Many thanks to the lovely and talented Pessimist, whose hellish nocturnal vision of a world gone mad appears in this week's show-page poll for your entertainment. And now, on with the show!
Fade up on Piper and the Dolt, lounging on one of the sitting room sofas. The Dolt's slumped deep in the cushions, one hand resting protectively on Holly Marie Combs's pregnancy pad. Piper, looking lovely in a cunning mint-green satin pyjama set, sweetly smiles down at the Dolt's scary, gigantic gargoyle head. "I think I'm gonna go up to bed," the Dolt eventually announces, grunting as he pushes himself into sitting position. Piper hauls her bloated body forward on the couch and, with a sly, affectionate smirk on her face, coos, "Do you want some company?" Oh, they are so not going where I think they're going, are they? At seven o'clock on a Sunday night? Sinners. The Dolt tosses an almost imperceptible glance at the pregnancy pad and insists that he's "really tired" and "just need[s] to get some sleep." He leans in to kiss her goodnight. Piper, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, makes to smack him with a sloppy wet one on the lips, but the tricky Dolt bypasses her face entirely to shoot some Dolt-tastic baby talk at the percolating infant. He pecks the pregnancy pad through the satin pyjama top and heads upstairs. Piper, thwarted, grunts in frustration. Now, normally, even the slightest hint of Dolt sex would make me propel huge chunks of various distressed internal organs out of my mouth towards the television set. However, I'm so pleasantly surprised at how subtly they've conveyed Piper's predicament thus far that I'm simply sitting here with a sly grin of my own. Besides, horny pregnant ladies on the TV? Are a laff riot. As long as the horny pregnant lady isn't Phoebe, of course.
A light baritone picks this moment to interrupt Piper's celibate snit. "I would be glad to keep you company," the voice smooths from off-screen. Piper's eyes widen as she pivots her unwieldy torso on the sofa. The camera follows her gaze to take in a tall, dark, tousle-haired, tuxedo-clad soap star standing in the front parlor amidst several dozen lit candles. Piper hauls herself off the couch to bleat, "What are you doing here?" "Sweeping you off your feet," the gentleman croons, approaching to take her hand. His name's "Ryder," by the way, and because I am twelve years old, this makes me snicker almost as much as the horny pregnant lady does. I need help. "I can't," Piper protests, gently pushing him away while wordlessly indicating her pregnancy pad. "All I see is you," Ryder -- hee! -- claims, his moist eyes glistening in the candlelight as a stray forelock of hair dances in a mysteriously-appearing breeze. The screen flares a sudden, brief white. When the picture returns, Piper's been relieved of both pregnancy pad and satin pyjamas, and now stands in the center of the room working a wine-red evening gown with dark violet accents. By the way, as the scene's progressed, more and more lit candles have appeared in the background. They now cover every available surface and are marching up the stairs behind Piper. I'm grinning like a slack-jawed, dimwitted fool. "Ryder, please," Piper begs. "I'm married!" "Not in your dreams, you're not," he whispers, burying his face in her neck. Piper's neglected loins burst into flame as the shot cross-fades to...
...Piper, fast asleep up in the Bridal Boudoir. The Dolt's cuddled up behind her, snoring away with an unconscious hand resting protectively on the pregnancy pad. His wedding band gleams in the low light spilling in from the streetlamps outdoors. The shot cuts away to a wide angle of the room, and we see a glowing, shadowy Henry Gibson hovering by the bed. I'd quote one of his poems at this juncture, but unfortunately, I found nothing appropriate to the situation. Hank shifts his focus from Piper to the Dolt, and he sprinkles a handful of CGI glitter onto the Dolt's scary, gigantic gargoyle head. The Dolt wrinkles his nose, and suddenly...
...we're watching a sepia-toned Dolt descend the staircase with a swaddled newborn cradled in his arms. The Dolt reaches the landing, and in typical Dolt fashion promptly misplaces the child. Okay, fine. The kid just vanishes, but I prefer to believe the moron lost it. Sepia Dolt goes all Lindy Chamberlain on the audience's collective ass and scuttles down the remaining steps, panting, "Where's my baby?" over and over again. Cherchez la dingo, Dolt. The image slips into a jerky, skipped-frame slow-motion -- the better to indicate the Dolt's mental anguish, or something. Whatever. As the Dolt frantically barrels through the sun porch into the sitting room, the screen flares white, and...
...we're back in the Bridal Boudoir. Hank observes the agitated Dolt for a moment, then turns to vanish through the wall into...
...The Prue Halliwell Memorial Bimbo Boudoir Of Paisley Tit Slings And Other Fashion Atrocities, currently occupied by a slumbering Raige. Hank sprinkles a bit of CGI glitter onto Raige's face, Raige twitches her nose, the screen flares white, and we're...
...over in a blindingly-lit, overexposed version of P3. The club's empty, save for thirty or so vacantly-smiling Stepford Sorority Girls arranged about the room, bearing gifts. The camera shudders backwards through the formation as one of the Stepfords advances to place her offering on the floor beneath a slowly rocking cradle. The camera shudders back through the crowd as Raige arrives, cuddling a small toy clown. The Stepfords as one drop their offerings and silently turn to walk away. "Wait!" Raige cries, dismayed and near tears. "You haven't even seen the baby yet!" The shot shifts to a Raige POV of the cradle as a disembodied infant wails, and yes, I'm sure the Rosemary's Baby imagery is intentional. "What'd you expect?" Raige's doll sneers in the vaguely alcoholic, Brooklynese rasp beloved by scary clowns everywhere. Raige inhales sharply and holds the doll at arm's length. "They don't care about the kid," the clown continues. "Nobody does." Very nice, seamless effects shot here of the actor's animated lips on the doll's body, and I must add that this is one fugly-ass clown. More on him later, though. Raige, horrified, shakes her head in mute denial as the screen flares white and...
