Episode Report Card 1 USERS: C YOU GRADE IT Nymrods Just Want Demian Dead
By Demian | Season 5 | Episode 19 | Aired on 04.19.2003
The camera cuts to a vaguely Beaux-Arts municipal façade, 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.