We fade up on a Phoebe-filled television monitor, upon which the dingbat in question states, "Today, we're going to be talking about the five-minute orgasm." I switch off my television set, unplug it from the wall, haul it across the room to the front window, and drop it on my morbidly obese neighbor's pack of yippy terriers. That's it, folks! End of the recap! Thanks for stopping by, and you all take care of yourselves, okay?
Oh, fine. I'll finish it, but only because I'm contractually obliged to do so. Though I do wonder how many thousands of unsuspecting viewers stroked out at the opening line of this episode. I'd check the ratings to see if there was a sharp drop-off from last week, but that would be a little pointless. I mean, sure, 1,834,973 heads just exploded across North America like so many blood-filled ticks, but that also means the unfortunates who owned those heads were not then able to change the channel, right? So, this episode just droned on and on as 1,834,973 living room carpets slowly sopped up 1,834,973 gallons of blood. The retention rates for Tarzan must have been phenomenal. week's Nielsens should suck for both series, though, which I suppose is a blessing.
Anyway, the camera pulls back from the monitor to reveal Phoebe seated with Annabelle Gurwitch on the set of the worst public access talk show ever -- something called Chit-Chat: This And That. The sign informing us of the show's title seems to have been fashioned from poster board and tin foil, with the lettering finger-painted by a gang of special-ed eleven-year-olds from San Bruno. Annabelle's playing "Nina Halter," the toxically saucy authoress of a book entitled The Five-Minute Orgasm. Many of you will recognize Annabelle as the co-host of Dinner And A Movie, which, incidentally, once had the best Friday-night double-feature ever of Steel Magnolias and Nine To Five. It was Fag Hell. And I mean that in the best way possible. "Drink your juice, Shelby." In any event, Phoebe's subbing for the show's regular host, and she's doing a spectacularly awful job of it, too. You see, she thinks The Five-Minute Orgasm instructs readers on how to have an orgasm in five minutes. Toxic Annabelle patiently explains that her book actually teaches people to have orgasms that last five minutes, and why am I even writing about this? This has absolutely nothing to do with this evening's plot. Nada. Zip. And thank God for that, too, because I know I couldn't take a five-minute-long scene of Phoebe yodeling as a result of Chronic's exuberant ministrations to her nether regions, so let's just get to the point.
The shot cuts to the Manor sun porch, where a TV's been tuned to Phoebe's cable access show. Fortunately, a violent demonic whirlwind howls through the room, drowning out anything Phoebe has to say. We quickly discover the source of the Hell-sent windstorm is none other than Simon fromGo, and Desmond Askew needs to fire his agent. Again. Some more. As if Roswell wasn't bad enough, the poor guy. Simon's bleached his hair white-blond and is currently conjuring a vast, sucking hole in the sun porch floor. As is its wont, the vast, sucking hole swallows various items of furniture and bric-a-brac, including, almost, very nearly, Piper. Oh, shut up. Her sisters treat her as if she were a footstool, and you know it. Piper manages to cling to a doorframe and bellow for Big Gay Chris, who very prettily orbs in beside her, his hair all tousled by Simon's whirlwind. Sigh. Big Chris reaches out to orb away with Piper, but she shouts that his Tiny Gay Self is up in the nursery, so Big Chris should fetch Phoebe and Raige instead. Instead of, say, orbing upstairs with Piper to collect Tiny Chris from his bassinet, and then orbing to fetch Phoebe and Raige. What the fuck ever. One minute and twenty-nine seconds, people. That's how far we are into this episode, and I already want everyone responsible for it dead.
Big Gay Chris obediently and stupidly orbs from the Manor to Phoebe's public access studio. He arrives off-stage behind some curtains and frantically gesticulates in an attempt to catch her eye. Phoebe's still talking about orgasms, though, so Big Chris just groans a bit in frustration and orbs out.
Back at the Manor, Piper tosses a Hand Of Discontent in Simon's direction, but her aim's off, presumably due to the wind, or something. She vanquishes the sun porch chandelier, which crashes through the vast, sucking hole in the floor. For some reason, this leads to Simon snipering face-forwards as the vast, sucking hole snaps shut. He dashes off into the dining room. When Piper darts into the hall to blow him up, he opens another vast, sucking hole near the connecting doorway. Piper wraps her arms around the banister and grunts as The Vast Suck lifts her feet off the floor.
Meanwhile, Big Gay Chris orbs into a nursing home, which is apparently where Raige's fucked-up temp agency placed her for the week. Raige is locked into one of those "Saw The Lady In Two" boxes, and an elderly magician struggles to separate the halves before an audience of geriatrics in wheelchairs. His arthritis is acting up, or something, because he can't trip the clasp. Raige wordlessly mojos the thing with her orbing telekinesis, and the two halves of the box split apart, to the exaggerated delight of every blue hair in the room. By the way, Kathryn Joosten's been off to the side during all of this as the elderly magician's assistant, and the bastards in costuming have slung her sixty-five-year-old derriere into a skimpy red-velvet one-piece with gold trim. I bet she curses the day Crackhead Sorkin wrote her off the show just so Martin Sheen could snag another Emmy nomination. But I'll mourn for her career some other time, as Big Chris is shooting a foul glare at Raige, who shrugs as best she can to indicate that she isn't going anywhere for a while. Big Chris orbs out.
