Nymphs Just Wanna Have Fun

"Naughty Nymphs"? Fuck you, Kern.

We open on four hippies communing with nature beneath a full moon. Three scantily-clad and giggly females link hands to prance around an open barbecue pit while the male of the species -- a drug-addled wimp disturbingly reminiscent of that pansy leprechaun in Finian's Rainbow -- pretends to blow on a pan flute. Needless to say, he's pretending quite badly. The irksome tootling on the soundtrack in no way synchs up to the addled pansy's frantic lip-puckerings, so when a dark demonic force of indeterminate origin smears into the clearing to torch the pansy's worthless ass with a jet of flame from his hand, all I can do is cheer. The Merry Manson Maidens leap to the side of the moonlit clearing to cower and whine. All three sport gauzy configurations of chiffon in varying shades of green, and each has been burdened with a loathsome, straggly wig crowned by a twee tiara of tiny flowers. The "brunette" on the left and the "redhead" in the middle leave the nattering to the "blonde" on the right, and I must admit, it took me forever to remember where I'd last seen this woman. For one beautiful moment, I even thought Heather Graham had finally descended to her appropriate level on the entertainment industry food chain. Stupid Heather Graham. She single-handedly ruined From Hell for me with her irritating simpering and her lousy Irish "accent." Actually, that's not fair. That whole bullshit forbidden-love-between-the-detective-and-the-whore subplot ruined that movie for me. You've got an elegantly horrific Jack the Ripper gutting these fantastic English character actresses left and right as part of a vast conspiracy to secure the future of the British Empire by covering up a morganatic marriage between one of Queen Victoria's grandsons and a Catholic hooker, and you're wasting my time with Johnny Depp getting all pie-eyed over Heather Freaking Graham? Assholes.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. This shitty episode. Right. Unfortunately, the "blonde" is not Heather Graham. No, she actually once had a leading role in Center Stage as the bulimic ballerina torn between an intense desire to please her nag of a stage mother and an equally intense desire to have artfully-lit sex with Eion Bailey. That was some bad filmmaking, there. In honor of her last prominent role, the "blonde" shall henceforth be known as Bulimia. Speaking for her silent hippie cohorts, Bulimia demands to know who the demon is and what he wants from them. The demon sneers something about the Merry Mansons leading him to "the eternal spring" lest they end up like their "poor satyr." Only he, along with everyone else in this rotten episode, pronounces it "Seder," and while I know both versions are acceptable, you'd think they'd avoid that particular variant during Passover. Every time one of these losers refers to the "satyr," I catch myself waiting for some gangly adolescent in a yarmulke to pop up and ask me the Four Questions. Whatever. The demon threatens with the jets of flame, but the Merry Mansons just scamper off into the underbrush, where they presently vanish. The demon Shatners something about hunting them down and torturing the spring's location out of them if it's the last thing he does as the scene fades to a shot of the San Francisco skyline at night.

In a hotel suite somewhere above the city, Phoebe lugs a Lucite award from a buffet to a low-slung sofa and proceeds to dump the contents of her handbag onto the coffee table. As her handbag contains nothing but tampons, I'm guessing it's been a heavy flow day for the Feebs. Way too much information there, dimwit. Phoebe's squeezed into a tight, black, low-cut, leather-and-lace cocktail dress for this part of the evening's festivities, and from the looks of things, she's even managed to strap herself into appropriate foundation garments as well. And by "things," I mean "The Fun Bags," which have been poked and prodded and taped together and thrust upwards to form an imposing shelf that juts from her chest. Insert your own joke about bloating obviating the need for a Wonderbra. Chronic the Hedgehog ambles on over to exposit he's rented the hotel suite for the entire evening to provide his underlings at The Bay Mirror a place to party in honor of Phoebe's "Columnist Of The Year" award. This episode is so wickedly bad, I'm not even going to comment on the Feebs winning a prize for her piddling little advice column. Chronic's tuxedo jacket has fled the scene to avoid the unpleasantness that follows. His bow tie, however, is rakishly undone and dangling from his neck. As the last of her colleagues exits the suite, Phoebe reveals that she can't find her keys. Chronic gallantly offers her use of the suite for the night. Phoebe flirts. Chronic jumps her. "We shouldn't be doing this!" Phoebe whispers. No shit, skank -- you're bleeding. Pity the chambermaid assigned to that goddamn floor. I mean, can you imagine what she's going to find in the morning? Ew! Because he's a wealthy media tycoon, Chronic couldn't give a rat's ass about the help and just mumbles something into Phoebe's neck before tackling her into the opening credits.

