[Flick. Ahhh.]
[Pause.]
Demian: Shit.
Aaron: Can I bum one of those?
Demian: They're Reds.
Aaron: The better to keep me awake.
Demian: Oh, whatever. You're the one with the good Sunday-night shows. I've been stuck with this crap for four years!
Aaron: Bitch, bitch, bitch.
Demian: And with good reason! Come on -- look at the women you get to recap! Brenda. Carmela. The freaky-looking chick from that lesbian cheerleader movie. Anita fromWest Side Story, for Christ's sake!
Aaron: You forgot Lauren.
Demian: And who have I been putting up with? Alyssa. Fricking. Milano!
Michael J. Anderson: That little whore makes me feel ten feet tall! [Pause.]
Demian and Aaron: Get out. Now.
Fade up on tonight's hateful guest testicles lip-synching forgettable frat-boy reggae on a low, sun-drenched stage beneath a banner that screams, "KQSF BEACH BASH!!" It's the second exclamation point that really makes the sign, don't you think? Various egregiously white extras gyrate on the sand below, clad in nothing but board shorts and bikinis. Peppering this sea of Caucasian yuppiedom are exactly three young ladies of color, just so we're all sure Aaron Spelling isn't racist. Off to the side, Alyssa Milano and her brand-new dykey haircut chair-dance beneath a white canopy that presumably belongs to the radio station sponsoring this afternoon's event. The song goes on for forty-nine seconds -- which, of course, is about fifty-three seconds too long -- after which the lead singer pulls these "You da man!" pointy fingers at the crowd while the camera cranes up above the swarm of Beach Blanket Bozos to soar over to Phoebe's tent. to the Feebs slouches some dippy yahoo in jeans, flip-flops, and a ruffly button-down, who's howling, "YEAH! Let's HEAR IT! Ca-MON!" into a microphone. Zip it, dipshit.
The dipshit doesn't listen to me, choosing instead to introduce himself as "Hangin' Chad! Comin' back live at the KQSF annual beach bash, winding it up with our special guest -- the stunningly. Beautiful. Phoebe Halliwell!" I want to cram plastic explosives into every hole in his body and set him on fire, and I neither need nor care about fuses. Phoebe's face mugs manically beneath her tragically butch 'do as the crowd cheers. I want to set them on fire, too. Hangin' Dipshit proceeds to lavish Phoebe with praise for her column, citing rave reviews of her "insightful" advice from various unspecified "critics." "Are you psychic?" he asks. Phoebe, grinning, claims she simply "read[s] people pretty well." Flirtatious banter follows, during which Hangin' Dipshit challenges her to "read" him. Haven't I been doing that from the moment he appeared onscreen? Ingrate. After a bit of faux-humble hemming and hawing, Phoebe inquires of the Dipshit, "What do you want advice on?" Seems there's a certain woman he'd like to date, but he's afraid to pop the question. Phoebe smirks lewdly as ethereal wind chimes tinkle, followed by a heavenly choir shrilling a chord. "Why don't you just ask me and find out?" Feebs: "[Giggle!]" Crowd: "Woo!" Dipshit: "D'oh!" Demian: "Drop. DEAD."
Meanwhile, back at the Manor, Big Gay Chris languidly leafs through the Book of Shadows up in the attic, a capped black pen dangling from the corner of his mouth. Of course, he's languidly leafing with a bit of Whitelightery telekinesis, and no, his fluttery fingers couldn't possibly be more fey. Chris eventually lands on the entry for the "Trok Demon," who, interestingly enough, sports a single eye on each of his two heads. I'd transcribe the entry, but this particular beastie's dispatched before the opening credits, so we'll just be moving this along, 'kay? Chris halts the flipping pages, rather suggestively uncaps the pen with his teeth, then scribbles the vanquishing spell on a small pad of paper just as a swirling green portal opens on the far side of the room. The erstwhile Bride Of Riley emerges from the crappy digital overlay to slink across the floor, clad in a low-slung suede miniskirt with a matching midriff-baring boobsling. Appropriate Warrior Princess accessories bedeck her arms and shoulders, and a thin leather headband holds her brittle, bleach-damaged hair as neatly in place as possible. The trampy animal-skin get-up, combined with Ivana Milicevic's protruding Vulcan ears and freakishly wide-set eyes, would make the Bride here perfect Elvish masturbatory fodder for the most discriminating Tolkein fanboy, but she has other matters on her mind. And thank the merciful Lord in Heaven for that.
The Bride touches the jade pendant at her neck to close the crappy green digital overlay just as a startled Big Gay Chris gasps, "Are you out of your mind? What are you doing here?" "Freyja sent me," replies the Bride. "She wants to know what's takink so lonk." Sigh. You can kill the show, but the Lizbot lives on. "Freyja?" Chris repeats, snorting derisively as he saunters over from the Book. "For a mythical character, she sure does worry a lot." I'll go out on a limb here and assume that "mythical character" crack refers to Valkyries. Of course, judging by the episode title, it's as likely that Freyja's a pill-popping, Pucci-clad drunk married to a bisexual slut of a lawyer. And yet, while that scenario certainly would make for an amusing evening on Charmed, it certainly would not make it past the network's Standards and Practices department. I think.
