Lucky Charmed

I want nothing to do with this episode. Nor, apparently, do the inanimate objects that surround me. Tonight's episode is so hatefully bad, my laptop froze up twice in protest as I attempted to begin this recap. Then, the light bulb in my desk lamp committed suicide. I fully expect my VCR to spontaneously combust before we hit the opening credits.

Fade up on the exterior of P3. The walkway beneath the awning contains a mere two dot-bomb yuppies, and they're headed out towards the parking lot. They are, however, an interracial couple, so the number of minorities we've seen on this show just shot up to, say, eight. Were it not for Piper's remark last week regarding the club's declining receipts, I'd simply assume it was last call at the bar. Or, you know, a Tuesday night. Because why would that otherwise thronged walkway be empty? Aside from the fact that Piper's club sucks, of course. Okay, whatever. I'm stalling to avoid entering the episode proper, and in doing so I'm only prolonging the agony. Let's get to it.

Down at the bar, a waitress places an appletini in front of a whore negotiating her rates for the evening with Liam Gallagher. Sorry. My bad. It's Phoebe, and she's actually on a date with a gentleman she met online. A gentleman who appears to be at least ten years her junior. Cradle-robbing tramp. After some awkward first-date chatter, Phoebe yanks a pad of paper and a pen from her handbag to grill Liam on his online dating experiences. She's actually writing an article about Internet matchmaking for The Bay Mirror, you see, which is the only reason she agreed to meet Liam in the first place. Phoebe's not one for hooking up over the Internet -- it's too impersonal. Besides, she'd rather hook on the street like a normal person. And with that, I promise not to crack anymore whore jokes. Noting Liam's slight frown, Phoebe asks, "You mad?" Liam takes a moment, then smiles shyly and admits, "No. I still have high hopes for this evening." Really? In that case, I hope you have plenty of cash in your wallet, because Miss Phoebe doesn't take checks. Whoops! Sorry! Liam reaches across the table to take Phoebe's hand in his, but as soon as his fingers brush up against her skin, Phoebe's flung into a premonition. A premonition we don't see, mind you, but after four and a half years of watching her shriek and gasp and tense every muscle in her body while squeezing her eyes shut and shuddering, we all know what's going on. Yes, I realize I just described an orgasm, and yes, the idea of Phoebe in the throes of passion flies in the face of all that is right and holy, and yes, I want to die. Shut up before my laptop chokes again.

Phoebe snaps out of it, explains away her attack as a sudden case of the hiccups, and bolts over to the bar for an assist from Piper. Piper, however, is on the phone with Pat Benatar's manager, and she's groveling miserably. "Pat Benatar cannot cancel on me," she pleads. "I know I didn't call to confirm, but I was busy creating life!" Pat Benatar's manager could give a shit about The Done One, and hangs up on her. Atta boy. Unfortunately, before Piper can strap on her bitch, the Feebs hisses, "My date is a demon! He devours his victims and I'm , so freeze the room!" Please ignore her, Piper, and let the demon have his dinner. Please? She doesn't listen to me, choosing instead to sigh, "My sister, the demon magnet," before wearily tossing out a lackluster freeze. When the background noise cuts out, Liam raises his shaggy pate from his cocktail to find Piper and Phoebe glaring at him from across the bar. "Witches," he grumps. "Dammit." Liam rises to his feet and conjures a dagger into his right hand. Piper rolls her eyes and flicks her wrist around. Liam promptly erupts into a fireball and vanishes. His dagger drops to the floor before bursting into flames and disappearing as well.

"Thank you," Phoebe offers. Piper grunts and waves her hands in the air, breaking the freeze before announcing that she has "to get back to going bankrupt." "Scratch that," she amends, glancing at her watch. "I have to get back to fighting with my husband." There's a bit of babble regarding Piper's present difficulties with the Dolt, what with their new baby and their competing "careers" and all, before the gals exit the bar to head back to the Manor.

Cut to an outdoor caf, where some deadbeat ratbag wails a version of "Greensleeves" that makes me want to kick him until he's dead. As an aloof businessman strides by without dropping change in the "down on [his] luck" ratbag's guitar case, a midget materializes in the shrubbery. We all saw the previews, so we all know it's a leprechaun, but the more pressing issue is: If I tied my socks together and wrapped them around my neck, could I strangle myself? Or would I pass out before they kill me? I'd live? Shit. The midget opens his stubby fingers to reveal a "nugget" of "gold." "Slinte is tinte," he chants, and the "nugget" dissolves into a stream of sparkling gold bits that plows into the top of the ratbag's skull. Prepare yourselves: I'm pretty sure that's real Gaelic. I couldn't find "tinte" in any online glossaries, but I know "slinte is" translates as "health and," so he might just maybe have actually wished "health and luck" on the ratbag. Of course, the midget mispronounced "slinte," so this episode still blows goats. In any event, a glowy flare passes through the ratbag's body as a gust of wind ruffles his hair and slams shut his guitar case. A whimsical flute tootles in the background as that same gust sends a bit of sidewalk trash skittering down the street. Shut the fuck up, Whimsical Flute. The ratbag spots something green where the trash had been, and rises to investigate. It's a fifty-dollar bill. The ratbag, needless to say, is stoked. No surreptitious enforced sodomy at the Salvation Army shelter for him tonight! Nope, he's gonna get himself his very own cage at a roach-infested SRO! Score! The midget smirks to himself and super-speeds on out of there