Back at the Manor, Piper loses her grip on the banister and whomps heavily onto her ass, upon which she proceeds to slide towards The Vast Suck near the dining room. She squeals and unleashes another pair of Hands. This time, she manages to take a bite out of Simon's shoulder. The Vast Suck promptly closes, and Simon dematerializes by morphing from his head down into a wispy outline of himself, which then dissipates in the air. Piper wearily eyes the empty space where he'd been, then collapses into the opening credits.
Tonight's Travelogue Testicle moans about finding his way home tomorrow. Maybe. He's very uncertain about it all. I'd express concern for his lack of direction, but I'd first have to give a rat's ass about the Travelogue Testicle, and that's just not going to happen. We presently land at the Manor, where Raige, Phoebe, and Piper tidy up the sun porch while Big Gay Chris abuses the Book of Shadows in a fruitless attempt to find Simon's entry. Tiny Gay Chris, meanwhile, mewls in his product-placed playpen, of absolutely no use to anyone at all. Big Chris is furious that Piper nearly died alone in the Manor because her sisters were too busy interviewing The Orgasm Lady and performing as an elderly magician's prop. The Glamorous Ladies, naturally, blow him off to bitch about their respective lives. Piper needs the sun porch cleared because her friend, Mary, "has designed a fashion line," and intends to display the fruits of her loom at the Manor for some stupid reason or other. Raige pauses from collecting crumpled roses from the floor to breathe, "I love clothes." Heh. Also, you're obviously in need of some new ones if all you can find to wear out in public is that lacy peach teddy you're calling a blouse. Cover your stuff up before you kill one of those old guys at the home, woman. What is wrong with you? Anyway, Piper moans and gripes and complains about having "a normal life if it kills [her]," which is followed by a bit of business regarding her bandaged hand. Piper cut herself in the kitchen and refuses to have the Dolt heal it, because she's vowed to tolerate mundane injuries the way anyone else on the planet would. Raige mopes that she'd use magic for everything, if that were possible. Phoebe jumps in to note that the dozens of roses Raige is clearing away came from Chronic, who's worried that he's "losing" the Feebs. If the roses are yours, why aren't you the one on her knees cleaning them up, bitch? No answer. Naturally. Because of her stoopid new power, Phoebe's no longer sure which emotions in the relationship are hers, so she "has [her] guard up." Raige, who has no subplot this week, and therefore nothing to whine about in this scene, finally gives up on cleaning by hand and recites her trusty Object Of Objection spell. Twinkly white lights dance around the room to clear away the mess and restore various hanging plants that had been knocked to the ground. Once everything's back in its proper place, Raige heads towards the door to return to the nursing home. As she goes, she makes a very unfunny crack about how little time the geriatrics in her care have left in this world. Cram it, you callous bimbo. Phoebe mumbles her own goodbyes and rises to escort Raige, as she herself has a lunch date with Chronic.
You'll notice Big Gay Chris vanished from that paragraph after his overall fury with the situation was noted towards the beginning. That's because he's been enacting an entirely different scene on his own during the above-detailed bitchfest. While the ladies blithered obliviously about their various petty problems, Big Chris repeatedly tried to get them to deal with the Simon at hand, and they ignored his every line. From Big Chris, the audience learns that Simon uses The Vast Suck to trap his "victims into pocket realms or alternate realities." "Dangerous alternate realities, people!" Big Chris shouts at one point. "Based on fantasies, desires, and dreams! Can we please focus?" Nope. After Phoebe and Raige have left, Piper ambles over to her big gay son and slings an arm on his shoulder. "You are our favorite new Whitelighter and all," she tells him, "but you need to lighten up." "No!" he retorts. "You three need to get serious, because if you keep putting your personal lives before your Wiccan duties? You're gonna pay for it!" Piper natters something dizzy about fashion shows and chocolate chip cookies before flouncing out towards the kitchen. Big Chris grinds his teeth and snits to his Tiny Gay Self, "It's your fault I have to do this now." Big Chris orbs out as Tiny Chris slobbers down the front of his overalls.
Lair Of The Limey. Simon howls in agony as he presses a rag to the gouge in his shoulder. When Big Gay Chris orbs in, Simon snarls at him and stretches out his good arm, opening The Vast Suck in the stone floor. Big Chris disappears downwards for a moment, but soon enough pops out of the hole in a cloud of orbs to reform behind tonight's demon. "How did you find me?" Simon demands. "No one's ever been to my lair!" "I didn't have to 'find' you, Gith," Big Chris evenly replies. "I know you from the future." Hmmm. "Gith." Gith, Gith, Gith. Nope. I got nothing. Big Gay Chrith proceedzth to offer Thimon the headth of the Glamorouth Ladieth on a cunning thet of matched thilver platterzth from Nieman Marcuth. Thimon thweatthuh.
Up in San Francisco, Phoebe and Chronic make flirtatious noises at each other while on their lunch date. Yawn. Chronic's apparently sheared off even more of his hair since last we saw him, and I'm seeing through to the scalp in certain spots. As the gang on the boards so astutely noted, we should be calling him Chemo now, but because I'm a proponent of medicinal marijuana, Chronic still works for me. A gushing fan bubbles over to the table, gets down on her knees, and shoves her tongue far up Phoebe's ass crack. How she's still able to deliver her lines from that position, I'll never know, but deliver them she does before bubbling away. They involved the wonderful job Phoebe's been doing on the cable access show, so you'll forgive me if I skip the transcription. The fan's mumble-mouthed tirade of course leads Chronic to offer Phoebe her own syndicated talk show. Phoebe's clearly uneasy about the whole thing, so Chronic leans in close to whisper the following bit of plot-related dialogue: "You're dating a minor media mogul here, so may I make a little suggestion? Let go. Lose control a little bit. Trust me, and just enjoy the ride." Phoebe tries to protest, but Chronic shuts her up with some tonsil hockey.