Where the hell was I? Oh, yeah -- this tedious scene. "She's not the only one," the Bride admits, before confessing her own concerns. "He's an Elder, Chris. How much lonker do you really expect us to keep him?" And there go all my hopes for a dead Dolt. Bastards. A bit of clunky expository dialogue confirms Chris "banished" the Dolt to the Bride's realm before the Bride again asks, "How much lonker?" Chris insists the Dolt remain where he is until Chris has "finished what [he] came here to do." He adds that the Glamorous Ladies cannot be allowed to find the Dolt before Chris "is ready, or else…" "I know," interrupts the Bride a bit wearily. "We all understand the risks." "I'd never hurt you, Mist," Chris smooves as he sidles on up to her, and I don't know where the hell to start with that, but why don't I try here: "Mist"? Ew! We'll be sticking with "Bride Of Riley" for the duration, thanks all the same. And as for the ludicrous notion that Big Gay Chris would ever put the moves on any entity of the female persuasion: NOT. Pull the other one, Kern. Jackhole.
Christ, I hate this show.
ANY-way, the pointy-eared tart lowers her gaze a bit sadly and counters that Big Gay Chris would indeed hurt her if it served his agenda. Fortunately, Piper chooses this moment to bellow from the landing below, so after a palpably uncomfortable kiss between Milicevic and Fuller, the Bride summons the crappy green digital overlay and vanishes. "Hey!" Piper perks as she enters the room toting a basket. "Do you have any laundry?" Chris, skeeved that his lips actually touched those of a cootie-laden girl, distractedly mutters "no" as he crosses back to the Book. "I'm gonna get your sisters," he calls as Piper bustles towards the door. "We've got another demon to vanquish." "Okey-dokey!" she smiles before disappearing into the hall.
Back at the BASH!!, Phoebe and her dykey hair and her NIPPLES jiggle on over to the Dipshit, who's pouring himself a screwdriver. Long story short, they flirt, I vomit, she asks him out, I push thumbtacks into my eyes, and Big Gay Chris discreetly orbs in behind a van. Chris jogs over to drag Phoebe back to the Manor for the Trokster vanquish, and…scene.
And…my season premiere Hell continues. Over in another part of the city, a pack of five variously-sized dogs drags Raige and her painfully unfettered tits down the sidewalk, with Raige inelegantly shrieking the entire time. When she loses her tenuous grip on the clutch of leashes, the dogs race off down the street as one, so Raige up and orbs over in front of the mongrels to stop them before they flee any further. Subtle, Raige. An adorable basset puppy yowls as Rose McGowan metas, "I gotta get a real job," and I've been telling her that for a year. Before we can embark on further canine-related hijinks, Big Gay Chris orbs in to remind Raige of the previously scheduled Trokster vanquish. A beleaguered Raige pouts, "Can't you see I'm working?" just as a runty little bulldog starts humping her leg. No, seriously. No. Seriously. Someone on the production staff actually went out and hired a dog wrangler to train a teeny little bulldog to hump Rose McGowan's leg. I suppose one could argue her endless engagement to Marilyn Manson more than prepared her for an acting challenge such as this, but I doubt I'd associate with the type of person who'd make that particular point. The Fag and His Hag share a brief -- yet wacky! -- round of reaction grimaces, and then, to top things off, we cut to a shot of the supremely phallic Coit Tower.
Someone wants me dead.
After that open invitation to visualize a San Francisco landmark molesting Rose McGowan, it's back to the Manor, where Raige and Chris orb into the main hallway with Raige's various leg-humping mutts. Phoebe notices the miniature kennel and arches a brow. Raige explains that her temp agency "screwed up" and sent her on a dog-walking assignment. Chris cuts through the blathering to urge the ladies to focus on the Trokster at hand. "Lighten. Up!" Phoebe bitches. "Sending us after all of these demons is getting to be a real drag." Speaking of real drags, there must be legions of female impersonators with now-worthless wigs cursing the day Alyssa slipped into the salon for a Halle Berry. Oh, who am I kidding? As if there's a drag queen in the world so desperate for material, she'd even consider doing La Milano. Chris snarks that Piper hasn't been complaining, to which Phoebe retorts, "Piper doesn't complain about anything anymore." "Ever since [the Dolt] left to become one of the [ever-useless] Elders," Phoebe continues, "all Piper does is walk around the house all…chipper." "It's unusual," Raige agrees, before adding, "and what's worse, it's not Piper." A bizarrely inappropriate musical cue hits the soundtrack just as Piper flutters down the stairs with Tiny Gay Chris tucked under one arm. Piper's blithely confirming a play date on the cordless, but I swear to God, the sound editors lifted the music out of that Kids In The Hall Buddy Cole skit regarding the proper care and feeding of male slaves. And what's even stranger is that as soon as Piper rounds out of sight into the kitchen, the music cuts out. The fuck is going on tonight?