into a nearby alleyway, where he slams into Gregory Moltisanti from The Sopranos. This can't be good. The midget's knocked flat on his ass from the impact, but quickly leaps to his feet to offer his profuse apologies. Greg, who's been fitted with a pair of reptilian contacts for this evening's festivities, snatches the midget up by his throat and makes with the sneering threats. After far too much of this, Greg tosses a little demonic mojo at the tiny man, who presently howls and wails and explodes. Greg stoops to retrieve the midget's discarded shillelagh, then draws himself up to shout, "Go n-ir an bthar laet!" Again, that's real Gaelic. "May the road of light rise," I believe. Does this mean I can't give this crapfest an F? Oh, wait -- I totally can, because as soon as Greg finishes with the shouting, a rainbow arcs over Telegraph Hill and plants itself at his feet. God, I hate this show. Unicorns, leprechauns, Harry Potter, and rainbows? Who the fuck do they think I am? Hilary Duff? 'Cause, you know, it's all about me. Greg steps into the rainbow, flares white, and shoots into the opening credits.

Tonight's opening travelogue is accompanied by a ukulele version of "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" that was featured prominently in several episodes of Young Americans a few years back, which only serves to remind me of a certain product-placed beverage and poor Pamie's summer-long bout of gender dysphoria. And Verve. Can't forget the Verve. Hey, did you see him on last week's Law & Order: SVU? He had sex with John Ritter's son. John Ritter's son, people. I mean, how desperate and/or skeevy do you have to be to bone the fruit of Jack Tripper's loins? And did you know that Ian Somerhalder and I share a birthday? Yep -- Sammy Davis Jr., Verve, and me. And Teri Hatcher and Kim Basinger, but we don't like to talk about them. Of course, Verve's ten years younger than I am, andwhat's that? You want me to talk about the episode? Well, screw you. This episode sucks.

Sigh. Manor. Up in the kitchen, Auntie Phoebe unleashes a torrent of sick-making baby-talk upon The Percolated Infant. By way of response, The Doltine Cracker horks his pacifier into her face. Heh. Incidentally, because the gang on the boards has been overcome by The Done One's cuteness and is therefore incapable of concocting appropriately vicious and ugly nicknames for the kid, because "The Non-Asian/Asian Precious Done One Log" is far too much to type, and because I myself am otherwise drawing a blank, I'll be mixing up the threewhat? Oh, yeah. Episode. Right. Over at the center island, Piper bobbles a piping-hot bottle of formula, screams for the husband, and receives no response, which leads to the following mini-rant: "Fricking ever-useless Elders! What is taking them so long?" And that, my friends, is a shout-out if ever I heard one. Meanwhile, Phoebe's received an amu-- Holy Mother of God! What the fuck is she wearing? Oh, sweet Jesus! From the waist up, she looked fine. I mean, yeah, the black sweater's cropped above her navel, and her hair's an unsightly mess, but we're used to that. It's those pants! They're skin-tight and riding so low, the waistband grazes both her beavage and her ass crack, and I, for one, never needed to know about that tattoo on her left butt cheek. God! DAMN! What the fuck is wrong with Alyssa Milano?

AUUUGH.

ANY-way. Ew! Where the hell was I? Oh, yeah -- Phoebe's received an amusing email on her Palm Pilot from "Cyrano73," with whom she's been flirting in an Internet chat room. This will become important later. Raige floats in from the hallway with a basket and disappears into the laundry room as Phoebe natters about Chronic The Hedgehog and the unreasonable demands he's been placing upon her since he assumed control of the newspaper. He did, however, gift her with a hefty raise, which Phoebe brats "is a bribe so I wouldn't quit." Stow it, you hag. You should take some of the extra cash and buy clothes that actually cover up your snatch. Phoebe air-kisses The Doltine Cracker and heads off to work -- in those pants -- as Raige squeals in from the laundry room with a tiny, shrunken sweater pressed against her chest. "Ah, come on," Piper smirks. "You've worn tighter things than that." Raige sniffily insists that that's not the point. The tiny sweater's still stained with demonic gore, and she can't keep replacing her clothes because she's running out of her savings! So go get a freaking job like the rest of us, you whiny sow.