...we shoot back over to the Manor. Hank eyes Raige, then turns to vanish through the wall into...
...The Prue Halliwell Memorial Bimbo Boudoir Of Paisley Tit Slings And Other Fashion Atrocities, now occupied by Phoebe. Sprinkle. Twitch. Flare...
...black-and-white Manor basement. Phoebe tentatively descends the stairs, clad in low-rise lace-up hip-huggers and a tight, concealing, white fuzzy sweater. The shredded shag on her head looks -- dare I say it? -- pretty damn good. It's darker, longer, and fuller than it's been in the past, and it very nearly flatters her face. Or perhaps the crafty black-and-white cinematography for this sequence is negatively impacting my better judgment. Oh, and kudos to whomever remembered that Phoebe's both fond of black-and-white movies and terrified of the basement. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Phoebe reaches the foot of the rickety wooden staircase and cautiously turns around. Good God, but she looks good in this scene. She nervously backs herself towards the wall, lit by a smattering of harsh, bare overhead light bulbs. As her face passes through shadows cast by nearby support columns, a Shatner-masked psycho emerges from the depths of the gloom with a buzzing chainsaw aimed right at her head. Phoebe shrieks and flies towards the stairs, but as she crosses the concrete floor, the room around her morphs into a moonlit clearing. She spins around in time to see Kenny G hurl a bolt of electric demonic mojo at Henry Gibson, who whimpers in pain before vanishing in a flash of light. Kenny G smirks triumphantly as Phoebe...
...gasps and bolts upright in bed. She whips her head to her right and chokes back a scream as golden, glowy Hank extends his hand to her. "Help me," he mildly intones. Phoebe shoots him a shocked, disbelieving stare. "This is not a dream," he insists before quietly dematerializing. The opening credits barge into Prue Memorial and spackle dreary mid-eighties complaint rock all over Phoebe's gaping face.
That was the most engaging pre-credits sequence they've had in years, right? I'm not hallucinating, am I? Am I? Dear God, what is wrong with my brain?
Pray for me, because the episode just gets better after we've dispensed with the first round of commercials. The soft patter of The Chordettes' "Mr. Sandman" hits the soundtrack during the last moment of post-break blackness, followed by a quick fade-up on the camera airily rising above a hill on the Marin Peninsula to take in the Golden Gate Bridge with the shimmering city in the distance. This song, with its unabashed Eisenhower-era cheesiness and deliriously close harmonies, never fails to bring a smile to my face, and it's the best tune they've used since that embarrassing muse episode made up for many of its flaws by closing with "Star Dust." It also links thematically to each of the pre-credits dream sequences, which quite frankly shocks me. (The pop culture junkies should recall it underscoring Halloween II's closing credits, and will snicker accordingly, one would hope.) They've featured arguably applicable songs during the opening travelogue in the past, but nothing like this. And as a bonus, the rises and falls within the song's phrasing synch up with the various swooping aerial shots of the city. In short: What the hell is going on here tonight? And why can't they do it every week?
Ahem. Anyway. The Chordettes harmonize us on over to Prescott Street. The song coyly fades out just as the below-the-belt saxophones kick in, which might not have been intentional, but it does bring to mind Piper's current predicament. And so, it makes me giggle. Up on the sun porch, Raige perches precariously on a ladder, hanging crepe-paper streamers for the percolating infant's baby shower, while the Dolt childproofs a nearby cabinet. I'm enjoying this episode so much that I'll ignore the clunky, plodding, Feeb-centric exposition that follows. Just read the recaps from the first half of the season, and you'll know what they're discussing. I will note that Raige and the Dolt take great pains to refer to the percolating infant as "my niece" and "her." Make of that what you will, because I called the baby's gender last summer. I'll also note that the scary clown from Raige's pre-credits dream sequence actually exists, in the form of a doll she calls "Slappy." Heh. After dispensing with a bit of the exposition, Raige and the Dolt allude to their "recurring" dreams before Piper sails onto the sun porch, too-brightly sing-songing, "Where is the man of my dreams?" The Dolt snickers fondly and natters at the pregnancy pad. Piper clenches -- hee! -- then announces that she must head over to the club to prepare for tonight's guest ovary. Raige, inflating a pink balloon, pauses to ask Piper's opinion of the decorations. Piper snarks that subtlety is not one of Raige's strong points, and she's got something there. The room's a riot of overdone shower kitsch, but Raige insists that she simply wants the best for her "niece." Piper whatevers and clutches her side in pain, for the percolating infant's kicking field goals in her stuff. The eager Dolt leaps to her side for a feel, but Piper notes that unless he's "a kidney or a bladder," he's not going to feel anything at all. "I never get to feel her kick," he mopes. Aw. Not. Stow it, Dolt. He snaps out of his self-pitying pout when Phoebe rings his Whitelighter bell from up in the attic. Rather than taking the stairs, the Dolt orbs on out through the ceiling. Holding her inflated pink balloon at chest level, Raige guhs and lets all the air out of the thing. If that's not a snide reference to the Fun Bags, I don't know what is.