Manor kitchen. Piper slides a tray of cookies out of the oven as the Dolt orbs unannounced into the room behind her. "Oh, look!" she too-brightly sings to her tiny gay son in his highchair. "Daddy's here!" Heh. She was actually expecting him that afternoon to take Tiny Gay Chris off her hands, but you can tell she's hella pissed he didn't ring the doorbell like any other ex-husband with joint custody would have done. The Dolt offers some apologetic eyebrows before revealing that he has something important to discuss with the ex-wife regarding the Manor's new Whitelighter. Before he elaborates on the details, however, Tiny Chris sneezes. The Dolt immediately crosses to apply the healing tingly touch to his son's schnozz. Piper objects, rightly claiming that small children need to develop natural immunities to various bugs and whatnot, but she takes it too far by bitching once more about her desire for a normal life, like, it's been five and a half years, people! How many times can you trot out this fucking plot pony for her? The tired old nag's been working bone bane, colic, the strangles, glanders, and alopecia for at least four seasons, so would you take the fucker out back and shoot it already? If not for its sake, then for ours? Please? Christ!
ANY-way, there's chatter about how Piper would of course summon the Dolt if Tiny Gay Chris were seriously ill; then the Dolt addresses the Big Chris situation by holding up one of the Valkyrie pendants for Piper to examine. "Do you know where he got this?" the Dolt asks rhetorically, referring to the purloined pendant. "He killed for it. [Big Gay] Chris isn't who he says he is, Piper. He banished me to [The Isle Of Dykes], and this proves it!" Piper rolls her eyes and grouses, "Nothing will ever change with you -- you will always find a way to make your job more important than your family." "Taking care of my family is my job," the Dolt asserts, "and right now, I need to find out what [Big Gay] Chris is up to." Piper looks like she's about ready to brain him with a frying pan.
The Lair Of The Limey. The boyth thlam-danth with the ekthpothithion, and there's no way in hell I'm going to keep that shit up for an entire recap, so we'll restrict it to Thimon himself and perhaps his favorite word. Thimon, you see, is the type of demon who feeds on human dethire. I'm sure we've seen others of his ilk on this show before, but I can't be bothered to look them up. Big Gay Chris craftily offers Thimon the Charmed Ones, claiming he traveled from the future to make use of their collective power. However, as their more earthly dethirezth are now driving them apart, he has no further use for them. Desmond Askew gets a hammy monologue about the power of human dethire before quizzing Big Chris on his motives. Big Chris evades the questions by offering Thimon a slip of paper that purportedly contains the Glamorous Ladies' most deeply-held hopes for themselves. Keep that in mind when we arrive at the assery that is Phoebe's plotline later in the episode. Thimon, tossing caution to the wind as heedlessly as every other damn demonic force on this stupid show has ever done in the past, snatches up the paper and scuttles over to an open water-filled stone cistern at the center of his cave. "They'll die, you know," he states, unfolding the paper with what could best be described as glee. "Victims of their own dethirezth." "I'm counting on it," Big Chris notes, surreptitiously pocketing the bloody rag Thimon had been using on his shoulder. Big Chris orbs out with, "Good luck. And for the sake of both our lives, don't screw this up."
Thimon reads the first line of Big Gay Chris's list. "A normal life with normal friends, and no magic." Thimon grins and, stretching his good arm above the cistern, intones, "Ask, and ye shall receive." The surface of the water shimmers to display Piper toting Tiny Gay Chris through the center parlor to his playpen. The camera, which had leapt above Thimon's head for this effects shot, spirals down towards the cistern until the Manor scene flares out to fill the screen. As Tiny Chris blows snot all over Piper's blouse, a glimmering, golden wave of demonic mojo shimmies across the frame from left to right, knocking Piper and Tiny Chris unawares into an alternate dimension partly of Piper's own making. Piper glances around suspiciously and Tiny Chris fidgets once the wave has passed, as if they both realize something strange just happened. The doorbell rings, though, so Piper places Tiny Chris in his pen to answer it.
Piper opens the door to find fashion fiend Mary standing on the front porch, along with some blonde thing who's stuffed into a too-tight sleeveless pink turtleneck. Once they've crossed the threshold, a gaggle of nearly a dozen other nittering twits follows them into the hall. Mary's gone ahead and invited these others, you see, because she knew Piper's a fucking doormat who wouldn't have the balls to call her on it. Which is pretty amusing in its own way. I mean, if Piper really wanted normal friends, this is precisely how so many of them would behave, after all. And wouldn't you know, Mary was spot-on regarding Piper's doormat status. The Manor drudge just waves all of the uninvited guests towards the parlor before assuring Mary that she's been looking forward to the private show all week. Mary giggles that Piper'll love her new line of lingerie. Piper cautiously replies that as long as she herself doesn't have to model any of it, she's certain everything will be lovely. Mary cocks a brow to reveal she doesn't design women's underthings just as three GAY MALE STRIPPERS lope in through the front door. Mary passes a bag to The GAY MALE STRIPPER With The Speaking Part, who asks, "Where do we change?" Piper goggles and sputters that her bedroom's free. Bamp-chicka-bamp-ew. The merry GAY MALE STRIPPERS head upstairs as Piper collapses against the front door with the vapors, or something. And save the emails. I don't want to hear how you've been best friends with Alex Estornel since grade school, so you know he's not a GAY MALE STRIPPER. He is now. Deal.