God! Anyway, after retrieving the scribbled Trokster vanquish, Raige orders Big Gay Chris off to the attic with her leash of mutts. The pack lugs Chris headlong up the stairs, and millions of sharp-eyed viewers learn that Drew Fuller flies commando when his pants drop below his waist to reveal a yard of ass crack. I'd linger on that embarrassingly tantalizing image, but this motherfucker's two hours long, and we haven't hit the goddamn opening credits yet. Anyone mind if I just carry on, then? Didn't think so.
After Piper putters from the kitchen, clad in an eye-searing blue floral print apron evidently designed for maximum clash with her orange floral-patterned blouse, the gals arrange themselves in a neat line beneath the stairs for the vanquish. Phoebe takes summoning duties, and the Trokster presently appears in the center parlor, grunting and scowling as is apparently his wont. Phoebe orders Piper to freeze him. Piper promptly flings out her Hands Of Discontent and spite-bombs one of the heads instead. "What did you do that for?" shrieks the Feebs. "I don't know!" Piper giggles. "I didn't mean to!" The remaining Trokster head growls in the Glamorous Ladies' direction, emitting a series of vocal concussion waves that flings them against the stairwell wall. The gals bounce into a pile on the floor, where Phoebe quickly spits out the following verse:
From other worlds far and near,
Let's get him the Trok out of here.
This season is going to SUCK.
The Trockadero howls and wails and blazes his merry way down to Hell. Raige goggles as Phoebe coolly wonders, "Is everybody okay?" "Yeah!" Piper dizzily enthuses. "That was awesome!" And the Feebs rolls her dim little eyes right into the opening credits.
New credits! They've wedged Drew Fuller in between Krause and Gregory, and he looks like an infant. Also: "Wedged." Heh.
The season's first wailing ovary accompanies the opening travelogue by yowling, "You're my. New. Fa-vor-ite. Thaaaang!" Shut it, bitch. Over at the Manor, Raige schlumps into the parlor, gingerly massaging her shoulder while sneering, "What kind of a Whitelighter can't heal?" "For the record," Big Gay Chris pissily replies as he lopes in after her, "you can't heal, either." Raige shoots him a withering side-eye as Phoebe singsongs, "Any other little surprises you'd like to share with us?" Big Gay Chris gets all furtive and shifty. Aw. The Feebs crosses to apply a compress to Raige's shoulder as Chris sighs, "Look, I haven't been a Whitelighter for very long, and healing? It's…big." I go to a very dirty place where "a Whitelighter" is replaced with "out" and "healing" is replaced with…something else. When I return, Phoebe's announcing that they'll be taking a collective break from Chris's rabid demon hunt until they can figure out What's Wrong With Piper. The addled witch in question glides through the hall at this moment, Tiny Gay Chris slung under her arm, to natter about laundry and casseroles before sweeping through the front door to head over to P3. The tinkly chimes and shrill choir from the pre-credits sequence reappear to accompany Phoebe's line: "Oh. My. God. She is so sad!" Raige wrinkles her nose, aiming for disagreement but landing on disgust, and, after a bit of plodding dialogue regarding Chris's foreknowledge of future events and Phoebe's foul lunch date with Dipshit, she opines that "[the Dolt] did something to [Piper] before he left." Phoebe proposes they orb the Dolt's massive-yet-useless ass down from Whitelighterland so they might grill him directly. Big Gay Chris stutters and stammers and finally reveals that the Dolt's gone missing. Damn, but Drew Fuller's pretty in these shots. Pretty pretty pretty. The cinematographer's obviously in love with him. As is the lighting designer. The hairstylists? Not so much. His mop's far too long in the back, the overall color's a little flat, and those bangs of his are unforgivably limp. And what's with the assy, off-center part, people? That 'burner from Queer Eye could teach them all a thing or two, and I'm sure he wouldn't mind showing Drew a few new tricks while he's at it.
Sigh.
Anywho, where was I? Oh, yeah. The Dolt's been AWOL since the fifth-season finale, and The Ever-Useless Elders naturally haven't a clue where he is. "They think he's been kidnapped," Chris breathes. "By whom?" bleats the Feebs.
Incoming! No, seriously -- and no, this transition doesn't make any sense -- we cut to a military helicopter swooping down through some trees, presumably to strafe the camouflage-clad Marines hopping into a Jeep on the ground below. There's far too much foliage for this to be Iraq, so I'm forced to assume that yet another Republican administration has been conducting clandestine warfare against a Latin American regime the Central Intelligence Agency finds distasteful. Weren't the '80s great? And the '70s, the '50s, and the '20s, for that matter? One of the camo lads takes a bullet to the chest, so his friends zip away in the Jeep to leave him gasping and bleeding on the ground. Slick move, boys. A swirly green portal materializes in the nearby underbrush to disgorge the Bride Of Riley, who slinks up to the mortally wounded chump in the dirt. I just know he's with the Reserves. "It's all right," the Bride smiles sweetly. "You don't have to be afraid -- you're one of the chosen few." Yep, that clinches it. One weekend a month, my ass. Chumpy's head lolls back against the dead leaves, and soon enough, his ghost rises from his corpse to stagger over to the Bride's side. She uncorks a vial that swallows Chumpy's soul whole. Once Chumpy's vanished into the bottle, the Bride replaces the stopper and picks her way back into the portal, which then dematerializes.