Attic. Phoebe, still in her pyjamas, abuses the Book of Shadows as the Dolt orbs in behind her to ask, "What is it?" Phoebe yodels in surprise and spins around to spit, "Do not sneak up on me like that!" Because I'm enjoying this episode so much, I'll not wonder how the Dolt could "sneak up" on anyone, what with that glissading shriek that always accompanies his Blue Light Special. Fortunately, the two nitwits quickly get to the point. Phoebe wants to learn everything the Dolt knows about "tracer demons." According to the Dolt, said demons are "lower-level mercenaries able to track magical beings through different dimensions." Phoebe reveals that one of their number invaded her dream last night and sporked Henry Gibson, whom she describes as "a weird creature" "holding some kind of satchel." Hank should smack her in the teeth for that one. The Dolt opines that Phoebe's recurring nightmare is becoming more complex. Phoebe counters that, while everything started out as her usual nightmare, the sporking felt more like a premonition. The Dolt dismisses this until Phoebe reminds him that she's received dream-time premonitions before. Um. When? No, seriously -- when? If you're talking about what happened with that trampy homoerotic man-eater from Season Two, I'll be forced to note that those visions were more nocturnal meldings of smutty minds rather than proper premonitions. You do get points for continuity, but try again, hon. The Dolt blithers incredulously for a bit before Phoebe adds that she awoke to find the un-sporked Hank standing beside her bed. The Dolt caves and agrees to consult with the ever-useless Elders on the issue.
Phoebe watches him go, then turns to examine Kenny G's entry in the Book as the scene cuts to a darkened, stormy, blasted hellscape set up on a soundstage somewhere in the wilds of the San Fernando Valley. Kenny G picks his way across some rocks, past swinging "satchels" suspended from leafless trees, to meet with his goateed demonic boss. I'd give the boss a nickname, but he's not on screen long enough to merit one. The goatee berates Kenny for failing to spork Henry Gibson the evening. Kenny assures the goatee that he'll catch up with Hank tonight -- after all, Hank watches over a set group of people, doesn't he? So, he's easy to find. Kenny glances at the swinging satchels and jokingly asks the goatee if it uses the satchels' contents to dream. The goatee pimp-smacks Kenny across the soundstage onto a photogenic pile of withered tumbleweeds, sneering that demons don't dream. The goatee then reveals this week's dastardly demonic plan: By offing Hank and his brethren and thus preventing them from making their nightly rounds, the humans who depend upon Hank's CGI dream dust to "work through their issues" during periods of REM will suffer through night after night of dreamless sleep, allowing those issues to fester and erupt into the waking world. The afflicted humans thus become "angry" and "evil." Through all of this, the goatee hopes to attract the favorable attention of the Underworld's leaders and be rewarded for his efforts. The goatee hints at the great pain to which Kenny will be subjected should he fail once more in his assigned mission, then condescendingly asks Kenny if he understands. "Perfectly," Kenny grunts from the dirt before smearing out.
The goatee strokes itself as the camera cross-fades to a nighttime shot of the Golden Gate Bridge. Because I'm enjoying this episode so much, I'll not remark on the crappy digital insert of a full moon hanging in the sky. Night melts into day, and we fade again to the offices of The Bay Mirror. Elise Rothman, Girl Editor, bursts through the door with a sheaf of assignments for various reporters assigned to the city desk. "Bill," who did a "nice job on that hostage standoff piece yesterday," gets sent to North Beach, where shots have been fired in a bank. Bill should ask for a raise. Or another gig on Six Feet Under. "Angry man plows into the farmers' market with his car," Elise barks, passing a sheet of paper to another reporter. "Angry woman attacks school principal with a knife," she continues, tossing printouts hither and yon. "And in sports! Angry coach knocks out umpire with a baseball bat." Elise snarks about the city going to hell, but for the first time, she seems to be enjoying her job. The Feebs, lounging languidly in a nearby chair, attempts to insert herself into the action by mentioning her readers' inexplicable agitation, as evinced in their most recent letters. Elise just stares blankly at her and sort of nods her head all, "Whatever, you bimbo hack." Yay! We love this new Elise. Can she stay? I don't get an answer, because festering professional jealousies have erupted in another corner of the office. Raige's erstwhile coworker, Scott, tussles violently with a female colleague over an assignment. Guess he quit THE BLACK HOLE after being passed over for promotion one too many times. Phoebe's non-Mary Cherry assistant shouts above the din to announce that Raige is on the line for the Feebs. The female reporter flies across the screen in front of the nonplussed Non-Mary. Snicker. Phoebe gapes, then rises to take the call in her office. Meanwhile, the female reporter socks Scott in the jaw, he latches onto her upper arms, and the two tumble to the floor. Hee!