Over at the nursing home, Raige and poor Kathryn Joosten assist the elderly magician as he attempts to pull a rabbit out of a hat. "Where's the rabbit?" he asks. "It died last year, dear," poor Kathryn Joosten replies. The fuck? Was that supposed to be funny? No, I'm serious: Was that supposed to be funny? Amusing? Comical? Witty? Droll? Well? I'm waiting. Okay, then. Fuck you sideways, because I've got a Glimmering Wave Of Madcap Demonic Mojo to recap as it shimmies through the room, and I don't have time to wait for your response. Bastards. As the wave hits Raige, she staggers backwards a bit as if dazed by its passing. Once it's disappeared, the elderly magician collapses to the carpet, clutching at his chest. Raige, Kathryn Joosten, and a nurse who once gave the injured Colethazor a lift hover over him with levels of concern that vary from great (Kathryn) to mild (Raige) to nil (Nurse Wretched). "It's his heart!" Kathryn shouts. "Charley, can you hear me?" Raige bellows for someone to call an ambulance, but Kathryn wails, "We don't have time for an ambulance -- just use your magic and orb him to the hospital!" Nurse Wretched agrees. "You know?" Raige stammers. "That you're a witch?" Nurse Wretched asks. "Everybody knows," she shrugs, taking in the room with her eyes. The tangle of surly geriatrics who'd been enduring the failed magic show vigorously nod their heads. "We're running out of time," Kathryn pleads. "All right," Raige caves. "Just keep it a secret, okay?" Raige dissolves into a cloud of orbs with Charley and shoots up towards the ceiling.
Over at the cable access station, some goon named Brett is finishing up Phoebe's makeup for her final day of taping. Chronic arrives to lend his support, which comes in the form of another offer for a nationally syndicated program of her own. Phoebe pffts. "You said you'd enjoy the ride," Chronic argues as Phoebe rises from her chair, "so enjoy it. When you step out on that stage today, don't hold back. I want you to lose yourself in the moment, okay? You might be surprised." No, Chronic, Phoebe didn't agree to enjoy the ride, because you shoved your tongue down her throat before she could get a word in edgewise, but whatever. I copied down his line only because nothing that follows would make sense without it, as they've chosen to eliminate Phoebe's Fucking Backup Band for this evening's presentation. Mind you, I don't miss it at all, but long story short, Phoebe's supposedly channeling Chronic's dethirezth right now, so when Thimon's Glimmering Wave Of Madcap Demonic Mojo shimmies through the backstage area as it does at this point, you'll need to remember that Phoebe's not suddenly flung into an alternate dimension partly of her own making, but rather of Chronic's. Of course, there's still the massive plot hole represented by Big Gay Chris's crafty slip of paper from three scenes ago. If Thimon's reading the Chris-penned dethirezth from that sheet, there's no way Phoebe would enter the soundstage to discover that she now has her own nationally syndicated talk show, financed by Chronic and airing on his network of stations, because Big Chris would have no way of knowing what Chronic wants for his aunt. Right? RIGHT? Feh. I hate this show. Phoebe enters the soundstage to discover she now has her own Chronic-financed, nationally syndicated talk show entitled Ask Phoebe. Phoebe claps a shocked hand over her gaping mouth as thousands cheer, and we dive into the blackness of the commercial break praying there's an ocean of booze waiting for us down there in the dark.
Outside the cable access studio, Phoebe waxes enthusiastic about her just-completed taping as she and Chronic amble down the walk to his car. A muscle-bound enforcer trails a few paces behind them until Chronic sends him on ahead to fetch the limousine. "Who was that?" Phoebe asks, finally focusing on something other than herself for a moment. "Your bodyguard," Chronic smiles. "Guh!" Phoebe exclaims. "I thought he was a grip!" They greet a line of Phoebe's freakish fans, who squeal and shriek behind a row of police sawhorses. The yammering about Phoebe's Phabulousness is endless, but one brief moment of note does occur. When a gentleman insists that Phoebe's column saved his marriage, she shoots him a look that indicates even she can't believe that level of bullshit. After Phoebe signs a few autographs, Chronic takes her arm to lead her away, noting, "It's like walking with Gandhi." Sure, Chronic. If Gandhi had been a boneheaded fame-whore with mounds of saline in his chest. Though I can't rightfully bust on Phoebe's appearance in this scene and those that follow. She's wearing a professional-looking, sleekly tailored black dress suit over a deep-pink blouse with strappy stiletto pumps, and she looks fantastic. Better than she has in years, in fact. Still, though -- shame about the hair, honey. In any event, Chronic guides her over to the waiting limousine, which is white, as in, "Only white trash like Chronic would buy one of those tacky things." Once they're safely ensconced in the back seat, Phoebe hesitantly gives voice to her increasing sense of unease. "I appreciate what you're trying to do for me," she tells him, "but a lot of this doesn't make sense. Like, I swear those people weren't there a few hours ago, and that elaborate stage?" "Hey!" Chronic interrupts. "You promised." "I know," she sighs before quoting him. "'Just sit back and enjoy the ride.'" To her credit, she still clearly realizes that something is desperately wrong. The limousine glides past the throng of admirers, and there's a moment that's obviously aiming for the creepy, but ends up nailing the hysterical right between the eyes. Phoebe gifts the crowd with little princess waves through the limo's back window, spotting in the process a scruffy twentysomething holding a sign that reads, "MARRY ME PHOEBE." As Phoebe smiles despite herself, the scruff flips the sign around to reveal the "OR DIE" scrawled on the back. HA! Stalkers are funny.