Ohmigod! There's something horrible on the floor! Ooops. Sorry. It's just a snot-nosed rugrat banging on a plastic drum. The camera pulls back to reveal, like, a gross of the things penned up in a side area of P3. Darryl and his Dazzling Mrs. trail Piper down the club's stairs, the Dazzling Mrs. Darryl trilling Piper's praises the entire way. How does Piper do it? The Dazzling Mrs. Darryl could barely take care of herself when her snot-nosed rugrat was a wee sprog, much less find time to run both a nightclub and a daycare center…in the very same space? Yick! I hate kids, but what the hell must they be licking off that floor? Forget how Piper finds the time -- who'd she blow to get a license? Ew! ANY-way, Piper Stepfords a pshaw about the whole thing just before the Dazzling Mrs. Darryl plants her pump in her mouth by mentioning the worthless Dolt's disappearance. Whatever could the Dazzling Mrs. Darryl mean? Piper wonders blankly. Darryl mumbles, "Sheila's just been a little concerned about you lately," and the Dazzling Mrs. Darryl gets a name! Yes! Nine months after we first met her! Woo hoo!
Um.
Shut up! Hooray!
Yeah, but "Sheila" sort of sucks. You know. A little.
Fuck you! "Sheila" sucks no more! Because the Dazzling Mrs. Darryl is now the Dazzling Sheila, and she shall have dominion over land and sea and air and man and beast and, like, plants and shit, and her reign upon the earth shall last forever and ever and ever! Whee!
Whatever. I need a drink.
Dazzling Sheila! Woo! Woof woof woof woof woof woof WOOF!
Needless to say, part of me is far too excited by this development to pay much attention to the remainder of this scenelet. Not that it matters, really, as Piper just Pollyannas something stupid about her current predicament before Darryl and his freshly named wife -- Sheila! Hooray! -- take their leave.
Back at the stairs, the Dazzling Duo bump into Raige and Phoebe, who have just arrived with those tinkly chimes and that goddamned choir. Phoebe and her fucking backup band immediately determine that something's troubling the pair, and commence with the rudely intrusive questioning. Raige splutters apologies to the befuddled marrieds before lugging the Feebs off to the side. "What is going on with you?" she grits. "I don't know," Phoebe guhs. "Lately, I've just been feeling a lot of weird vibes." Raige insists that she "can deal with only one whacked-out sister at a time," and suggests Phoebe cram those weird vibes up her ass. Phoebe's all, "Gotcha," and the two hesitantly approach Piper to deliver the dreadful Dolt news. Piper receives said dreadful Dolt news with vacant aplomb. Also, when prodded, Piper admits she can't remember anything that was said during her last meeting with her deadbeat husband. Phoebe and Raige shake their heads sadly.
The Demon Cam On Crack evidently pulled a groin muscle the day before this episode was filmed, for the shot involves his understudy, The Survivor Cam On Crack, which shoots backwards across the city and out over the ocean before landing on a tropic isle in the middle of nowhere. The difference between the Cams? Those ominous -- yet festive! -- native drums that tag along wherever The Survivor Cam goes. The Survivor Cam deposits us on a leafy trail deep within the tropic isle, where we find Bride Of Riley striding purposefully along, a terribly pleased smile plastered across her face. We follow as she passes through a blissful montage of various international warrior-types sparring with each other in various sun-dappled clearings. "Blissful," incidentally, because I don't have to recap it. Eventually, two women emerge onto the path to greet Bride Of Riley with open arms and air kisses. The newcomers are dressed in a similar fashion and are played by Bride Of Vaughn Melissa George and Colleen Porch, who, in honor of her appearance on a particularly infamous episode of the late, unlamented Fastlane, shall be known as Bride Of Strap-On. Bride of Vaughn, incidentally, was to inherit the role of Susan in the dismal American remake of Coupling, and I must note that she bears an uncanny resemblance to Sarah Alexander in some of these shots. In any event, Bride Of Riley proudly displays the Vial Of Chump for a moment before uncorking it and allowing Chumpy to escape. Vaughn and Strap-On appraise the apparition for a bit. Chumpy apparently meets with their approval, for Bride Of Vaughn soon whispers sweet nothings into his ear, then corporealizes him by blowing in his face. What? Hey, I'm not the idiot who wrote this shit.