Phoebe shuts the door to her private lair and picks up the receiver. I should note parenthetically that Phoebe's changed into her Nightmare On Prescott Street outfit from the evening's dream, and while she looks fine from the waist up, I will go blind if those low-riding lace-up hip-huggers drop below cooter level. I'm already catching glimpses of that hateful tattoo. Anyway, Raige sits in her trusty Beetle, parked in the lot of the Home Depot of baby showers, and she elicits more than a couple of smirks from me as she editorializes about the twee, sick-making decorative decisions confronting her. Phoebe cuts through this amusing blather to ask if Raige has noticed any odd, overly aggressive behavior in her fellow Bay Area citizens as of late. "Everybody is odd in San Francisco," Raige duhs. "That's why we fit in so well." Meanwhile, a stroppy cow strapped into a soccer-mom SUV has pulled up behind the Volkswagen, and bellows repeatedly for Raige to "move it or lose it." Raige hmmms for a moment, then admits that she's seen more than her fair share "of a certain finger" from the other motorists that morning. Phoebe supposes that something demonic is afoot, and Raige is forced to agree when the stroppy cow shoves her head into Raige's driver's side window to spray outraged spittle all over Raige's surprised face.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Piper's getting all verklempt over her afternoon stories. The scorcher from her dream appears on the parlor TV as the lead in Piper's favorite daytime drama. He's a doctor, which is working on more than one level. The parody aspect is obvious to anyone who sat through General Hospital back in the day, and now that I've gone to the trouble of noting the guy's profession, the subtler, more-relevant-to-Piper aspect should be clear to everyone as well. Nice one, writers. I'd tip my hat to you, if I wore one. On the show-within-the-show, Ryder's paired with a silicone disaster area going by the name of "Sienna." I was most pleased and giggly to learn that Sienna's being played by Shauna Sand, also known as Mrs. Lorenzo Lamas. Gaze upon Boob Job Of The Year For 1996 and understand why certain "contestants" are making it to the round on Larry's new show. "I never stopped loving you, Ryder," Sienna dizzily breathes. "You know that, don't you?" "I never thought I'd see you again, Sienna," Ryder suavely replies, stroking her cheek. "Not after the yacht explosion." Ha! Piper, all weepy and hormonal and dripping snot upon her distended belly, dabs away tears with a sodden tissue as Phoebe and Raige pedeprocess through the front door. Just as Ryder attaches his own normal, fairly hot lips to Sienna's freakish, oversized, artificially bloated ones, Raige plants herself in front of the TV. Piper howls. Phoebe snatches away the remote and switches off the TV. Piper threatens to deploy the Hands Of Discontent. Dude. If I were Piper, I'd be doing a lot more than making threats right now, and to hell with the gore staining the parlor walls after I've vanquished Phoebe's impertinent ass. After all, I could always use Raige's all-purpose spell to mop up afterwards, right?
Phoebe details her take on this week's dastardly demonic plan to the horny pregnant lady, then summons the Dolt, who presently appears beside Raige to confirm Phoebe's suspicions about her premonition. Hank, according to the Dolt, is a "vir de somnio," which the Dolt claims is "the original Latin term for The Sandman." I'm enjoying this episode so much that I will take the Dolt at his word and not rely upon Sars's superior Latin skills for confirmation of this claim. ["As usual, it's wrong, but it's a lot closer than they usually get." -- Sars] The Dolt goes on to explain that Hank and his brethren function in much the same way as Whitelighters, what with the assigned charges and such, only they "exist on a different plane." A plane with sparkly CGI dream dust. Don't forget the sparkly CGI dream dust, Dolt. The only way to find a Hank, therefore, is to hire a Kenny G to track him from plane to plane. "And then kill him," the Dolt adds glumly. "Great," Phoebe mopes, and I'm sorry, but how much damn Vaseline have they slathered onto the camera lens for Alyssa Milano's close-ups in this scene? I'd be irritated if it weren't so goddamned funny. All of the others are crisply photographed through clear filters -- including Holly Marie Combs, who's sitting right to Alyssa throughout this entire frigging exchange. Ha! Oh, Lord. The editor must hate her. Woo!
Anyway, Piper's more concerned that Hank might know what her frisky subconscious has been up to these past few nights. "Why would a demon want to kill people's dreams?" she asks. "They're just harmless, erotic fun!" Whoops. The conversational flatulence wafts through the room, silencing all as the Dolt bugs out his eyes in the wife's general direction. "'Exotic'!" Piper splutters. "I meant 'exotic.'" Her sisters are self-centered enough to let this pass in favor of focusing on their own nightmares as of late, but the Dolt's horrified. He does pull it together long enough to confirm that Phoebe's premonition took place "where [she] used to camp" as a child, and the four agree to head to the site immediately. Piper moves to haul her bloated ass out of the overstuffed armchair, but Phoebe insists that she remain behind. They can easily vanquish Kenny G with a potion, so there's no need for the Hands. Besides, Piper's not exactly in condition to sprint through tangled parkland underbrush. Piper protests for a moment before sinking back into her chair. She grabs the remote and switches the television back on just in time to catch Ryder and Larry's Very Special Superfund Site cuddling in post-coital bliss. "I missed it!" the horny pregnant lady shrieks in dismay and disappointment.