Back at the Manor, Big Gay Chris snips a few pieces of Thimon's bloody rag into a copper bowl up in the attic. As he adds other ingredients to whatever he's mixing, the Dolt orbs in to glower, "We need to talk." "Sorry," Big Chris perks dismissively. "Now," the Dolt insists, advancing upon his wayward son with the purloined Valkyrie amulet. Big Chris eyes the necklace for a second, then snickers, "I don't have time for this," as he goes back to his potion. "You had time to kill a Valkyrie," the Dolt accuses, before reminding his son that Whitelighters don't kill people. "But it's all right for an [ever-useless] Elder?" Big Chris sasses. "You have Valkyrie blood on your hands, too." That's my boy. The Dolt protests that he was protecting the Glamorous Ladies, which Big Chris was also doing when he telekinetically squeezed that woman's heart to a pulp, so cram it, Dolt. The Dolt puffs out his chest to announce that he's convened a hearing up in Whitelighterland to decide Big Chris's fate, and he fully expects Big Chris's "soul" to be "sent back down to earth for recycling" by that evening. Big Chris is all, "You do what you have to do, asswipe, but I've got a fucking vanquish to finish." "Why are you making a vanquishing potion?" the Dolt dumbly wonders, as Big Chris siphons some of the mixture into a turkey baster to transfer it to a small vial. "To help the sisters," Chris duhs, turning his back on the Dolt. "Why aren't they making it?" the Dolt demands. "They're busy!" Chris snits, glaring at his dimwit asshole of a father. Hee! The Dolt tries and fails to locate the gals with his supernatural radar. "If I can't sense them," he growls, "that means they're not in this world." "I'm on it!" Chris yells, exasperated. He moves to orb out, but the stupid Dolt restrains him, so Big Chris gets all up in the Dolt's gargantuan face for what follows. "If I don't show up where I'm supposed to be -- alone -- they'll die," Big Chris explains, his patience long gone. The Dolt glares, but he allows Big Chris to orb up through the ceiling. Once Chris is gone, the Dolt spots Thimon's bloody rag on the table, and snatches it up to examine it more closely. Which somehow involves sniffing at the embedded gore. The Dolt is gross.
Over in Raige's fantasyland, several bleeping machines monitor the elderly magician's condition in a curtained corner of the emergency room while, in the background, a disembodied voice pages "Dr. Kurtz to Demonology." Kathryn Joosten worriedly hovers over the unconscious gent as Raige eases through the curtains to enter the room. Kathryn offers her heartfelt thanks to Raige for saving her husband's life. Raige begs off, noting that the hospital's medical staff is responsible for Charley's continued well-being. "I was just his cosmic taxi," she insists. Kathryn waves away this display of modesty and continues to lavish praise on the increasingly befuddled Raige. Raige once again wonders how Kathryn knew of Raige's bitchcraft. Kathryn doesn't directly answer the question as asked. Instead, she gets a bit feisty and asserts, "This ain't Salem, honey. There's no shame in being a witch today -- you should use your magic with pride!" Raige bugs out her eyes in disbelief as we…
…slam back to the Manor for a face-full of ass. No, seriously. One of the man-pantied GAY MALE STRIPPERS is wriggling his scantily clad rear end directly into the camera as Piper's dozen or so guests whoop and holler. Piper, by contrast, is mortified, likely because this GAY MALE STRIPPER sucks. What's that you said? Well, of course he sucks that way, but I'm talking about his utter lack of rhythm. You'd think with all the nipple ponies prancing around West Hollywood, the casting director would have found at least one who could dance. And you'd be wrong, as the GAY MALE STRIPPER proves when he bounces gracelessly into the parlor to gyrate before the screeching clumps of estrogen arrayed on chairs around the room. Whatever. This scene represents an embarrassment for everyone involved -- and when you're talking about Charmed, that's saying a lot -- so let's cut to the chase: Piper hears Tiny Gay Chris wailing through the baby monitor, and excuses herself to check on him. Once she reaches The Patricia Campbell Hearst Commemorative Child-Care Nook, she realizes Tiny Chris is "burning up," and shoves one of those baby thermometers in his ear. When it beeps, she removes it to discover that he's working a hundred-and-two fever. "[Dolt]?" Piper cries, looking up. "Come on, [Tiny Chris] needs you!" There's no answer.