Cut to Corporeal Chumpy face-planting in the sand that lines an octagonal bamboo cage. An old-timey Roman shield is tossed in after him, after which an Asian Amazon -- sorry, Valkyrie -- seals the cage shut by wiggling a bit of sparkly lavender mojo at the door. Corporeal Chumpy rises to his feet to find a cadre of leather-clad, lesbionic model-types eyeing him from sofas arranged on platforms encircling the cage. They coo and pet each other and, like, feed each other grapes. Because lesbians love the grapes. The entire set-up's supposed to be in a cave of some sort, but there's a suspicious amount of bright white light flooding the ring from above. Also, the back of the cage opens onto a gangway that leads deep into cave-parts unknown. Uneasy, Chumpy bellows, "What do you want from me?" "We want you to fight," puckers Bride Of Vaughn. The ominous -- yet festive! -- native drums kick up a notch as some dork in a gladiator outfit appears in the octagon's gangway. The dork sports a Greek helmet, and he's got some really stumpy legs. Stumpy kicks the old-timey shield into Chumpy's hands while all around the boys, lesbians titter. Suddenly, Stumpy attacks! Manly swordplay. Feminine caresses. Sharp steel meets spiky breastplate. Bare thighs rub gently against one another. Dodging. Stroking. Wow. Brad Kern is a fucking pervert. Finally, Stumpy gets the upper hand and slices through Chumpy's torso with his broadsword. Bride Of Vaughn eyes the grievously injured Chumpy, then announces, "He fought well enough. Heal him, and get him into training." The Asian chick drags Chumpy on out of there as Stumpy rips off his helmet to scream, "What about me!" and…it's the Dolt. Shit. Bride Of Vaughn blithers something about him being an Elder and therefore having "much to teach [her] warriors" before she bolts for a relaxing sponge bath with Strap-On and Riley. "Dramatic" "music" swells as the camera cranes up above the caged Dolt, which frankly only serves to make his legs seem that much shorter. I half expect him to KHAN! his way into the break, but the useless tool just stands there for a second before the sweet, sweet blackness of commerce temporarily obliterates him.
Manor. Big Gay Chris poses prettily at the window while behind him, Raige scries for the Dolt in great, sweeping circles over a map of the world. I take that back. She's actually scrying for him over maps of San Francisco, the world, and the solar system, like she's gonna orb her braless ass to Mars on the off chance the crystal slams down in that general area. Phoebe enters to shit all over Raige's diligent efforts, noting that scrying only works when the scryer scries with a personal item of the scryee. Oh, shut up. You know exactly what I meant by that. Raige smugly hoists a plaid shirt into the air. Hee. "I was thinking something a little more special than that," Phoebe snots. "[The Dolt] loved those shirts," Raige sagely intones. "His entire closet's full of them." Dude. Shout-out. And speaking of closets, Phoebe and Her Fucking Backup Band have apparently detected Big Gay Chris's, for she wheels around to spit, "What's your problem?" at his back. His pretty, pretty back. Demian pet the pretty pretty Big Gay Chr-- what? Oh. Sorry. Big Gay Chris huhs? for a second before masking his true thoughts by ordering them to focus on their sister, not their "ex-brother-in-law." There's one absolutely raging moment during this exchange wherein Big Gay Chris plants his hands on his hips and sasses Raige with, "Well, you better find another way, 'cause you are not gonna find him, missy." Okay, I added the "missy," but it was there in the intonation. Atta girl.
Anyway, Big Gay Chris argues that the ever-useless Elders can well handle the Dolt, but for every minute Piper's powers remain on the fritz, the Glamorous Ladies leave themselves open to ever-increasing amounts of danger. Phoebe and Raige bang their heads together to realize the Dolt must have mojoed Piper's "pain" during his last visit. Should they manage to restore Piper's memory and reconnect her to the anguish she feels over her ex-husband's abandonment, or so they reason, Piper's powers should snap back into place. Raige proposes immediate work on a "magical laxative" for their errant sibling, so Phoebe crosses to the cordless to cancel her foul lunch date with Dipshit. When she reaches the restaurant, however, she learns he's already phoned to cancel the reservation. An outraged Feebs jiggles off to "grill" "a DJ." The Fag and His Hag roll their eyes at each other all, "What's her problem?"
The BASH!! Hangin' Dipshit's just scored a flame-broiled brat over at the Weber when Phoebe and Her Fucking Backup Band arrive to confront him. You know what? The hell with this stupid scene. We're never going to see the Dipshit or his bratwurst again, so let's cut to the chase: Phoebe and Her Fucking Backup Band read every single one of Dipshit's stereotypically chauvinistic emotions, then proceed to channel the anguish of some five-year-old shrike who took a digger on the Rollerblade path nearby. After far too much of this, Phoebe realizes something potentially exciting has happened to her powers, and leaves.
Well. That was relatively painless, wasn't it?
Oh, hell. Up in the attic, poor Rose McGowan's getting humped by that runty bulldog again. Honey, just quit. It's not worth it anymore. As the other mutts in the pack busily rip various priceless antiques to shreds, Raige argues on the cordless with her boss at the agency. She'd like a little more time to return the dogs to their proper owners, you see, but the boss man's having none of it. Raige eventually caves and agrees to deliver the mongrels within the hour, just as Chris calls up from the parlor below to announce Piper's return from P3. The runty bulldog presumably has yet to come.