The Donnas escort us through the opening travelogue, only to dump us rather unceremoniously in the Manor kitchen for some awkward exposition involving The Issues Of The Week. Long, looong story short, Piper's become an unreasonable bitch due to lack of sleep brought on by The Done One's nocturnal antics, and she deeply resents the changes Raige has summarily imposed upon the Manor order, the very least of which is a reorganized kitchen spice rack. Meanwhile, Raige, unemployed and bored, has continued to grope about blindly in a desperate attempt to determine her proper place in the coven hierarchy. This week, she's decided she's the lead witch. Piper clenches. Phoebe, looking quite a bit worse for the wear, tramps through the kitchen on the final leg of her Walk Of Shame with a too-bright "Morning! Don't ask!" before disappearing into the dining room. Piper and Raige immediately follow, clamoring for details.

Out in the hall, Phoebe mutters, "I knew I wasn't gonna get away with this," as she shamefacedly turns to admit that she "did something really bad." Yeah, you bled all over 340-thread-count sheets and scarred a poor immigrant woman for life, you vile hag. Only Phoebe merely cops to sleeping with her boss. "[Chronic]?" Piper howls incredulously. "No," Phoebe snaps. "Elise! Of course [Chronic]!" Heh. "How did this happen?" Piper asks. "It was very fast," sighs the Feebs. "Downer," opines the sage Raige. "Not that part!" Phoebe squeals. I should be sickened and repulsed, but this exchange is unusually amusing. Piper and Phoebe babble about the unfortunate "timing" of it all -- like, no kidding -- before Raige interrupts with, "Whatever. Can we get back to the whole 'eenh' part?" punctuating her question with an appropriate thrust of her hips. Heh. Speaking of unfortunate timing, in orbs the Dolt with distressing news of the Merry Mansons. Seems the scatterbrained hippies have been spotted eviscerating Sharon Tate look-alikes in the city proper, and the ever-useless Elders are worried about exposure. Cowardly Feebs is more worried about running into her boss at the office, and begs Raige to orb over to grab her a laptop so she can avoid the whole morning-after-the-night-before conversation, like, what the hell? I suppose we're meant to assume that Chronic bailed immediately upon finishing the deed, because otherwise they already would have had the dread morning-after chat, right? Whatever. Raige pffts all, "Not my problem, bitch," and orbs up to the attic to abuse the Book of Shadows. Piper, who'd been on her way to do the same thing, growls. Do I really have to slog through this goddamned Who's The Bestest Witch In All Of Halliwell Manor crap?

The camera cuts to a vaguely Beaux-Arts municipal faade, and oh, dear God. Do I really have to slog through this Who's The Biggest Moron In All Of San Francisco crap as well? The Merry Mansons frolic and gambol around a tiresome flautist in front of a public fountain. They think the tedious one's their new Seder, you see. I mean, "satyr." Whatever. Various locals ooh and aah and tape the display on their camcorders because they've never seen lice-ridden homeless Deadhead hippie freaks tripping on acid IN SAN FRANCISCO and then a couple of uniformed cops break things up. The Mansons scamper off to a nearby clot of trees and vanish. The pre-credits demon with the fiery hand skulks in the background, glowering for a bit before he

smears back to the scene of his pre-credits crime to greet a squat oaf who's idly tooting on the vanquished pansy's flute. Long story short, they're brothers hell-bent on avenging their father's murder. For this reason, they must drink from the "eternal spring" to become immortal and invincible. Unfortunately, they can't find said spring on their own, which is why they're chasing after the Merry Mansons. Got it? Good.

