Season 4 | Episode 9 | Aired on 12.12.2001
The timer on the stove chooses this moment to blare its buzzy little signal throughout the kitchen, most likely because it's as irritated with the non-progression of this scene as I am and, as a result, has decided to shut these two up the best way it knows how. Thankfully, the timer succeeds. Cole crosses to the oven and bare-hands the casserole within. Damn. Without his demonic half, he's as stupid as Phoebe. They're called potholders, Cole. Get your girlfriend to knit you a pair for Christmas. Then again, she might poke out an eye with one of the needles, so you'd better just send her to Crate & Barrel instead. Cole tosses the casserole onto the stove and starts flapping his hand around while cursing. Phoebe skitters to his side, wondering if she should summon the Dolt to heal Cole's hand. Because Cole was injured battling a demonic casserole. Cole insists he's fine, then bemoans the fact he "used to be able to hold fire in the palm of [his] hand." Phoebe makes with more of the "but you're human now" nattering before pulling him into a hug. From over her shoulder, Cole pouts, "I'm serious about the factions, Phoebe. If demons join forces --" Phoebe pulls back to level her gaze at his. "I promise you I will worry about the factions first thing in the morning," she states. "But for now," she adds with a lascivious glint in her eye, "I want us to join forces." Oh, ew. You keep your filthy little force to yourself, sweetheart. Ick.
The shot of the two devouring each other's face in the kitchen cuts to one of a neoclassical facade elsewhere in the city. At least, I think we're elsewhere in the city. Given that the gentleman inside is presently addressed as "Congressman," the setting is as likely to be Sacramento. The Esteemed Gentleman From Pismo Beach fumbles his way through a line in a speech he's composing. Pismo Beach fruitlessly repeats the opening phrase "we must join forces" (see what they did there?) once more before collapsing into his chair with a muttered epithet of irritation. A glowy lass clad in a virginal shift fades into view beside the congressman's desk. The picture frames on the wall behind her are dimly visible through her ghostly body, so we are to assume that the congressman is unaware of her presence. The glowy virgin leans forward as if to blow a kiss towards Pismo's bald head as he obliviously mutters away in his seat. Suddenly, Pismo's twisted grimace of frustration morphs into an expression of calm certainty, and he rises to his feet to pronounce, "Joining forces with our friends is simple. Only by working with those we have considered our enemies will we achieve our greater goals." The glowy virgin regards Pismo with warm affection as he continues, "In the coming days we must rise above our differences if we are to reach the level of our convictions." "Reach the level of our convictions"? Whatever. Also, since when did the composition of trite, insipid, meaningless, cynical political boilerplate require (presumably) divine inspiration? You know Peggy Noonan babbles crap like this in her sleep.