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 café, 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." "Sláinte is táinte," 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 "táinte" in any online glossaries, but I know "sláinte is" translates as "health and," so he might just maybe have actually wished "health and luck" on the ratbag. Of course, the midget mispronounced "sláinte," 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-éirí an bóthar 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, and...what'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 three...what? 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. "Sláinte is táinte," 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.
The Bay Mirror. Phoebe, employing the handle "Cinderella29," chats online with Cyrano73. He asks for a date. She tells him to go to hell. Is this episode over yet? It isn't? Damn. Phoebe's non-Mary Cherry assistant interrupts with some bad news: Chronic hated the first draft of Phoebe's dating article, has sent it back crimson with corrections, and would appreciate a rewrite by close of business. Phoebe, apoplectic with rage that someone would dare criticize her prose, storms into Chronic's office, hikes up her pants, and there goes my lunch. Along with my ability to focus on anything that follows. I'd been ignoring The Pants, you see, and doing quite a good job of it, too, but now? Forget it. My eyes are riveted on Phoebe's crotch, and yes, it is indeed exactly like staring into the face of Satan. Thanks for asking. "Blah blibbety blah blah wah," bleats the Feebs. "Wah wibbety wah wah blah," snaps Chronic. Phoebe's Cooter picks its teeth with a letter opener. At some point, Chronic insists that Phoebe and The Cooter join him "on assignment" that evening at six, so Chronic can convince them that online dating is A Very Good Thing. Phoebe rolls her eyes in aggravation as Chronic strides past her into the main office. Scene.
Over in Munchkinland, the leprechauns have gathered in a sun-dappled clearing to hold a midget processing summit, which they conduct in Irish accents so appallingly horrific, I want to take The Cooter's letter opener and plunge it into my ears. The evening this episode originally aired, I suffered a minor psychotic break within seconds of this scene's first line. In a desperate attempt to preserve what little remains of my overall sanity, my brain decided to shut itself down, blocking all sensory input from the TV set until the camera finally switched back over to the Manor. To prevent that from happening again, I've muted the sound, so you'll have to bear with me as I recap this scene using the captioning alone. Most of the midgets want to hide from Big Bad Greg. One of these wee lads was the A-plot victim on a recent C.S.I., and another I recognize from one of ER's Christmas episodes. Unfortunately, neither of these gentleman is tonight's lead little person. That honor goes to the one they're calling Seamus. The captioning's misspelling it as "Shamus," by the way, which is funny because of the whole killer-whale connection. Seamus is a fiery Italian who wants his fellow dwarfs to "pool [their] luck" to fight Greg. No, seriously -- the actor's Italian. I checked. Though I suppose we should all be thankful that Crackhead Brad didn't grant the role to the Korean dwarf who's been lurking in the corner of the frame throughout this scene. After a bit of predictable back and forth on the overall issue, Seamus rallies the troops with a heartfelt call to arms or something and the scene finally ends.
Manor attic. Raige smoothes her shrunken and stained sweater on the table, then reads the following from a slip of paper:
Personal loss
Should not be mine.
Restore this sweater
And make it fine!
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-éirí an bóthar 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 "sláinte is táinte " 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 tête-à-tête 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.
Lair Of The Moltisanti. The gals plus Jimmy orb onto a stone platform and glance about nervously. Big Bad Greg strides on over with a crock of trouser nuggets, which he unleashes upon the Glamorous Ladies after chanting the curse, "[Incorrectly Captioned] ort!" I have no idea what he said, but I'd like to take this opportunity to curse Brad Kern with the following: Imeacht gan teacht ort, titim gan éirí ort, go n-ithe an cat thú, is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat. Fucker.
A bolt of lightning immediately strikes the gals, who tumble to the floor in agony. That was kind of funny, actually. Jimmy The Runt summons a rainbow to escape, but Big Bad Greg toasts Jimmy's wee ass before he can bow on out of there. Greg steps into the rainbow, leaving the three singed Ps to gape their collective way into the commercial break.
Attic. Aftermath. Wait a minute! What the hell is outside the attic window? Is that the goddamned Transamerica Pyramid? It is! Oh, those fucking evil bastards. They're just doing this to piss me off. Whatever! I will not pop an aneurysm because of Charmed, so screw you, shitheads! Screw all of you! The string of bad luck precipitated by the crock of cursed trouser nuggets continues to afflict the Glamorous Ladies. Raige nearly breaks her leg face-planting into the carpet, Piper learns that the club had to shutter for the evening because of a power failure, the attic's wiring goes on the fritz, and one of the antique chandeliers comes crashing unexpectedly to the floor. The Dolt orbs Piper's Precious Log up to Whitelighterland until the gals reverse their luck.
Lair Of The Moltisanti. Big Bad Greg summons Olivia and Elle, dumps a crock of trouser nuggets on their heads, and orders them to kill the Charmed Ones. This should work out well.