The Bay Mirror. Phoebe, who's changed into a pink spandex top gloriously free of nipple-age, slinks from her office to tiptoe out the front door. Chronic catches up with her, wondering what gives. Phoebe reluctantly turns to greet him, and they proceed to discuss the prior evening's bloody events in front of everyone in the newsroom. Now, to be fair, Chronic's trying to be subtle by cautiously whispering all of his lines, but Phoebe's yammering on about it so loudly, her voice is echoing off the damn walls. "About last night," Chronic quietly begins. "IT WAS A HUGE MISTAKE," Phoebe replies. "I AGREE IT SHOULD NEVER HAVE HAPPENED." Chronic shakes his head and murmurs that he wanted to say, "It was amazing." I presume he's referring to the fornication, and not the amount of blood Phoebe lost. Phoebe allows herself a giddy little moment before countering, "YOU'RE MY BOSS AND I DON'T WANT MY PERSONAL AND PROFESSIONAL LIVES TO COLLIDE." She then stamps her foot on the bare floorboards and blares, "WE CAN STOP THIS RIGHT HERE AND NOW BEFORE IT GETS ANY WORSE." Louder, moron -- I don't think the personnel department heard you.

Chronic argues that they're two consenting adults who shouldn't be ashamed of what they've done and wah before an underling interrupts to direct their attention to the TV suspended above the newsroom. "Looks like those Godiva Girls have popped up again," mouths the underling. Slick nickname for the Merry Mansons. Not. If they were naked, I'd buy the Godiva reference, but they're not, so I don't. "Ganja Gals" would be more appropriate, but then Chronic would probably want a five-way with them and the Feebs, and that's a disturbing mental image, so I'll just be moving this along. Phoebe winces and slips silently out of the office as Chronic goes all alpha-editor about the Mansons, insisting he doesn't "want to trail this story, [he wants] to lead it!" And why are the Mansons of such importance to a citywide daily? I mean, I wouldn't put it past the local FOX affiliate to lead with the nimrod floozies, but is there absolutely nothing else for Chronic's staff to cover today? No local reaction to Senator Santorum's hate-filled invective from earlier in the week? Nothing out of Sacramento regarding the worst budget crisis to hit the State of California since the Depression? No battered, rotting corpses washing up on the shores of the Bay after four months of floating in the ocean? Nothing? Well, all righty, then. You go ahead and divert all of your resources to a trio of smelly hippies dancing in a fountain, Chronic. Then again, I'm one of those people who can't understand why the Chicago dailies have been leading with that Laci Peterson shit all week, so maybe I should just keep my non-newspapering mouth shut.

Manor. Up in the attic, Piper's scrying unsuccessfully for the Merry Mansons while Raige pens "a spell using the four elements to try to locate their home." 'Cause wood nymphs represent all of nature, or some such bullshit. I don't know, and I don't care, because all this scene accomplishes is the furthering of a subplot I never needed to see in the first place. Piper condescends about the spell, Raige counters with a couple of snippy remarks, and then Piper goes disproportionately apeshit when she sees what Raige has done to the Book of Shadows. Raige's grievous offense? Affixing removable color-coded tabs to each of the Book's pages. You know, red for entries on demons, white for the forces of good, yadda yadda et cetera. Piper howls and shrieks and bitches and my GOD! How many times have you hagged about the damn Book needing a fricking index? Huh? Well, now Raige has done something about it, so SHUT UP ALREADY. "I'm just trying to take point because your life's so busy now," Raige explains, but Piper's having none of it, and right as I'm reaching through the television screen to throttle her ungrateful shrew neck, the cordless rings. It's Phoebe, calling to instruct her bickering siblings to turn on the news so they can catch the frolicking fuckwits in action. She adds that the Nymrods were last seen at "City Plaza." "Maybe they'll go back there," Phoebe suggests. "Well, if they do," Piper snaps, glancing down at her scrying map, "there's gonna be a demon there waiting for them!" Rrrrgh.