A bizarre quick-frame montage of three people waiting for the Number One bus to California and Sixth from Chinatown whisks us away from the Manor to dump us in the back of Chronic's limousine. No, seriously. Frame through that transition yourself and tell me if there was anything else of interest going on. And yes, I'm loosely defining "of interest," so feel free to mention that riveting shot of the lower two-thirds of a streetlamp if you must. Phoebe's unease increases as Chronic admits that he's already lined up affiliates in the twelve largest United States media markets to carry Ask Phoebe. Phoebe protests that things are moving far too quickly, but he just waves a hand at her all, "Stop whining." The bodyguard announces they're approaching "the penthouse," which only adds to Phoebe's mounting tension, as neither she nor Chronic lives in anything remotely resembling a high-rise. Wow. You really can't place a phrase like "mounting tension" to "Phoebe" without eliciting a rapid-fire burst of revolting imagery, can you? Let's not dwell on those unpleasant thoughts, though, because something many of you have been praying for is about to unfold on our television screens. The bodyguard slides the limousine into a space adjacent to the apartment building, and a screaming horde of Phreaks crowd around the vehicle. As the edgy Feebs and beaming Chronic push their way through the throng, Phoebe shouts, "I don't think any of this is real! I think there's something wrong!" Chronic, basking in the glory of owning as valuable a media property as the woman on his arm, shrugs off her concerns, even when a skinhead breaks through the crowd to bellow, "My wife left me because of you!" Chronic hustles Phoebe along, but she stops him to insist, "This isn't my world -- this isn't even my fantasy! I know this isn't going to make any sense to you, but I think we're in some kind of alternate reality." As Chronic busts her chops for "talking crazy," the bodyguard spots a revolver poking up above crowd's collective head. He shouts, "Gun!" and the throng instantly parts as the divorced lunatic skinhead attached to the revolver yells, "It's time for you to feel pain!" Heh. Even in Chronic's alternate reality, people want Phoebe dead. Chronic dives to cover the Feebs, and the two slam towards the asphalt just as the pistol goes off. The skinhead scampers off as Chronic, bug-eyed, grunts, "Better get you inside." Phoebe withdraws her hand from his jacket to find blood trickling down her fingers. Hooray! But he should have shot Chronic in the face.
Phoebe hoots and yodels in shock and despair while the camera tracks back to take in alternate-reality vignettes of all three Glamorous Ladies, as currently monitored by Thimon through his cistern. In the upper image, Phoebe and the bodyguard yank Chronic to his feet and drag him out of the frame. Below, Piper enters the attic with the feverish Tiny Gay Chris as Raige continues chatting with poor Kathryn Joosten in the hospital room. "I don't understand!" Thimon rants as Big Gay Chris orbs into the cave. "Something wrong?" Big Chris too-casually wonders. Thimon explains that Chronic took a bullet meant for the Feebs, and that nothing like that has ever happened before in any alternate reality Thimon's created for his victims. Big Chris is all, "Whoa. Back up. You tried to kill one of them already?" Thimon notes that he simply creates worlds based upon individual dethirezth. How those worlds then operate is out of his control. "It's okay," Thimon mumbles as he turns and agitatedly crosses away from Big Chris, "their dethirezth will kill them eventually. That is what you dethire, isn't it?" Big Chris retrieves the vanquish from his pants pocket and palms it, waiting for the right moment to hurl it into Thimon's back. Unfortunately, Thimon conjures up a Darklighter's smoking crossbow and whips around to plant one of the arrows in Big Chris's stomach. Big Chris drops the vanquish and collapses rather fetchingly onto a conveniently placed animal pelt, where he gasps and shudders in anguished torment. Sigh. He's even pretty when he's impaled. Um. That reads a hell of a lot dirtier than it was meant. Just so you know. "I could sense your dethire from the beginning," Thimon sneers. "You never wanted to kill your charges, just teach them a lesson." Thimon grinds the vanquish beneath the toe of his boot as he confirms that the arrow now poking my husband's innards is, indeed, of the Darklighter variety. "The poison shouldn't take long," Thimon adds, "but with luck, you may just live long enough to watch the Charmed Ones learn their lesson after all." That should be a DUN!, but you know what? Desmond Askew wasn't in the opening credits, which means he'll be dead by the end of the hour, so I'm just not feeling the urgency here. Sorry. Big Gay Chris prettily pants his big gay way into the commercial break.
Manor. Piper crosses to the Book of Shadows in the attic, Tiny Gay Chris balanced on one of her hips. The Book's blank. Piper bellows for Big Gay Chris and the Dolt, but of course receives no response. Fashion Fiend Mary and The Too-Tight Blonde wander in, wondering why Piper's screaming for her ex-husband. By the way, "Fashion Fiend Mary And The Too-Tight Blondes" is the name of my drag-influenced queercore garage band. Piper fills them in on the fever situation, and the two guests immediately express grave concerns for Tiny Chris's health. The Too-Tight Blonde even offers to chauffeur Piper to her pediatrician. Piper foolishly insists she can handle it on her own, and bolts.
The bizarre quick-frame montage tells us that all Asian people in Chinatown are Hell-sent vectors of the SARS-like plague currently afflicting Tiny Gay Chris and must be destroyed. Especially those who drive school buses. Then, it shuttles us over to The Only Hospital In San Francisco, where Raige wanders aimlessly through the ER until a scorched and desperate woman latches onto her wrist. The crispy woman claims she and her daughter suffered a demon attack earlier that day. She stowed her daughter away somewhere safe, and now needs Raige to rescue the kid before the big bad demons find and fry "Susie," too. Raige, despite believing she's "landed in the Twilight Zone," caves and asks for directions. When we see her, she's orbing into an alleyway that is neither dank nor forbidding. This one's sunlit, and while it is clogged with demons and debris, the overall ambiance is still a little too inviting for my taste. One of the demons hurls a Flaming Ball Of Death at a fleeing civilian. Raige calls for the thing with her orbing telekinesis and redirects it into the demon's chest. The demon promptly goes up like a torch and disappears. Raige darts into what must be a bar and heads down to the darkened basement, which is filled with stacked kegs. It's also the same set they use for the Manor's basement, as is immediately made apparent by both the staircase itself and the line of yellow tape they left on the floor from the beginning of that episode with the dragon. Idiots. Raige stumbles upon another demon and sporks him with a length of pipe. It takes a little while, but he, too, soon howls and wails and blazes merrily down to Hell. Raige coaxes Susie from her hiding place, and the two head upstairs.