That evening, Hank glows his way into a tent at Phoebe's old campsite. He dusts the gentleman slumbering therein, then turns to stroll out into the clearing. Kenny G appears and flicks a little lower-level mercenary mojo at Hank, who promptly flares into corporeal form. Or something like that. He's now in our plane of existence, okay? Jeez. The boys snipe at each other as Phoebe and Raige orb in beneath the nearby trees. Raige flings a vial of Kenny G vanquish at the easy-listening demon's head, but he counters with a few sporking bolts of electricity that shatter the glass in mid-air. The resulting concussion wave knocks Raige onto her derriere several yards back. Phoebe dives for Hank, knocking him to the ground just as another of Kenny G's sporks zaps through the air in their direction. The spork does, however, vanquish Hank's satchel, and its entire contents rain down on Phoebe's temporarily dazed head. The Shatner-masked psycho killer from her dream immediately materializes a few feet away. Kenny G's pleasantly surprised at this development, Phoebe's paralytic with fear, and Raige is simply fed up with all of this bullshit. She hurtles over to snatch Phoebe and Hank up into a cloud of glowy orbs just as the psycho tries to decapitate the dimwit. Butcher Boy grunts in confusion as Kenny G cocks a speculative brow and we head into the commercial break.
Manor. Up on the sun porch, a distressed Phoebe paces and sighs, while over on the wicker love seat, Raige pokes Henry Gibson's shoulder to confirm that he's real. Mr. Gibson gives Raige one of his slow-burning "you're kidding with this, right?" looks, and I just laugh. Go ahead and call for my immediate dismissal from TWoP Towers if you must, but I'm having way too much fun with this episode. Piper and the Dolt join the trio from the kitchen with cups of coffee to kick-start the various sleep-deprived brains in the room. And I'm enjoying this so much, I'm not even going to ask, "So, if the coffee's for sleep-deprived brains, why does Piper bother passing a mug to the Feebs?" Hank politely declines, as Sandmen never sleep, anyway. The group confirms that Butcher Boy did indeed spring fully formed from Phoebe's head because she absorbed far too much sparkly CGI dream dust, and that if he tried to kill her in her nightmare, he'll do the same in real life. Phoebe phreaks and disappears into the kitchen for a processing summit of one. Piper insists that they find a way to pop Butcher Boy back into Phoebe's head immediately. "Before any of our other dreams spring to life," she adds, with much flailing of hormonally maladjusted arms. "Dreams like what?" asks the suspicious Dolt. "Never mind," Piper too-casually perks. A tiny, wry, conspiratorial smile crosses Hank's lips. Piper glares. HA! Raige obliviously babbles about ensnaring Kenny G before Hank reveals that a team of Tracer Demons is decimating the Sandmen's ranks. The gang figures out what the audience already knows, and Piper speed-talks her way through a plan of attack, determining that the group will summon Kenny G to the Manor to pump him for information, vanquish his boss, and stuff Butcher Boy back into Phoebe's dim little noggin. The doorbell rings, announcing the arrival of Becky and Wendy, or Wendy and Lisa, or Lisa Lisa and The Cult Jam, or whomever. It's a couple of Piper's friends, there to deliver the canapés for the shower. Piper shoos the Dolt, Phoebe, and Hank off to the attic to compose Kenny G's summoning spell while she and Raige deal with Debi and Tina, or whatever the hell their names are.
Storm-Blasted Soundstage From Hell. Or Tarzana. Your choice. Kenny G introduces the goatee to Butcher Boy and proposes that they use the sparkly CGI dream dust to bring the worst fears of the Manor's other residents to life as well. The goatee strokes itself and agrees to the plan.
Manor. Marci and Lindsay lug bags of catered snacks into the front hall and dump them to the piano, atop which sits Slappy The Clown, who is actually Raige's favorite childhood toy. Disturbing. Now that I'm getting a good look at the doll's face, I'm even more impressed with the earlier pre-credits effect. They didn't just add the actor's moving lips to the doll's head -- they had to have frozen everything but the guy's mouth for the shot, then added the doll's body below. It really was damn good. Um, I mean, it really was fairly decent for this show, given the crap they normally toss onto the screen every week. Oh, fuck it. All critical judgment has been siphoned from my brain. Deal with it, kids. Anyway, Cindi and Susan comment on Slappy's creep factor, then belabor Piper with shower plans and such. Piper attempts to push Sylvia and Jackie out the door, but they just. Won't. Leave. This scene is overlong and ultimately pointless because we'll never see Sharon and Tracy again, but you know what? I'm enjoying this episode too much to care. What's Her Name and The Other One eventually exit, and Piper heaves a put-upon sigh.
Up in the attic, Phoebe struggles with the summoning spell's wording. She's distracted, you see, by the thought of a Butcher Boy out there lugging around a buzzing chainsaw with her name on it. She pleads with Hank, begging him to interpret the vision from her subconscious so she can use her conscious mind to conquer it. Or something like that. Whatever. What's important is that Hank doesn't shape dreams, nor can he interpret them, nor can he help conquer the fears those dreams represent. Only the dreamer may do such things. Phoebe absorbs all of this, then refocuses her attention on the task at hand.
Down in the kitchen, Piper and Raige threaten to drag down the episode's high grade with a ham-fisted examination of Raige's true motivation for throwing so elaborate a shower. "It is not every day that a half-Whitelighter/half-witch is born into this world, and we need to celebrate her!" Raige anviliciously insists. Piper wonders if the party isn't more for Raige's benefit than the percolating infant's, like, not too quick on the uptake there, are you, hon? Fortunately, the Dolt puts an end to this tedious crap by entering to insist that they prepare for Kenny G's imminent arrival. Kenny G himself appears at this moment to fling two bagfuls of sparkly CGI dream dust at Piper and Raige, who jitter and twitch and drop to the floor. The Dolt swings into attack mode, but Kenny G sporks him into the pantry with a blazing bolt of electricity. I'd rewind this bit several times for amusement's sake, but the tricky film editor ends this sequence of Dolt abuse with a shot of Brian Krause's enormous ass plowing straight for the camera lens, and once is enough for that shit. Kenny G tosses the contents of another bag onto the Dolt's head, then smears out of the room.
