Episode Report Card Demian: C+ | Grade It Now! YOU GRADE IT Farewell, My Liver
By Demian | Season 7 | Episode 8 | Aired on 11.13.2004
"So, whaddya think, Nancy Drew?" Phoebe asks as the two amble into the Not-So-Great Hall. "Lover's quarrel?" "Hardly," Raige sniffs. "She hated him. Everybody did. That means the entire school is suspect." As they reach the corpse, Phoebe stammers, "W-w-wait -- a gnome was shot?" "That seems awfully human, doesn't it?" she wonders, glancing at Raige, and I have to say, it's a shame about those pants, because aside from them, she's looking pretty good tonight. "Yeah," Raige confirms. "I'd say we're definitely out of our league," she continues. "We don't do bullets. We need to call the police." She's already tried Detective Doormat, but he hung up on her immediately. Raige's plan B? The strapping heterosexual, of course. Phoebe's shocked and appalled. Raige intends to bring Li'l Bulging Brody to Not!warts? Raige counters that, if they don't solve this crime before the ever-useless Elders find out about it, there won't be a Not!warts to worry about. And this would be a tragedy...how, exactly? The two ignore my perfectly reasonable question to snipe at each other regarding Li'l Bulging Brody's credentials -- again, some more -- before Raige finally insists, "I trust him, and I need him to do the C.S.I. part of this, so could you please get Piper, check the Book, and do the magical part?" "What about the whole date I planned for Piper?" Phoebe moans before rambling on and on about roses and moonlight and romance and whatnot until Raige impatiently waves a hand in the air and shouts, "Home!" Phoebe, still babbling, dissolves into a cloud of orbs that vanishes up towards the ceiling. Hee! HA! Way to shut that self-centered hag right the fuck up, Raige. Though I have to ask, if you've been able to do that all along, why have you waited until now? Raige grunts and leans wearily against a stack of books, rubbing her temple.
P3. A decidedly non-glam Piper polishes glasses behind the deserted bar. Suddenly, the champagne flute she's holding morphs into a long-stemmed red rose, with, of course, the appropriate sound effects. Her eyes widen in surprise as about twenty cut-glass vases then rapidly materialize in a row on the bar, each filled with a dozen roses. "All right!" she calls out, wigged. "What's going on?" "Do you like them?" the Dolt calls from the top of the stairs, where he's suddenly appeared with yet another long-stemmed rose clutched in his mitt. It's called overkill, Dolt. Dial it down a couple of notches the next time, okay? Kisses. "What if somebody saw this?" Piper scolds. "I sensed there's nobody here," he shrugs affably as he lopes down towards the bar. "Nobody except the most beautiful woman in the world." The three eight-year-old girls who still care about this damned, doomed relationship squeal in delight. Piper bursts into giggles and scoffs, "Have you been on top of the bridge again? 'Cause I'm telling you, there is not enough oxygen up there." Snerk. More Dolt-directed insults, please! Shit. I never get what I want. Long story short, the Dolt would appreciate a fresh start, but Piper's quite reasonably gun-shy, given the fact that he's dumped her, oh, eight or nine times in the last two years. Of course, she lets him down a bit more easily than I would with "I've spent months trying to keep you from falling into this psychotic abyss, and now that you're fine, I just can't flip a switch and be all lovey-dovey. It doesn't work that way." The Dolt pouts. Cram it sideways, meathead. Piper's cell rings. It's Phoebe, summoning her back to the Manor. There's a fun little bit where, although we can't hear the question, Phoebe clearly asks about the roses. Piper's all, "What?" before glancing around the bar and growling, "They're beautiful. Now stay out of it." Heh. Piper grabs her bag to leave, but pauses long enough to assure the Dolt she's interested. She "just need[s] some time." The Dolt sulks some more as she blows past him to exit the bar.