Raige and the slime trail spattering her low-riders trundle down the stairs to find Big Gay Chris distastefully toting a shrieking toddler through the main hall towards the sun porch. "Whose is that?" Raige sniffs. "Ask her," Chris gripes, nodding sharply at Piper. Heh. Apparently, some of the grubby infants' mothers couldn't retrieve them from the club in time, so Our Lady Of The Perky Martyrs volunteered to board them at the Manor for the rest of the afternoon. Raige is appalled. Piper obliviously floats onto the sun porch to place yet another infant in the already overcrowded playpen as Chris shiftily sidles over to the gape-mouthed Raige. "Is that the memory spell?" he murmurs, indicating the slip of paper Raige clutches in one fist. "Yeah," she confirms. The Fag and His Hag toss a pair of deadpan glares in Piper's general direction. "Cast it," Chris snaps. Hee. Raige wastes no time reciting the following:
Powers and emotions tied,
A witch's heart is where it hides.
Help her with her agony:
Bless her with her memory.
"Where they hide," Raige. Grammar-mangling bimbo. Jesus.
Piper's forehead glows white as a shimmering chord hits the soundtrack. She rises from the playpen, turns to face Raige and Big Gay Chris, and rather politely inquires, "I'm sorry, do I know you?" D'oh! Piper then proceeds to recognize neither her surroundings nor her son, who's squirming in his playpen with the other underage imbeciles. She's also forgotten her name. "Great," snits Big Gay Chris, snatching the sheet of paper from Raige's hand. "You didn't restore her memory. You erased it!" Way ahead of you, pretty boy. Raige, dismayed, realizes her mojo must have "interacted badly" with the Dolt's as Piper eyes an irritating gnat buzzing around her head. Piper bats at the insect, and ends up vanquishing a blameless hanging fern on the far end of the sun porch. "How did that happen?" she too-innocently gasps. Raige and Big Gay Chris fly to her side, force down her arms, and lead her into the front parlor, where Raige deposits her on one of the overstuffed armchairs with strict instructions not to move. Wait a minute. I think they reupholstered the furniture during the hiatus. I mean, the sofa and armchairs remain swathed in gaudy florals, but weren't the patterns darker a few months ago? Pardon? What's that? You couldn't give a rat's ass about the décor? All righty, then.
Raige frantically darts back onto the sun porch to assure Big Gay Chris that everything will be fine, just as Tiny Gay Chris starts in with the wailing. Big Chris and Raige glance over in time to catch Tiny Chris making with the orbing telekinesis to yank a pacifier from another child's mouth and place it in his own. God, that's unsanitary. Raige gawps for a moment, then snatches the child up to scry once more for the Dolt, perhaps remembering the last time Tiny Gay Chris made with the orbing.
Meanwhile, Phoebe jiggles through the front door, the NIPPLES all a-titter over that potentially exciting new power of hers, and barrels straight into the front parlor to startle her brain-wiped sister. Piper leaps to her feet, her horrified eyes bulging in terror at the artificially endowed freak with the dykey hair. After some endless vamping, Phoebe reminds the clearly clueless Piper of Father Thomas -- and yes, I had to look that up -- before grandly stating, "I am an empath." "That's my new power," adds the bubbly Feebs, "or at least, an advancement of my premonition power." It'd best be an advancement, you hateful, undeserving harpy. You're already one up on Piper in the power department, and if you've just blown on to your third long before Piper's moved past molecular manipulation, a horde of angry forum posters'll be battling each other for the pleasure of ramming a spike through your ear. And I can't say I'd blame them.
Rrrrgh. Anyway, Big Gay Chris arrives to fill Feebs in on the whole brain-melting thing. Phoebe pauses, then clomps past her nephew to smack up the redheaded stepchild of the family. However, Phoebe's Fucking Backup Band kicks in the instant violence threatening to erupt on the sun porch, and the Feebs abruptly consoles Raige instead. She can sense Raige's overwhelming remorse, don't you know. Oy. We're barely forty minutes into the season, and this new power's already giving me a rash. Raige, incidentally, is perched on one of the wrought-iron chairs with Tiny Gay Chris on her knee. While Phoebe and Big Chris hiss and scratch at each other, Raige's scrying crystal lingers over the world map for a moment before slamming down in the middle of the Indian Ocean. "I think we just found [the Dolt]!" Raige enthuses. "We?" Phoebe dimly repeats. "[Tiny Gay Chris] and me," Raige elaborates. You see, she tapped into Tiny Chris's connection with his bloated Dolt of a deadbeat dad to nail down said deadbeat's location. Raige returns Tiny Chris to the playpen, then prepares to orb off to South Asia with the Feebs. Desperate to maintain his secrets, Big Gay Chris protests mightily, but it's of no use. Phoebe and Raige orb out of there right after Raige orders Big Chris to return her dogs to their proper owners. Frustrated, Big Gay Chris boots one of the rugrats' chewtoys into the windows. Tiny Gay Chris promptly deploys his shimmering blue force field. "If anyone should be protecting himself," Big Chris sneers, "it's me from you." DUN! Well, not really, but we're two-thirds of the way through the first hour, and I've yet to deploy the DUN! Here seems as good a place as any.
Back in the parlor, Piper edges towards her Mysterious Curio Cabinet Of Tacky Marital Memorabilia and peers through the glass at her wedding portrait, which gradually fills the screen. Shut up, Dolt.
