Episode Report Card Demian: B | Grade It Now! YOU GRADE IT Not Without My Done One
By Demian | Season 6 | Episode 3 | Aired on 10.04.2003
Pause. Piper turns to the Dolt and snaps, "What are you doing here?" The Dolt, instantly sheepish, mutters, "I don't know. Better go." As he orbs out, Raige guhs, "What were we talking about?" "Dunno," Piper replies. Phoebe stretches and yawns and heads upstairs to bed. "Yeah," Raige absentmindedly agrees, "I'm tired, too." She crosses to the foot of the stairs, then turns to ask, "You all right?" Piper nods distractedly. "I just feel like I'm forgetting something." "Like what?" Raige perks as she bounces up the first flight to the landing. "Must not be very important," Piper shrugs. Piper tosses her glossy mane around and follows Raige up the stairs as The Ominous Oboe Of What Kind Of Shitty-Ass Mother Forgets Her Own Son? accompanies us into the opening credits.
By the way, I found a brief clip of Drew Fuller in that soft-core-gay-porno-masquerading-as-a-horror-flick travesty he appeared in three years ago. Enjoy, if you dare.
Manor kitchen, the following morning. On the much-abused white TV, a slap-happy weather guy who appears to be fashioned entirely from polyethylene predicts gorgeous weather throughout the Bay Area, adding, "If you're anything like me, you wanna forget aaaaall about yesterday." If I were anything like you, I'd stick my head in the oven. Piper putters around the center island, futzing with toast as Raige enters to snark something about stain removal sprays. Her hair's piled high on her head, and she's sporting a backless, knee-length, retro-style white satin dress with thin, mint-green stripes bordering the bosom-enhancing bodice. A bit much for an office temp job, I think, but staggeringly enough, it's an outfit that actually suits the character. Raige always struck me as the type of person who'd troll tiny independent resale shops for her wardrobe, and this looks like the sort of thing she'd pick out for herself. By the way, Rose McGowan's Varga Girl tattoo is visible on her right shoulder blade, evidently for the first time. I've read it's a replica of the image her grandfather painted on his bomber in World War II, and that, frankly, rocks, unlike the hiddy tattoos a certain other actress displays on a weekly basis. It takes a special kind of moron to engrave Tinkerbell on her snatch, doesn't it? Okay, fine. Tinkerbell's adjacent to her snatch, but you get my point.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. Raige bitches that some dork at the office spilled coffee on the blouse she wore the day before, and getting it dry-cleaned should eat up half a day's pay. I'm sure she's exaggerating, because I very much doubt a Bay Area temp agency would pay its clients $2.50 an hour. Then again, given the current state of the economy, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised if that were indeed the case. Thanks a lot, George. Piper wonders why Raige doesn't just bail, what with the rotten pay and the sexist boss she's been saddled with on her current assignment. Raige reminds Piper that her last crappy temp job led to a date with the embarrassingly hot Joe Millionaire. Raige intends to persevere, on the off chance her magical abilities will once again be needed. Piper whatevers, and I'm forced to inform her that anyone wearing a top as unflattering as hers has no room to criticize anyone else for any reason. From the side angles, she looks like she's pregnant again, and Holly Marie Combs is not a big woman. Whatever. Raige brushes it all off and, apropos of nothing save this evening's plot, concludes, "Sometimes you gotta ride a lot of different horses on the merry-go-round before you find what you're looking for." Were I Piper, I'd snort something unpleasant linking Raige's last remark with her spotty history with the slampieces, because Raige is a tramp. However, Piper chooses to focus on Raige's supposed merry-go-round error. "Carousel," she corrects, bustling back to the sink. "A merry-go-round has lots of different animals. A carousel only has horses." Raige frowns, perplexed. "How do you even know that, weirdo?" Piper, fetching a glass from the cupboard, pauses and admits, "I have no idea." I haven't a clue, either, because even the Smithsonian makes no distinction between the two. Shut up, Piper.