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By Demian

The season finale? Already? Why, it seems like only yesterday that we were being introduced to Raige and that oddly-coiffed howler monkey of a boyfriend of hers. And the Smoked Bint with her Ball of Perversion! Aw. So sad that she had to take one right between those implants of hers for the team, wasn't it? Then there was that trio of offensive Asian stereotypes and Freddy Krueger with his dusty boy-toy, and all of us getting blindsided by both The Horror and some Star Dust. And the death-penalty debate with a little Dolt-fu! Charlie Starkweather and Caril Ann Fugate! And, oh! That trio of offensive Italian stereotypes, followed by the mop-topped poster boy for justifiable homicide, the sloppy demise of Scott Weiland, an ancient (yet sassy!) character actress, the interrupted wedding at Our Lady Of The Dead Heathers, Dolt sex, barrel-chested Australians, barrel-chested Australians having Dolt sex, imaginary gay vampire cooties, poor Grandma clawing her way out of the grave for a quick jaunt to San Francisco, The Monkey Boy, purely evil urine, blood clots in purely evil urine, and the ultimate immolation of D'Eartha and the Phoetus. Good times, kids. Good times.

Bah. Who the hell am I kidding? This season latched onto my ass like some befouled remora back on October 4th and started sucking -- and it didn't stop until it had siphoned my soul, my sanity, and the tattered remnants of my youth right out of my left butt cheek. Grab a cocktail and get comfy, gang. After all that came before, how bad can tonight be?

We get the expected answer as we fade up on a Miss Cleo manqué named Tashmin, whose televised image encourages a certain Veronica from Rohnert Park, California, to "tell Tashmin a little, and [she] will tell you the rest." The little TV perches on a shelf in Phoebe's office at The Bay Mirror. Phoebe herself futzes over her computer with her hair pulled tightly into a severe bun on the top of her head. Someone must have finally slammed her face into the wall regarding the Phoebangs, for the offending clots of hair have been smoothed out into a less-choppy row across her forehead. An agreeable blonde in a tailored grey suit sweeps into the office, toting a bin of "'Dear Phoebe' letters," and hooray! It's the erstwhile Mary Cherry herself, Leslie Grossman! While I'd love to have Mary Cherry find a permanent place on Charmed, I understand that Ms. Grossman's mid-season replacement has been picked up by NBC, and I'd just like to wish her the best of luck with that. God knows that if Grossman stuck around here, she'd end up pissing off Milano when the network's audience polls showed her character racing past Alyssa's in popularity, and then Alyssa would have her fired. The woman who endeared herself to me by sparring with Delta Burke and lip-synching to both "Rock Me, Amadeus" and "Baby Got Back" certainly deserves better treatment than that, doesn't she