Isle Of Dykes. Phoebe, fitting right in with that hair of hers, nonchalantly ambles down one of island's trails with Raige, idly nattering about the presumably super-special protective shields the island's denizens erected to conceal its existence from the outside world. Nearby shouts interrupt their reverie, so the two dive into some handy bougainvillea bushes to spy on a passing trio of thundering warrior-types evidently sent to capture them. "That was close," Raige mutters as she reemerges onto the trail. Phoebe's Fucking Backup Band kicks in YET AGAIN, so the Feebs naturally tackles her hapless half-sister to the ground, where she proceeds to throttle her. Phoebe eventually snaps out of it and makes with the profuse apologies, claiming she "tapped into" the warriors' bloodlust. Fucking. Wonderful. First, Cole made her do it, then it was all the goddamned baby's fault, and now she's blaming her brutally stupid behavior on this assy new power of hers? Fucking stow it, you fucking hag. AUUUUGHH! ANY-way, Raige meekly accepts Phoebe's lame-ass apology, and the two head off in search of the stumpy Dolt.
Lair Of The Stumpy Dolt. Phoebe and Raige wordlessly ease through the entrance, then loudly greet the Dolt the second he appears in the bamboo octagon's gangway. Way to keep it on the down low, ladies. Two Valkyries, no doubt drawn by the Ps' near-ultrasonic squealing, race into the cave to commence with the smackdown. They quickly trap Phoebe and Raige in a pair of violent chokeholds, so Stumpy the Dolt snatches up and pair of broadswords and -- get this -- expertly flings them through the bars of his cage into the Valkyries' backs. I'm sure this is meant to impress me. However. If Stumpy the Dolt's so adept with a couple of broadswords, why didn't he hack his way out of the goddamned bamboo cage a whole fucking month ago? Huh? Anyone? Anytime you're ready to answer. No, it's okay! Really! I'm not going anywhere for a VERY LONG TIME!
Christ on a stick.
Stumpy warns the former in-laws to flee immediately. And so, after promises to return, Raige and Phoebe scurry outdoors to orb into the sky. Back in the Lair, Bride Of Vaughn enters with a pair of nubile attendants, eyes the dead Valkyries sprawled on the cave's floor, and puckers her lips in Stumpy's direction. Stumpy the Dolt bares his teeth and pants, "I told you I don't belong here." Kick him in the nuts, Vaughn!
Kidding. The Dolt has no nuts to kick.
Back from the break, we retrace our steps from the Isle Of Dykes back to the Manor for a processing summit involving Raige, Phoebe, Big Gay Chris, the Book of Shadows, and Oscar The Raige-Humping Bulldog. Yes, the bulldog's name is Oscar. Yes, there is bulldog-related tomfoolery. No, I won't be recapping it. I realize the disappointment you feel at this moment must be crushing. Deal with it. Raige lands on the Valkyries' entry in the Book, which she and Phoebe read aloud: "A powerful race of demigoddesses who scout the battlegrounds for dying warriors, then take their souls to Valhalla, where they prepare them for the final world battle." And all of that would be [sic]. I'm not up on my Norse mythology, so I have no idea if this entry possesses even a passing acquaintance with accuracy, but more importantly: I don't care. The gals bombard poor Chris with questions, which he artfully evades by announcing his intent to consult with the ever-useless Elders. Phoebe and Raige persist, however, so Chris is forced to hack up the following bits of exposition: orbing into Valhalla results in immediate detection; the one way to infiltrate the island safely is through the crappy green digital overlay generated by a Valkyrie's jade pendant; Big Gay Chris can and will provide the appropriate bauble only if absolutely necessary; and finally, once on the island, the Glamorous Ladies must convince Bride Of Vaughn that they too are Valkyries, which can only be accomplished by arriving "with a warrior's soul." Raige twists her face into a tiny moue as Phoebe snits, "Where are we supposed find a warrior's soul?" Big Gay Chris is all, "Not my problem, bitches," and orbs away. God love him.
Somewhere…else, a uniformed police officer takes a round of bullets in his chest and collapses to the floor of a dank, forbidding alleyway. Dude. I can't remember the last time I saw a dank, forbidding alleyway on this show. But where are The Convenient Shipping Pallets Of Grave Bodily Injury? Sigh. As the perp clomps away, a crappy green digital overlay opens in one of the walls. A pleasant-looking Valkyrie emerges to soothe the dying cop. Unfortunately for her, Big Gay Chris orbs in with pendant-snatching on his mind. "The witches found [the Dolt] sooner than I would have liked," Chris explains. "That's not my problem," she replies evenly. "We kept our end of the deal." Chris assures her that he's "forever grateful" for the Valkyries' compliance up to this point, but he can't risk the Glamorous Ladies figuring out his plan. He reaches out with his right hand, curls his fingers into a fist, and flicks his wrist. The pleasant-looking Valkyrie grasps at her chest, gasping for air, and presently falls to the asphalt. Chris slowly approaches her lifeless form, whispers, "Forgive me," and yanks the jade pendant from her neck. The Valkyrie's remains promptly disappear into the ether. Chris then hovers over the prone cop, hesitates for a beat, and retrieves the two-way radio clipped to the cop's shirt. "Officer down," Chris reports. "Eighth Avenue sewer. We need an ambulance." A sewer? Dammit! I don't think I'll ever see a dank, forbidding alleyway again.