Later -- much, much later, as it's now evening -- Piper and Raige hide behind the pillars of that municipal faade, waiting for the Nymrods to reappear. The two bitch and snipe at each other for far too long before the fountain finally erupts, heralding the Nymrods' arrival. Watery lesbionics ensue as the Mansons titter and splash and give each other sponge baths and their gauzy costumes cling to their moist, nubile bodies while Brad Kern plays pocket pool in the editing bay until the pre-credits dark demonic force smears in and fries the "redhead" dead. I [heart] the pre-credits dark demonic force so much for this, I'll start referring to him by his proper name, which is Xavier. xXxXxX?vXxXxXx M B?Bi!!!!!!!111!!! XXxXxXavYXxXxXx MY BaB!!!!!!!!111!!! X@VY + M3 = 43vaH! MW@H!

I've got to stop watching TV written and produced by and for drooling special-needs adolescents.

Piper darts out from her hiding place to deploy the Hands Of Discontent. For a reason that is never explained, the Hands manage to vanquish nothing more than my husband's right arm. My poor baby drops to his knees in agony as the remaining Nymrods scamper over to Piper and Raige. Xavy, battered but not beaten, unleashes another jet of fire from his left hand. By the time it reaches the group, Raige has orbed them all into the commercial break. Dammit!

The Nymrods jiggle over to a boulder and place their hands atop the thing. Rays of bright white cheese instantly erupt from the rock, and we switch to green-screen shots of the various actors gazing about in "wonderment" as the background blurs into a series of rapidly-moving smears. They all end up in a tropical garden that features a babbling brook and an enormous and crappy CGI waterfall high above their heads.

Elsewhere, a swirling cloud of glowing golf balls deposits Phoebe and Piper in front of my husband. My husband's all, "Hey," and Piper's all, "So how many more body parts do I have to blow off before you tell me where Raige is?" and my husband's all, "Bring it, biatch," and Piper's like, "Phoebe? Vanquish. 'Cause he's just gonna try to fry us and I'm gonna get mud all over my jeans when I dive out of the way and it's just so not worth it." Much like this episode. Phoebe slings back her arm, but my husband stops her, yelling, "Wait! I'll tell you." Phoebe drops her arm back by her side, and my husband's like, "Psych! Moron! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!" Xavy shoots a jet of flame at the gals, but they dive out of the way, spattering mud all over their jeans in the process. Phoebe shrieks and tosses the vial, and I am once again a widower. Sigh. Piper and Raige decide to sit and wait for my erstwhile brother-in-law to return with Raige and the Nymrods.

The Eternal Spring Of Demian's Everlasting Torment. My erstwhile brother-in-law greedily laps up handfuls of water from the babbling brook as the Nymrods finally realize they've been had. After a moment, my EBIL glows up yellow and rises to speechify something about getting his revenge and blah, and it's so not important because we all know he's going to be as dead as my poor husband in about ten minutes, so let's cut to the chase: Faced with the danger my EBIL now represents, Raige snaps out of her whip-it-induced trance and morphs back down to Glamorous Lady form. She orders the Nymrods to seal off The Eternal Spring Of My Everlasting Torment, and moves to attack my EBIL. My EBIL pimp-smacks her across the clearing, where she slams her head into another boulder. Meanwhile, the Nymrods have placed their hands over the, um, portal-thingy. Rays. Smears. Cheese. Howling from my EBIL. Once they've closed off access to The Eternal Spring Of My Everlasting Torment, Bulimia and Anorexia dumb-ass their way out of the clearing. Yes, "dumb-ass" is now a verb. My EBIL checks to ensure Raige won't be following him, then smears off to