Piper rises from the floor in her wine-red dream gown, and oh. Wow. Ow. Daylight does this thing no favors at all. Upon closer scrutiny, the dress has the unfortunate effect of making Piper look like a giant, blood-colored banana slug waddling around upright on its tail. Nevertheless, my enjoyment of this episode continues undiminished, so I'll just note the absence of the pregnancy pad and move on. Piper panics as a tuxedo-clad Ryder -- bwa! -- materializes before her in the kitchen. He immediately crosses to maul her while she hoots and bats at him with her hands. Meanwhile, Raige staggers to her feet to discover a full-size, human Slappy bouncing around the breakfast nook. I was going to describe him in all his white-headed, yellow-fringed, pastel-striped horror, but you know what? Clowns are hideous, freaky sociopaths, and everyone knows it, so let's leave it at that and keep going, shall we? Ooops. Do you hear that? It's the sound of Emmett Kelly's heirs throwing together a frivolous defamation lawsuit against Television Without Pity. Anyway, Piper finally notices that she's shed her pregnancy pad, and pushes Ryder away long enough to wonder who the hell stole the percolating infant. The Dolt provides an answer as he hauls himself up from the floor, pregnancy pad safely ensconced within the confines of his t-shirt. There's a round of goggled-eyed gawping before the roar of a buzz saw invades the room from above. "That didn't sound good," snickers Slappy. Shudder.
Up in the attic, Phoebe fends off Butcher Boy with a wooden coat stand while bellowing for her sisters. Hank, mildly concerned, stands a few discreet paces behind her. Butcher Boy hacks off one end of the coat stand as Hank reminds Phoebe that she can't physically fight her own dream. "Wanna bet?" Phoebe heedlessly sneers as she impales Butcher Boy on the shaft of wood in her hands. A gaping wound flares open on his chest, and he drops from the frame to the floor. The shot cuts over to Phoebe's own torso, where an identical wound has appeared beneath the left Fun Bag. Phoebe stumbles backwards, then snipers to the carpet. Kenny G smears in, glances around, and quips, "Would Freud have a field day with this, or what?" So vast is my enjoyment of this episode that I shall not pause to wonder how a low-level easy-listening demonic mercenary knows of Freud or his works. You say Kenny G reads a lot in his spare time? Works for me. Kenny makes another quippy remark before sporking Hank, who dissolves into a cloud of sparkly CGI dream dust that settles into a neat, glittery pile on the carpet beside the grievously injured Feebs. Kenny lopes over to retrieve Hank's satchel from the floor, then smears out with a triumphant smirk on his face. Phoebe gazes at Hank's remains for a bit and lapses into a commercial break. Er, "coma."
Manor attic. Aftermath. Piper and the Dolt race to Phoebe's side, whereupon the Dolt applies the tingly touch. It's not immediately effective, for they don't realize that he's healing Butcher Boy as well. Raige scampers in to confirm that she's "caged" both Slappy and Ryder downstairs. The Dolt begins to ask about Piper's gorgeous tuxedoed guest, but Piper snaps, "A little less bitching and a little more healing, please?" Get her with the bitching about the bitching. Oy. At long last, the tingly touch knits up the wounds on both the Butcher and the Feebs, and the Dolt eases Phoebe upright so that others might learn of Hank's untimely sporking. Butcher Boy hops to his feet and yanks the chainsaw's starter thingy a couple of times. Piper prepares the Hands Of Discontent, but Phoebe shouts that she herself will erupt into a spray of goo should Piper vanquish the psycho. And this is a problem...how, exactly? I kid. Phoebe's been an unexpected delight this evening, so wait until week to vanquish her bony hag ass, okay, Piper? Raige grabs a nearby box laden with The Mystical Crysticals Of Demonic Entrapment, and orbs down to the sun porch with Piper and the Dolt after ordering Phoebe to lure Butcher Boy out of the attic. Phoebe yodels and flees.
Cut to Phoebe jiggling down the stairs and out onto the sun porch, followed closely by Butcher Boy and his buzzing chainsaw. As soon as he enters the room, Piper and Raige arrange the Mystical Crysticals at his feet, and the Crysticals flare up, as is their wont. Butcher Boy tries to hack his way through the force field, but manages merely to grind up some sparks. As The Gang Of Four retreats towards the parlor, we get a shot of Slappy and Ryder similarly ensnared. "Who's the fox?" Phoebe gasps. "I'm Piper's dream lover," Ryder replies, nonchalantly sliding his hands into his trouser pockets for God only knows what reason, but I can certainly imagine, so right now I'm as ashamed and mortified as poor Piper over there. Piper squeals that she never actually slept with the guy as the Dolt shoots Piper and Ryder a pair of jealous side-eyes. Raige prudently suggests they repair to the parlor for a processing summit. The others file out as Slappy mocks her shower preparations and promises that "the partygoers" will disappear regardless. A brief wave of misery washes across Raige's face before she sets her jaw and strides from the room, shutting the door behind her. "I got her number," Slappy confides to Ryder, but Ryder's too busy prepping himself for Piper's private love canal to care.