Wow. I hate everyone tonight, don't I? Yeesh.

In any event, Raige insists, "I cannot afford to keep paying for this," right before a tiny light bulb flashes above her head. "Unless," she continues, "magic reimburses me." Piper shoots Raige a look of death and makes mention of the prohibition against personal gain. "Do I need to remind you of the big boob fiasco?" she asks. No. No, you didn't need to remind us of that insulting subplot, so thanks for nothing, dearie. "Don't worry," Raige replies, heading for the hall. "I won't do anything stupid." Piper, furious, tries to follow, but finds her path blocked by the Dolt, who's finally orbing back from Whitelighterland. "We've got problems," he announces. Piper duhs and bitches about The Done One and the club and the money and the wah, but the Dolt shuts her up with, "Not marital problems -- demonic ones."

Cue tonight's demonic problems. Over in a cave, Olivia from Buffy's "Hush" episode cools her heels with Elle from . They're waiting for Greg, who finally squiggles in with the long-awaited exposition. He's trying to assume control of the Underworld and he'd like their support, which he manages to purchase with two of the vanquished leprechaun's "gold" "nuggets." Of course, this means that all three of these people will be dead by episode's end, so I don't know why they're bothering. "Slinte is tinte," Greg intones, and the "nuggets" stream into the ladies' bodies. Greg's no better at pronouncing the Gaelic than the midget was. Olivia and Elle eye each other and grin.

She sets the paper alight with a candle and drops it into a copper bowl. The shrunken sweater promptly flares out to its original size, sans demonic gore. Flush with success, Raige perks, "I should try this on my credit rating!" You do that, honey. Just as long as I don't have to sit through it, okay? The Dolt enters from the stairwell, cradling the swaddled Done One in his arms, and upbraids Raige for violating the prohibition on personal gain. He notes that the ever-useless Elders informed him that the forces of good have endured a run of bad luck of late, and suggests Raige expend her energies investigating that particular problem rather than mending her wardrobe. Raige cocks a brow and informs the Dolt that she happens to have written the perfect spell for just such a predicament. She plucks another sheet of paper from the pile on the table and reads:

To Find Good Luck:
My finances have run amok,
Creditors I soon must duck.
I cast this spell to find good luck
And hope my life will cease to suck!

Raige dissolves into a glowing cloud of swirling green orbs as the Dolt gapes. Now alone, The Dolt instructs The Percolated Infant to keep his mouth shut regarding Auntie Raige's wacky hijinks. Cram it, Dolt.

Munchkinland. The glowy green cloud materializes at the center of the clearing and coagulates into Raige form. The Italian leprechaun jauntily greets her as the Whimsical Flute makes its triumphant return to the soundtrack, and there goes my brain again. Sorry. Hang on a minute. Let's just shut off the sound, and...there we go. Introductions are made, and Italian Seamus starts to give Raige the skinny on the whole Big Bad Greg situation. Unfortunately, Big Bad Greg squiggles in at that very moment to pimp-slap Raige across the clearing with some demonic mojo. Greg hoists Italian Seamus into the air by his throat, but before Greg can barbecue the runt, Raige calls for Jimmy with her orbing telekinesis. Jimmy The Runt dissolves into a cloud of orbs that reconfigures itself atop Raige's bosom. "Ever date a little person?" Jimmy leers. I'm not touching that one, and you can't make me. Ew! Big Bad Greg spins around and rants as Raige states, "We need to get out of here." "Allow me," Jimmy offers gallantly. He grabs his magical shillelagh and calls, "Go n-ir an bthar laet!" Jimmy and Raige vanish in the resulting rainbow as Big Bad Greg screams in frustration.

The rainbow sets Raige and Jimmy down in front of his massive pot of "gold." "Is that" Raige stammers. "All mine," Jimmy finishes proudly. Were this a Warner Brothers' cartoon, dollar signs would ka-ching! into Raige's eyes at this juncture. As it is, she simply smiles as Jimmy The Runt puffs his chest out into the commercial break.

You know, with the sound off, this episode isn't half bad.

Manor parlor. Forgive me while I keep the sound off. I think it's for the best. We get a quick lecture on Leprechaun 101, courtesy of Raige and Jimmy The Runt. Leprechauns travel the world on rainbows, "pollinating" said world with luck via the golden nuggets. "Sometimes the seeds don't stick," Raige explains, "but other times they grow into full-blown hot streaks." Also, depending upon the donor leprechaun's intentions, the nuggets can bring either good or bad luck to the recipient. Piper snorts at this, and argues that leprechauns should therefore be considered evil entities, what with the bad luck they distribute and all. The Dolt corrects her, noting that both brands of luck are necessary to maintain the magical equilibrium. Jimmy The Runt gleefully agrees with this assessment, and adds, "Finally! A man with a solid head on his shoulders!" See? Even Jimmy knows the Dolt's a blockhead.

