Episode Report Card Demian: B- | Grade It Now! YOU GRADE IT You were expecting a Seuss joke here, weren't you?
By Demian | Season 5 | Episode 9 | Aired on 11.16.2002
Apologies. Either the WB decided to crank up this episode at 6:58 PM Central, or my VCR exercised a little of its heretofore unknown supernatural protection mojo and lopped off the opening seconds of tonight's episode, vanquishing in the process something called The Flaming Lips as it performed at P3. Not that I'm complaining. However, in its zeal to shield me from on-the-skids alt-rock bands, my VCR also vanquished most of the short scene between Raige and her latest slampiece as well. Not that I'm complaining about this development, either. Slampiece "Trevor" looks like an O-Town reject and never appears after this short bit in the teaser, so if my VCR in its infinite wisdom decided he wasn't worthy of recapping, that's perfectly all right with me.
In any event, my tape kicks in just as Raige says, "I'm really sorry," and the spurned slampiece stalks off. Across the bar, Phoebe and Piper play armchair relationship quarterbacks, all, "Oh! Oh! Ooooooo! A strong offensive drive from Slampiece O-Town, but Raige's superior intimacy issues absolutely demolished that play well before it reached her end zone. Oh, the humanity!" Phoebe, incidentally, has slicked back the offense to God and nature she's been calling bangs, and has added to her topknot a lengthy wig piece that trails down from the crown of her head towards the Fun Bags. Despite the fact this makes her look like the lead chorine in Sweet Charity's nightclub dance number, it's the best her coif's been in a year. Though I do keep expecting her to whip her head around and lash Piper in the face with that tail of hair. The ladies return to their cocktails and thrash the half-sister's recent track record with her gentleman callers for a bit before Piper rises to leave. She and the Dolt are interviewing "magical nannies" in the morning, and Piper, ever anal, wants to give the Manor a final once-over before they begin to arrive. Phoebe protests that it's far too early to be hiring supernatural child care providers, as Piper's not even showing yet. "Except for your boobies," Phoebe amends gracelessly, dropping her gaze to her sister's supposedly inflated chest. Piper fans a demure hand over her cleavage and snorts, "They're large, and they're definitely in charge, but at least something's normal about this pregnancy." Piper collects her handbag from the bar and sails off just as Raige dejectedly slumps over to assume control of Piper's abandoned barstool. With a touch of self-deprecation, Raige jokes about boy-band rejects loved and lost before Phoebe, irritated that the topic of conversation has strayed so far from herself and her problems, leads, "At least you don't have to worry if [Slampiece O-Town's] going to attack again." Raige cocks a brow, represses the urge to twist that tail of hair around her sister's neck and yank on it until The Feeble One drops from her stool unconscious, and asks, "Is that some sort of Cole segue?" "Well, now that you mention him," Phoebe begins. Just slap her, Raige. Slap her hard. Raige ignores me, allowing Phoebe to blither endlessly about her latest set of problems with the ex-husband. Specifically, Cole hasn't contacted Phoebe in days. As idleness and Cole never made even a passing acquaintance with each other, Phoebe interprets the deafening silence emanating from the Casa as an indication that Cole's up to something evil.
The Ironic Segue Fairy pirouettes through the frame to escort us all to a biker bar, where Cole's busy placing a mighty dent in a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Atta boy. The Ironic Segue Fairy, meanwhile, glances at the other patrons of this particular establishment, quickly realizes they're not his kind of people, and jetes away before one of the spiky gents by the pool table cracks his skull open with a cue. As the Ironic Segue Fairy leaps off, two loathsome, murderous, and tubby thugs barge through the front door with prominent shotguns and absolutely nothing masking their identities. Cole's about as enthralled with this sudden development as I am, and casually refills his shot glass while the tubby thugs order the patrons to hand over their valuables. I'm not going to bother wondering who would be stupid enough to knock over a biker bar, so I'll turn my attention to the nifty six-shooter the bartender surreptitiously draws from beneath the till. The bartender points the revolver at the lead loathsome, murderous, tubby thug, and receives a bellyful of buckshot for his effort. Cole, still not caring, pours out a few more fingers of Jack. A somewhat attractive biker standing near the rapidly-cooling corpse of the bartender panics and bolts towards Cole's end of the bar. The thug underling raises his shotgun -- scratch that -- his fully automatic pistol, and blasts away at the fleeing biker boy. The thug underling misses the somewhat attractive gent completely. However, in a strangely satisfying bit of effects, the underling shatters the shot glass in Cole's hand by sending a round through Cole's chest. As the hole in Cole's grey tee magically knits itself up and the pesky bloodstain left by the bullet's passing vanishes of its own accord, Cole just stares glumly at the remains of his cocktail all, "Even my shot glass hates me." Poor guy. He rises to his feet, turns, and, channeling The Late Lamented, flings his arms around, violently TKing the tubby thugs into opposite walls. I want Cole's fleece-lined bomber jacket, and I want it now. I'd look like a monumental ass in it, of course, but that's not the point. Anyway, various biker types scramble to their feet and scurry out the door as the dazed and murderous tubbies paw for their weapons on the ground. Cole smacks the lead thug in the head with a Flaming Ball Of Death, and the felon erupts instantly in a gout of fire. The thug underling darts for the door, but Cole slams another FBOD into the underling's back. Tubby scum thus eliminated, Cole screams, all manly and tortured.