And am I right, or am I right? Over in another corner of the city, Darryl muscles a handcuffed, mouthy Chinese gangsta into the back of his car as Phoebe and Raige rather obviously orb in nearby. It all happens in an alleyway, sure, but this one's Neon-Lit! And Inviting! The bastards. Now, where the hell was I? Oh, yeah: Darryl, pulling his apoplectic-with-stuttering-disbelief thing, hustles the Ps over to a corner, wondering loudly what the hell they think they're doing. The gals explain the Dolt sitch and ask for his help. Darryl immediately agrees, so Phoebe perks, "Great! We just need to borrow your soul for a couple of hours." Darryl's decidedly nonplussed. "It's perfectly safe!" Phoebe insists. "Your body will slip into a coma, and as long as we get your soul back in time, you'll be fine! Just a little headache, that's all. Whaddya say?" Gotta admit -- La Milano's delivery here is rather amusing. Still not too fond of the hair, though. Darryl quite naturally demurs and wheels on his heel to storm away, tossing a snicker-worthy hissyfit the entire time. Raige whomps his retreating back with a bottle of something that knocks his body to the ground. Darryl's oblivious soul carries on ranting down the alleyway. Heh. "Darryl?" Raige interrupts hesitantly. Incorporeal Darryl spins back around. Raige wrinkles her nose and points to his comatose body on the concrete. "Oh, that's just great," pouts Incorporeal Darryl. Hee! More Darryl, please, especially if you intend to keep slinging him into tight black t-shirts. In the meantime, Phoebe uncorks a vial, captures Darryl's soul, and mutters, "I hope this works," as she and Raige exit the frame.
Bridal Boudoir. I suppose I'll have to come up with a new name for Piper's bedroom now that she's divorced, huh? Big Gay Chris gently fastens the purloined pendant around his brain-fried mother's neck and assures her, "Just remember everything I told you, and you'll be fine." A golden flare erupts from Piper's body, and her matronly togs morph into suede Warrior Princess Valkyriewear. Raige orbs in behind them with Phoebe, and the new arrivals immediately howl in dismay. "What did you do to Piper?" splutters the Feebs. "I turned her into a Valkyrie, and convinced her she's one, too," Chris explains, adding, "It wasn't that hard, really, considering the fact that her mind is basically a blank." Raige glares. Hee. Chris vows they'll need the Power of Three to bust Stumpy the Dolt out of his prison -- a prison fashioned from bamboo, mind you -- and, given her current state, having Piper believe she's really a Valkyrie is the best way to ensure that the Power of Three arrives safely on the Isle Of Dykes. "If Piper ever gets her memory back, she's going to kill you," Phoebe smirkily insists. "She hates wearing those costumes as much as we do." SO STOP WEARING THEM ALREADY.
No such luck, for the shot features the fully Valkyried Ps stepping through the crappy green digital overlay to arrive on the Isle Of Dykes, and Mother of God in Heaven -- some idiot's gelled an upturned, corkscrewed forelock into La Milano's "hair." She looks like Tin Tin. In a fucking miniskirt. With boobs. Are they blind? Is everyone who works on this show blind? They are, aren't they? Jesus. What-EVER! The first half of this dismal, hateful, Satanically evil double episode is almost over, and I haven't the time to screech about hair when there's an absolutely idiotic episode-ending non-cliff non-hanging cliffhanger to recap.
Ooops. Spoiler!
The Valkyried Ps arrive at the bamboo octagon in Stumpy Dolt's lair to greet Bride Of Vaughn, who's lounging on one of the divans with Strap-On and Riley. "We've brought you a warrior," Phoebe halfheartedly begins. Vaughn's not having it. "Why don't I recognize you?" she demands, rising to challenge them. "Perhaps you'll recognize this," Piper states evenly, taking a few steps forward. "A warrior's spirit worthy of Valhalla." Piper uncaps the Vial Of Darryl to release his soul, which presently coagulates on the sand a few paces away. Darryl gapes, because Dorian Gregory's expert at the gaping and such. "Well done," puckers Vaughn as Riley and Strap-On allow the faintest of smiles to flicker across their faces. Piper smirks back knowingly, and we fade to black.
Aaron: Wait. That's it? That's the episode-ending cliffhanger that's supposed to make me want to hang around for another hour? Are they high?
Demian: Like you have to ask.
Aaron: Shit.
Betty Ford: Boobies, boobies, boobies. Nothin' but boobies. Who needs 'em?
[Pause.]
Demian: She needs help.
Aaron: Agreed.
[Flick. Ahhh.]
up: Stumpy the Dolt and Big Gay Chris get reacquainted, Raige meets Joe Millionaire, Phoebe creates a hostile working environment, Piper rides high on the hog, and, deep within the bowels of his grave, Richard Wagner spins like a swastika-emblazoned pinwheel in a hurricane. See you there!