The gals plus Jimmy and the Dolt try to puzzle their collective way through a Big Bad Greg vanquishing strategy. However, the constant interruptions from Cyrano73 and The Doltine Cracker -- via Phoebe's Palm Pilot and the baby monitor, respectively -- combined with Piper's incessant bitching about P3 lead Jimmy The Runt to toss his tiny hands in the air in a fit of irritated exasperation. He yanks one of his nuggets from his trousers, and I'm sorry, but that looks just as filthy on the screen as it reads on the page. What in God's name were they thinking when they came up with this shit? Huh? Anyone? Please? Jesus Christ on a stick. Anyway, Jimmy makes with the "slinte is tinte " nonsense, his magical trouser nugget streams through the air to Piper's head in a golden arc, that's even filthier than the last goddamned thing I typed, and the doorbell rings. Piper crosses to the foyer to find Pat Benatar and Neil Giraldo standing on the Manor's front porch.

A moment, please.

Pat Benatar RAWKS, and I say that with nary a shred of irony. Well, maybe a little shred of irony. Okay, a whole side of irony, but let's face it: If Pat Benatar agreed to appear on Charmed after the producers tried and failed to land Kelly frigging Osbourne for this episode, I think it's safe to assume we're talking about a gal who has a healthy appreciation of irony herself. I mean, this woman is responsible for the legendary cheesefest that is the "Shadows Of The Night" video, is she not? And she looks fabulous for a person who just turned fifty. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for her husband. Dude needs to lay off the peroxide. Seriously. You know, I thought Neil Giraldo was the hottest thing in tight jeans back when I was in high school. Well, one of the hottest things in tight jeans. And speaking of high school, did you have a Benatar-alike at yours? Ours was named Gina. After graduation, she wanted to become a stewardess. She ended up a coke whore, but it's nice to have goals, don't you think?

Sorry. Episode. Right. Pat and Neil are so happy to have caught Piper at home. Their car broke down in the middle of Prescott Street, you see, and they need to use her phone to call the auto club. Would Piper mind? Are they kidding? Piper's peeing herself with joy.

Munchkinland. Big Bad Greg corners one of the wee ones, confirms that the leprechauns summoned a witch, offs the midget, and steals his shillelagh.

Manor. Piper giggles her way into the parlor from the kitchen, where the rawkin' Pat Benatar is busy rearranging her schedule so that she and Neil can party at P3 that weekend. Inspired by this bit of good luck, Raige asks for a hit off of Jimmy The Runt's trouser nugget. He complies, and she immediately orbs away with Piper. Jimmy smacks up the Feebs with some of his trouser mojo. The doorbell immediately rings, Phoebe rises to answer, and once again I'm staring at her crotch. The Pants actually lace up right over The Cooter. It's vile. Pardon me while I turn up the sound and avert my eyes from the screen. From what I can hear, Chronic's arrived for their previously scheduled six o'clock outing. Phoebe tries to worm her way out of her commitment, but Jimmy The Runt pushes her out the door. Something about taking risks that allow the trouser mojo to bloom. I don't know. Leave me alone. I'm teetering on the edge of insanity, here. With The Cooter safely out of the house, Jimmy engages in a tte--tte with Rawkin' Pat and the peroxide victim her once-hot husband has become. From the banter that follows, we're meant to believe that Pat Benatar owes her entire career to Jimmy's magical trouser nuggets. They should have rewritten this scene after Kelly Osbourne dropped out of the episode.

Casino montage. Long story short, Raige orbed Piper to Reno to shoot craps, and they're on a tear, quickly amassing more than a hundred thousand dollars' worth of chips. Raige bets it all on one last roll, which, of course, comes up snake eyes. Raige is pissed, but Piper realizes that the point of this gambling exercise was to receive this snake eyes message from the dice. She now knows how to find Big Bad Greg and his reptilian contact lenses. Scene.

Meanwhile, back in San Francisco, Chronic and The Cooter arrive at a low-key nightclub, where the online dating company Chronic founded holds weekly get-togethers for its members. The Cooter is shocked and appalled to learn the couples currently canoodling on the various banquettes met through the Internet. Chronic speechifies about taking risks, then orders The Cooter "to get started on [its] rewrite." The Cooter is smitten, and grooms itself at the bar. Scene.

Manor. Up in the attic, Piper dumps a pair of actual snake eyes into a bubbling potion, then dips her scrying crystal into the mix. She hopes the actual snake eyes will point them in Big Bad Greg's direction. They do, but not before the audience endures a bickering argument between Jimmy and The Cooter about taking risks. Consider yourself fortunate -- nay, lucky -- to have missed it. And...scene.