Ahem.
The four arrange themselves on various pieces of furniture to muddle their collective way through this latest mess. Phoebe suggests that they follow Hank's pre-mortem advice and "de-mystify" their respective antagonists by casting a sleeping spell and confronting their individual demons directly in their dreams. At this, the Dolt snorts, "Doesn't take a shrink to figure out Piper's dreams -- you wanna screw someone else!" Of course she does, Dolt. Look at yourself. "At least he makes me feel sexy, and not like I'm some walking incubator," Piper sasses back, choosing to ignore my own perfectly reasonable retort. Phoebe, of all people, cuts through the crap to remind them that time's a-wasting. She instructs Piper and Raige to fashion an appropriate spell while she retrieves a bit of sparkly CGI dream dust from the attic floor. As the Glamorous Ladies sleep, the Dolt will stand guard on the off chance that Kenny G escapes his subplot to return to the Manor. The gals break, leaving the bloated Dolt to mope alone in the parlor.
Storm-Blasted Soundstage From Sepulveda. Kenny G puffs away on a cheroot as the goatee wanders around in the background. Long story short, Kenny G believes he himself can capture the hearts of the Underworld's leaders by offing the Charmed Ones, so he sporks the goatee. I told you the goatee didn't deserve a proper nickname. Scene.
Oh, dear. Skip the paragraph if you enjoyed this episode far too much to complain about lapses in continuity and logic.
Manor parlor. The Dolt eases the pregnancy pad onto the sofa and promptly drifts off to sleep. Without the supernatural intervention of a Sandman and without the sprinkling of sparkly CGI dream dust onto his scary, gigantic gargoyle head, he drops right back into his pre-credits sepia-toned dream sequence, wherein he discovers the misplaced newborn in its crib. Asshat. "I just want to hold you," he whispers. The jerky, skipped-frame slow-motion that defined the look of his nightmare up to this point slips back into smooth real time as he cradles the gurgling, swaddled infant in his arms. Fatherhood issues apparently resolved, the Dolt awakens immediately when Raige taps him on the shoulder, and he rises from the couch to assist the gals. For the purposes of grading this episode, we'll ignore this scene, okay? Yes, they had to resolve his issues somehow, but they just blew apart the premise and internal logic of the entire episode. Pretend it never happened. That's what I intend to do, at any rate.
So, we leave Kenny G to suck malevolently on his cigar -- and hey, wasn't he just making cracks about Freud? -- to return immediately to the Manor, where Phoebe has collected the sparkly remains of Hank in a small glass bowl. She enters the parlor and passes it to the Dolt, for he must take Hank's place once the Ps have recited the sleeping spell composed by Piper and Raige. The ladies arrange themselves on the sofa recently vacated by the Dolt himse-- uh, the sofa no one's used for a good ten minutes or so, and remind each other of their objectives. Said objectives come perilously close to matching those of the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Lion in The Wizard Of Oz. Don't believe me? Let's listen in:
Raige: I need to find out why I feel so empty.
Piper: I need to give in to my desire.
Phoebe: I need to find the courage to kick my killer's ass!
"A brain." "A heart." "The noive." 'Nuff said.
In any event, the three Ps recite the following spell, which several on the boards identified as a reworking of one used previously:
Let we who waken from our sleep
Return at once to slumber deep.
The gals immediately slump backwards into the depths of the sofa. The Dolt tiptoes over to Raige to sprinkle a bit of the sparkly CGI dream dust into her face. He does the same for Piper and Phoebe. There's a bit of twitching before the screen flares white, and we land in...
...the black-and-white basement. Phoebe reaches the foot of the rickety wooden staircase and cautiously turns around. She nervously backs herself towards the wall, lit as before by a smattering of harsh, bare overhead light bulbs. However, rather than edging backwards in silence, this time she calls out, "I know you're down here!" She shudders a bit before adding, more to herself than to Butcher Boy, "You always are." Butcher Boy emerges from the depths of the gloom with his buzzing chainsaw aimed right at her neck. Phoebe shrieks and spins to face him, chanting, "I'm not afraid! I'm not afraid! I'm not afraid!" She's scared shitless, and wheels around to flee for the stairs. Hee! Butcher Boy hoists his chainsaw above his head and slashes it through the air, ripping the frame over to...
...the blindingly lit, overexposed P3. The camera shudders backwards through the formation of Stepford Sorority Girls as one of them peels off from the group to place her offering on the floor beneath the slowly rocking cradle. The camera shudders back through the crowd as Raige arrives, cuddling Slappy. As before, the Stepfords as one drop their offerings and silently turn to walk away. "But, wait! You haven't even seen the baby yet!" Raige splutters, a bit confused. "You should," snarls the Slappy in her arms. "That's why you're here, isn't it? Go ahead -- take a peek!" Shudder. The shot shifts to the Rosemary's Baby POV of the cradle as the infant within wails forlornly. Raige drops Slappy to the ground and forces herself across the dance floor. She spots the infant's embroidered blanket, which of course reads, "[Raige] Matthews." Raige picks up -- uh, herself, I guess, and coos for a bit before...