Manor kitchen. Holly Marie Combs debases herself with a broken fire extinguisher. Don't ask. Raige enters with a goodie bag full of "lucky charms," including a rabbit's foot, a horseshoe, and a charm bracelet. They natter as Piper fills a glass vial with the Big Bad Greg vanquish she's been brewing, but both are forced into the hallway when The Cooter takes a header down the stairs. The Cooter rises from the floor, and...nope. Sorry. Not processing anything in this scene. The Pants are riding so low, you can see the creases where Alyssa's legs meet up with her groin. Fast-forwarding. Fast-forwarding. Fast-forwarding. And look! Olivia and Elle have smoked onto the staircase to destroy the vile Cooter. Hooray! Piper deploys the Hands Of Discontent. Due to the run of bad luck she's been having, her aim is off, and she ends up vanquishing a bit of the balustrade. The force of the explosion, however, is enough to send Elle ass over end down the stairs. She scrambles to her feet on the lower landing and fires a Flaming Ball Of Death at The Vile Cooter. The Cooter counters with the Greg vanquish, which collides with the FBOD in mid-air. Olivia flings another FBOD at The Vile Cooter, but, using her orbing telekinesis, Raige redirects it into Elle's tits. Elle shrieks and vanishes in a veil of fire and smoke. Olivia's keening, anguished reaction to this development makes it clear that she and Elle shopped for power tools together. However, I'm so sick of this wretched episode that not even a pair of fierce demonic lesbians can hold my attention. Olivia smokes down to the main hall, latches onto Piper, and smokes right out into the commercial break.
Lair Of The Moltisanti. Big Bad Greg, irritated that Olivia and Elle failed on their mission, offs Olivia, then glares down at the unconscious Piper, who's been tethered to a tree.
Manor attic. Phoebe's scrying crystal has pinpointed Piper's present position, but the remaining Ps despair over ever rescuing their lost sibling, given their current run of bad luck. Raige brainstorms for a bit, then bedecks the Feebs with various "lucky" amulets and hands her Jimmy The Runt's shillelagh. Phoebe's to force a premonition of Jimmy using the shillelagh, you see, so the gals can access his rainbow. The Feebs succeeds, in the evening's second premonitionless premonition. Once she repeats the appropriate phrase aloud, Jimmy The Runt's rainbow arcs into the attic. Raige is way stoked.
Munchkinland. Mute. Oooh, there's a Chinese leprechaun, too. And an African-American one! Munchkinland's just one big vertically challenged Benetton ad, isn't it? And isn't it terrifying that "Benetton" is included in Microsoft Word's dictionary? What? Yeah, yeah. Episode. Gotcha. The midgets prepare to abandon their homeland. Raige and The Vile Cooter bow in to enlist the little guys' aid in retrieving their sister from The Lair Of The Moltisanti. The United Colors Of Munchkinland agree. It's actually Raige who wins them over with a stirring oration on the nature of good, or something, but I'm so embarrassed for Rose McGowan this evening, I'll not be transcribing the drivel they've placed in her mouth. Scene.
Lair Of The Moltisanti. Even though Piper's hands are free, she's not using them to freeze the poisonous snake dangling inches above her head. Nor is she blowing it up. Don't ask me. I'm not responsible for this shit. Raige orbs in with The Vile Cooter, and the two arrivals scamper over to Piper's side. Big Bad Greg ambles in, making with the threats and such. As soon as he hits his mark at the center of the room, Raige summons The United Colors Of Munchkinland, who bow in in groups of two and three. As one, they fling their trouser nuggets on Big Bad Greg's head while chanting, "[Incorrectly Captioned] ort! [Incorrectly Captioned] ort!" I'm wondering if they're meant to be using some form of the word "fulaing," which, when combined with "ort," should approximate "Suffering unto you." I suppose we shall never know. Nor, really, will we care.
Big Bad Greg absorbs all of the bad luck The United Colors Of Munchkinland have to offer, then gets smeared by a meteor. Wait a minute. Did I neglect to mention that The Vile Cooter's been nagging everyone everywhere about "this week's meteor shower"? Sorry. I blame The Pants. With Big Bad Greg reduced to a greasy smudge of gore at the bottom of a terribly deep yet remarkably narrow impact crater, it's time for The Lessons Of The Week. First up to bat is Raige, who reveals she's learned that magic owes her nothing. Because of this, the ER munchkin gives her Jimmy The Runt's shillelagh. "Doesn't matter what brings a person," he tells her, "only what they leave with." And that's...one to grow on.
up? Piper and the Dolt. That evening in a packed P3, Piper admits that she's selling the club after Rawkin' Pat's performance. "Being a mother-slash-Charmed One-slash-businesswoman is just one slash too many," she tells her husband. "Something's got to give." The Dolt confesses that the thing that's giving is his full-time job. The ever-useless Elders have granted him paternity leave so he can stay at home to care for The Percolated Infant. Piper's surprised, of course, but also pleased. They move in for a clinch as Pat Benatar takes the stage. "You're the right kind of sinner to release my inner fantasies! The invincible winner -- and you know that you were born to be!" And that's...two to grow on. It also RAWKS, but I think you already knew that.
And finally, Phoebe, who thankgodfully has traded in The Pants for a girlishly pink frock. Normally, I'd slam the Lara-Flynn-Boyle, Hilary-Swankishness of it all. However. The Cooter's disappearance has suffused me with such an overwhelming sense of gratitude, I feel it would be unnecessarily churlish to criticize the color of the cloth covering The Vile Thing. If the Feebs just slapped some concealer on those unsightly tattoos, she'd look rather fetching, actually. Anyway, Phoebe's wandering through that low-key nightclub from earlier, scanning the crowd for Cyrano73, whom she agreed to meet at some point during that scene I couldn't watch. Blame The Pants, people. To absolutely no one's surprise, Cyrano73 is actually Chronic The Hedgehog. Although now that I think about it, "Quixote73" would have been the more appropriate handle, given the whore he's been pursuing all evening. Ouch! Sorry! Rather than slapping him with a harassment suit of monumental proportions, Phoebe accepts his proffered rose and has him fetch her a dirty martini. And that's...absolutely nothing to grow on at all, honestly. Moron.
week, Kit The Undead Cat gets a sex-change operation. My brother Síobhan Meow would be so proud.