Raige warily edges through the door into the alley, only to be greeted by applauding and grateful mortals who emerge from various hiding places. "This can't be real," Raige mutters as two more demons materialize before her. Raige shoves the mute brat she'd been shepherding back into the gunky bar and, by orbing out, dodges the double FBODs the new arrivals hurl at her head. Raige orbs back in between the two demons and smirks, "Looking for me?" The new demons immediately fling another couple of FBODs at her, but Raige orbs out in place, so the brain-dead demonic simps end up vanquishing each other. Raige no sooner orbs back in than another FBOD comes flying her way, so she dives behind a Dumpster. "What the hell is going on?" she seethes.
Flash to Phoebe and Chronic, who's looking considerably worse for the wear, and I, for one, could not be happier with this turn of events. Pity he's not real. Chronic's propped against a low concrete wall, with Phoebe arranged rather photogenically at his side. She bellows uselessly for the Dolt, then again tries to convince Chronic that they've been flung into some sort of alternate reality. Phoebe also realizes, through her still stoopid yet mercifully silent new power, that the fake world in which they've found themselves is partly of Chronic's making. Chronic, pale and sweating profusely, still finds the strength to snark, "If I die, promise me you'll see a [shrink]." Phoebe smiles fondly and vows to get Chronic out of there alive. The camera tracks back from the two to…
…emerge through Thimon's cistern. "An empath?" Thimon screeches incredulously as Phoebe's vignette makes room for first Piper's, then Raige's. Raige, incidentally, is as we last saw her, but Piper's now behind the wheel of the Grand Cherokee, presumably speeding towards The Only Hospital In San Francisco. "You didn't tell me the middle sister was an empath!" Thimon rages, stomping over to Big Gay Chris. Big Chris lifts his head from his conveniently placed animal pelt all, "Whoops!" Thimon babbles about Chronic interfering in his grand plan before launching into a tedious monologue about dethire "crumbling" worlds because dethire is inherently "empty," like, shut up and die already. Nobody tuned in tonight to gain insight into your worldview, tool. Over in Phoebe's watery vignette, Chronic asks for something to drink. As Phoebe rises to her feet, Big Gay Chris weakly waves his hand in the air, and Phoebe's vignette collides with Raige's upon the cistern's surface, transferring Phoebe from her own world into that inhabited by her sister. I'd take a moment to wonder exactly how powerful my dear, impaled husband is if he could, even in his weakened state, override Thimon's massive madcap mojo with just a teensy bit of his own, but I've got a deadline to meet. Some will consider this display as further proof Big Gay Chris really is The Done One, and others will chalk it up to Big Chris's soon-to-be-revealed demonic nature. As for me, I don't give a rat's ass one way or the other anymore. Just keep the pretty, pretty boy on the show, because these other assholes are boring me to tears.
Anyhoo, where was I? Oh, yeah: Thimon, livid, boots Big Gay Chris in the head, but it's too late. We cut back to the cistern, where Phoebe glances cautiously around Raige's alleyway and calls out, "[Chronic]?" The taller of a pair of fresh demons wings a Flaming Ball Of Death at Phoebe's head. Heh. Even in Raige's alternate reality, people want Phoebe dead. Raige darts out from behind the Dumpster to pull Phoebe out of harm's way, and the FBOD scorches a corrugated metal barrier at the far end of the alley. The gals swap tales of woe and quickly realize what's really going on, though Phoebe of course has no idea how she ended up in Raige's world. Raige mopes that she's certain they'll need Piper to sort things out, just as the two fresh demons whip FBOD after FBOD against the Dumpster. Finally, Tall Demon conjures one last FBOD and leaps over to sizzle some Glamorous Lady ass. The gals, however, have disappeared. As the two fresh demons skulk down the alleyway, Raige orbs back into the Dumpster with the Feebs. Why didn't she orb back to The Only Hospital In San Francisco? Beats the shit out of me. Maybe Brad Kern likes to see women buried up to their necks in garbage. Be honest: That wouldn't surprise you, would it?
Thimon darts his eyes over to Piper's vignette, which gradually fills the screen. The Grand Cherokee flies down a street, with the feverish Tiny Gay Chris turning purple in the back seat from the screaming and such. Piper diverts her attention from the road for a moment to make cooing noises at him, and ends up running a stop sign. A pick-up hurtles into the intersection to broadside the Grand Cherokee straight into the final commercial break.
Once we return, the camera tracks back from Tiny Gay Chris's shrieking head to linger on the two demonic alternate-reality vignettes shimmering side-by-side in the water, before it dives back into Raige's world. While an entire brigade of drearily attired wickedness hurls FBODs at the Dumpster, Raige proposes Phoebe use Thimon "as a conduit" to find Piper. Phoebe does so, quickly sensing through Thimon Piper's present mood of terror mixed with desperate isolation. So, all of you complaining about Phoebe channeling Piper's emotions in spite of last week's empath-blocking potion? Pick another of the four hundred and fifty-two plot holes, continuity errors, logic gaps, and bits of contrivance that remain in tonight's episode, and run with that instead.