...waking up on the parlor sofa. The Dolt asks if she's okay. She rises silently and crosses to the sun porch door, which she opens in time to witness Slappy vanish, along with the cage that had held him. Raige basically harbors deep-seated adoption issues, and she's been overcompensating for them by planning an elaborate shower for the percolating infant. Simplistic pop psychology, I realize, but nicely played by Rose McGowan all the same. Raige and the Dolt turn their attention to Piper, who jerks her head in her sleep and...
...snaps to attention in the center of the sitting room. Oh, yeah. The dress definitely looks a lot better in the low candlelight. From the waist up. "Ryder, please," Piper begs. "This isn't right -- I'm married!" "Not in your dreams, you're not," he whispers, burying his face in her neck. Piper's neglected loins smolder but do not burst into flame, because Piper pitching a screaming orgasm at a quarter to eight on a Sunday night is just too much for primetime network television, and we should thank the sweet Lord and all of his merciful angels in Heaven for that. Ryder, feeling no Piper heat against his patiently prepared private area, pulls back from her neck and croons, "Don't be afraid!" Piper gazes nervously into his glistening eyes and hesitantly surrenders -- at first reluctantly allowing, then eagerly participating in, a kiss far more scorching than any she's shared with the Dolt. And it goes on for quite some time. You go, Executive Producer Holly Marie Combs! You hire those hot soap opera boys, and you make them make out with you! Atta girl! Woo! The shot shifts as Ryder finally breaks the lip lock, and Ryder has somehow morphed into the Dolt. Just go with it. It's a dream, remember? Piper and the Dolt beam at each other for a moment before we...
...cut back to Piper in the parlor, grinning like a deeply satisfied fool in her sleep. The Dolt's disturbed. Raige pulls a very funny "Yikes!" face and turns to check on the Ryder in the sun porch. Ryder gives her an affable two-fingered salute as he promptly vanishes. "Where'd he go?" asks the Dolt. "Nowhere," Piper replies from the parlor. "He was right here." Piper, you see, was dreaming about the good old days, before she'd turned into a bloated hormonal shrew and the Dolt would perform unspeakable acts upon her person on a nightly basis. But that's an unpleasant mental image, so let's see what Raige is up to over at the sofa, shall we? Oh, she's concerned, because Phoebe has yet to awake. In fact, Phoebe gasps, and we...
...hit the black-and-white basement just as Butcher Boy demolishes a set of shelves. Phoebe clatters up the rickety stairs, but as she reaches the top, she steels her resolve and turns to confront her tormentor. Butcher Boy mounts the first couple of steps. Oh, not like that. Gross. Phoebe grips the staircase handrails and lands both feet in his face. Butcher Boy topples backwards, but splits into three when he crashes onto the concrete. Whoops. Didn't see that one coming, did you? No, I mean it -- you didn't, did you? Because I sure as hell didn't. The Butchers Three, armed now with an axe and a cleaver in addition to the chainsaw, rise to their feet to menace and growl. Phoebe unleashes an ear-splitting howl of terror, and...
...we cut back to the parlor. Piper, Raige, and the Dolt edge uneasily back to the sun porch door. Butchers Two and Three materialize on either side of One, and boot the Mystical Crysticals out of formation. Piper gasps as the Butchers Three advance into the commercial break.
And we're back. Piper, Raige, and the Dolt frantically barricade themselves in the parlor, but the Butchers Three easily hack through the various priceless antiques. The three race to the far end of the room as Phoebe twitches, and we...
...cut abruptly to a black-and-white kitchen. Phoebe's retreated from the basement and barricaded the door, but the Butchers Three...you know what? This doesn't end well, so I'll try to make it as painless as possible: Phoebe unmasks one of the Butchers, only to discover that Butcher Boy is herself. See what I mean about this not ending well? It's always about her. Selfish, self-centered wench. So, Phoebe Has A Moment Of Deep Personal Significance and whatnot before we...
...slam back into the parlor. The rapidly advancing Butchers Three dematerialize. Phoebe awakens and reveals what she's discovered about herself. "You?" Piper asks, appalled. "The killer was you?" "How narcissistic is that?" goofs the Feebs. Yeah. What I said. Several times. Sigh. The official explanation is that Phoebe's always been self-destructive. Whatever. The only issue now remaining is that pregnancy pad shoved into the Dolt's t-shirt -- an issue quickly resolved when the percolating infant boots him a couple of times from within his borrowed uterus. The Dolt gets a little emotional, the percolating infant switches back over to Piper, and the Dolt announces his intention to do the wife at her earliest convenience.
Fortunately for us all, Kenny G smears in to threaten and sneer. Piper pffts, "Wow. I completely forgot about this subplot." She shows the easy-listening demon a single Hand, and he agreeably dissolves into a spray of black goo. Raige graciously admits that she went a little overboard with the whole shower thing, and offers to shift the entire affair over to P3 so the Glamorous Ladies and their guests might enjoy the soothing sounds of tonight's guest ovary. What a delightful idea, Raige! In fact, let's head over to P3 right now!
Inside the club, the usual throng of gyrating twentysomethings grooves to the mellow beat of tonight's guest ovary. The camera slowly tracks through the crowd, eventually landing on Phoebe, Piper, and Raige, fast asleep on their reserved divan. Phoebe rests a protective hand on the pregnancy pad, Piper has a companionable arm slung over Raige, and Raige cuddles Slappy close to her heart. It's so goddamned cute!
week had better suck, because I can't handle good episodes. Also, The Percolating Infant becomes The Done One, at least until I can think of a better nickname for the brat.