arrive at the scene of my poor husband's doom. My EBIL clomps around calling out, "[Xavy]! Where are you?" "You're stepping on him," Phoebe astutely notes. My EBIL glances down to discover that he's standing in the middle of my poor husband's ashes. My EBIL freaks and jets a stream of fire in Piper's direction. Piper parries with the Hands Of Discontent. The destructive forces smash into each other in mid-air, emitting a concussion blast that flattens the three present. Phoebe whips another vial at my EBIL, but his Super-Magical Eternal Spring Immunity simply absorbs the potion and shimmers for a bit before spitting the vanquish back out. My EBIL grins and jets an arc of flame into the commercial break.

And we're back. Piper and Phoebe square off against my erstwhile brother-in-law, realize they can't beat him, and flee. They get all of ten feet away from my EBIL before they stop dead in their tracks to bellow for the Nymrods. Anorexia and Bulimia presently materialize, and drag the gals over to Raige's unconscious body. Piper's about to summon the Dolt, but Bulimia stops her. She takes the pendant of Super-Magical Eternal Spring Water every Nymrod wears around her neck and dribbles a drop or two into the jagged fracture at the back of Raige's head. Raige splutters and gasps and wakes up just as my EBIL roars in the distance. Piper and Phoebe help Raige to her feet as my EBIL appears at the top of the hill above them and begins to make his threatening way down, like, shithead? EBIL? Over here. You shoot fire from your hands, you can smear anywhere you want, and oh, yeah -- YOU'RE INVINCIBLE. Why the fuck are you casually ambling down a steep incline when you could have materialized instantly in front of these wenches and fried them all straight to Hell? Huh? HUH? Asshat.

Whatever. Raige mumbles something about transforming my EBIL into an entity that, while also immortal and invincible, is harmless. Her suggestion for that immortal, invincible, and harmless object? A tree. A TREE, goddammit. What. The Fuck. EVER! Raige wings the following couplet:

Changing seasons changes all --
Life renews as creation calls.

Piper picks up on Raige's train of thought and ad-libs the remainder of the spell:

Nothing is immune; everything transmutes.
So, take this demon and give him roots.

My erstwhile brother-in-law turns into a tree. A fucking tree. God, I hate this show.

End-of-episode blather about lessons learned. Briefly, it involves Piper and Raige realizing they complement each other and the Nymrods promising to learn to live without a man in their lives because "change is good." Shut up. All of you. Justjustfuckingzip it, okay?

Manor, and -- awww. Whichever infant they swapped in for this shot of The Done One wriggling around beneath his binkie in the bassinet? Is freaking adorable. My phantom uterus throbs with envy at the very sight of him. Piper and the Dolt coo at the wee little thing for a bit before switching off his nightlight and heading back into the Boudoir proper. Raige enters to announce that she's taking the night off to get laid and no, I'm not kidding. Raige scored a date with one of tonight's Guest Testicles. "Rock on!" Raige enthuses, gesturing with the appropriate RAWK fingers before taking her leave. Brian Krause and Holly Marie Combs completely break character for the exchange that follows, but they're having a good time, so what the hell? Krause bluffs a failing attempt to ape Raige's RAWK fingers. Combs shakes her head and mutters, "Just give it up, man," before bursting into giggles. Krause grabs her and swings her up in the air, snickering along with her, before the camera finally cuts over to the last scene. Heh. "Ape."

The Bay Mirror. Phoebe edges into Chronic's office, andoh, forget it. I can't. She's in another pair of Those Pants, and they're shooting her from a low angle so I'm staring right at The Tattoo and the creases where her legs meet her groin, and I justnope. Sorry! Can't look! Will turn to stone! Averting my eyes now! Chronic and The Cooter natter on endlessly about their relationship and then they kiss and then the episode's over! Hooray!

week: I really could not care less. Anything's better than this, right? RIGHT?