Back in The Lair Of The Limey, Thimon rants that Big Gay Chris has ruined everything! Now Phoebe and Raige will find Piper, and together, the three of them will kill him! Unless, Thimon muses while drawing a nine-inch dagger from his coat, Thimon gets to Piper first. Big Chris is completely beyond caring at this point and so, frankly, am I, so could you move it along, please? Thimon dematerializes into a swirling funnel cloud of smoke that plunges into Piper's vignette. When he rematerializes on the sidewalk across from the ruined Grand Cherokee, we can see that the pick-up's engine is ablaze. Thimon stalks towards Piper with a grin on his face as she finishes retrieving Tiny Gay Chris from the back seat, and I'm not going to bother wondering why neither of them appears to be injured after that crash, despite the truck clearly slamming right into Tiny Chris's car seat. Whatever! Piper hoists Tiny Chris onto a hip and sneers, "You're not demon enough to kill me." Thimon says something incredibly stupid just as his Glimmering Wave Of Madcap Demonic Mojo shimmies through the scene, conveniently depositing Phoebe and Raige in the crosswalk. Phoebe immediately launches into a spin-kick, and oh, dear. This stunt sequence is pathetic. A double they didn't even bother to wig correctly takes the fall for Desmond Askew, while a man in a copy of Phoebe's business attire rises to his no-doubt-painfully-shod feet above the purported Askew-alike. Seriously, if you freeze the tape at the right moment, you'll see the stuntman's bicycle shorts poking out beneath Phoebe's skirt. Raige dashes over to Piper's side and summons Thimon's dagger with her orbing telekinesis. Of course, nothing happens, but at least she tried. "Phoebe" tosses "Thimon" up against the ruined Grand Cherokee, then spins to plant a stiletto heel in the still-gaping gouge in "Thimon's" shoulder. Phoebe spots the Grand Cherokee's burst tank spilling gasoline all over the street, and orders the others to run before taking off down the street herself. Thimon obliviously rises to his feet in the middle of that rapidly expanding puddle of gas to make with the usual bad-guy threats as the shot shifts to the Ps plus Tiny Chris racing towards the camera, and that's got to be the worst green-screen effect I've ever seen on this show. The actors are clearly being filmed beneath incandescent stage lamps, while the flaming vehicles and trees in the intersection behind them bask in natural sunlight. After far too many seconds of this, the gasoline ignites into a fireball that instantly consumes Thimon before barreling after the Glamorous Ladies. Just before it torches their fleeing backs, however, the gals plus Tiny Chris erupt into a spray of twinkly lights that blasts towards the camera as the shot cuts over to…
…The Lair Of The Limey. The twinkly spray leaps from the cistern to reform as Our Intrepid Heroines, who continue galloping for a couple of paces before realizing where they are. Phoebe phrets about Chronic until Raige assures her that alternate-reality Chronic was as much an artificial construct of Phoebe's dimension as alternate-reality Kathryn Joosten was in Raige's own. That makes sense in my head, so let's keep moving, okay? The gals spot my prettily impaled husband on his conveniently placed animal pelt, and bellow for the Dolt. The Dolt orbs in with various demands, but Piper shuts him down with, "Heal now, questions later." The Dolt applies the tingly touch first to Tiny Gay Chris, then to his Big Gay Counterpart. As Big Chris's wound glows, the tingly touch flares out and morphs into the sun setting behind the Golden Gate Bridge. Nice transition, guys. Of course, it's an incredibly obvious one, so I suppose my surprise stems from the fact that you haven't beaten it to death in at least forty of the episodes.
Manor. Up in The Hearst Commemorative Child-Care Nook, Piper tucks Tiny Chris in before heading out to the boudoir proper for her Weekly Summation with the Dolt. The Dolt opens by bitching about Big Chris, but Piper orders him to can it. If nothing else, she argues, Big Chris earned what should be the Dolt's gratitude for helping her escape Thimon's evil alternate reality. This segues rather awkwardly into a discussion of Piper's ruined afternoon social with the girls, but Piper mildly assures her ex-husband that there will be other opportunities for her to ogle half-naked, rhythm-free gay men. "You never give up, do you?" The Dolt smiles. "Not a chance," she replies. "I firmly believe there will be one day without demons, magic, or pocket realms." The Dolt begins to take his leave, but Piper asks if he could heal her kitchen-injured hand while he's there. The Dolt does so, after a bit of tedious banter involving that N-word I never want to hear again as long as I live.
As the tingly touch takes hold, Big Gay Chris knocks on the doorjamb behind his parents. He confirms that he's more or less recovered from his near-fatal encounter with the smoky Darklighter arrow of doom, before informing the Dolt that he's ready for his Whitelighterland tribunal. The Dolt hesitates for a moment, then announces he's changed his mind about the whole thing, even going so far as to return the purloined Valkyrie pendant to Big Chris. Big Chris splutters in confusion, but the Dolt just sighs, "Take it before I change my mind." The Dolt toddles off as Big Chris approaches his mother with a shy smile on his face. "Thanks for trying to warn us about the demon," Piper offers. "We should have listened to you in the first place." "As long as you learned something at the end of the day," Big Chris shrugs, "that's all that matters, right?" Piper -- either knowing but not caring that Big Chris set the whole thing up, or simply amused by his audacity -- grins. With a light shade of mockery coloring her tone, she agrees with him: "Right."
All The News That's Fit To Fuck Me. Phoebe raps on Chronic's window, then wraps herself around him once she discovers that he's okay. Chronic greets this display of affection by offering her a syndicated talk show. Phoebe declines and, sitting on his lap, insists she already has everything she wants out of life. "You've got me, [Chronic]," she admits, "so no more wooing." "'No more wooing'?" he parrots. "I guess I'll cancel our helicopter to Carmel for dinner." Phoebe quickly agrees to "a little more wooing," and plants a sloppy wet one on his lips as we fade to black.
week: I have no idea, actually, because the promo made absolutely no sense. If it helps, Raige somehow ends up in a slave auction that's sure to piss off Jesse Jackson. Enjoy!