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So, there were totally these geeks named Ed and Harry, who seemed like a more toolish version of The Lone Gunmen, and of course you all will know who they are even though I don't, since they were on the show in the past in Texas in some sort of capacity. So our boys unknowingly star in a reality show called "Ghostfacers," and it's pretty hilarious, in an Andrew-from-Buffy--Season-Seven kind of way. Anyway, the geeks do a show about how there's a Leap Year ghost in some house, and it's hysterically derivative of Blair Witch, yet scary enough that it's not stupid. Sammy and Dean end up fake-arresting the geeks, and recognize them, and Dean gets the name "Chisel Chest," which is fricking awesome. Anyway, no one has ever survived a night in this haunted house during a Leap Year, or something, and the bitchery that ensues over this point alone is hilarious. Geeks start to disappear, and with a "supernatural lockdown," things look pretty grim, and while the Winchesters live up to their Hardy Boys reputation, an intern geek seems to die rather graphically, but then appears to survive in the afterlife. Whatever occurs, Dean curses rather clearly. After some geeky homosexuality (not the good kind), Possibly Gay Specter saves the day, and Sam and Dean seem to kind of approve of the Gay, Yay! bullshit. But Sam and Dean totally erase the geeks' hard drive, which means that they won't be broadcasting supernatural gayness. Which is fine, considering our boys didn't even come close to taking their shirts off, right? Want more? The full recap starts right below!
And yet again, before we begin, Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon would like to take a moment of your time to make the following announcement. "Thanks! [Ahem!] Baron von C. is the man for me! Hee! See what I did there?!" Oh, Jesus Christ. "What?!"
Rattle, Rattle BORING! After reminding the strike-deprived audience of this season's supposed call to arms while also briefly detailing the terms of the deal Dashing El Deano made with the delightful Ona Grauer during last year's finale, tonight's THEN! sequence hurls us all back to March of 2006, which is when we first (and last) met Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spangler who, as you'll recall, are not in fact Ernie Hudson and Harold Ramis, but rather two complete and total losers Our Intrepid Heroes quickly dispatched in the general direction of Hollywood with a dead fish in the back seat of the virgins' Gremlin. Got all that? Good, 'cause it's time for everyone to shut the hell up for the...
...Silence, Silence NOW!, which is followed immediately by the...
...RAAAWWWR! "Eeeeeeeeeeeee!" shrieks Raoul, thoroughly discombobulated over the lack of a teaser sequence this evening. "Where did it go?!" Raoul shrieks, rapidly fretful. "Did you bungle the taping of this charming little Thursday-evening divertissement AGAIN!? You did, didn't you?! Oh, you silly man!" Yeah, like you know how to work a VCR your own incompetent self, you dizzy little sissy. "Hey!" Ooops! Sorry! What I meant to say was, "If you'd calm your gracious self for a moment, you'd note that the RAAAWWWR! itself is disintegrating into televisual snow even as I type this, for Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spangler are now controlling the transmission -- it's all part of tonight's conceit, wherein they are the hosts of a spectrally enhanced reality show entitled Ghostfacers, and we are their unwitting audience." "Oh, poop!" Raoul pouts, collapsing back into his overstuffed armchair in a fit of pique. "Do they control the horizontal!?" Yep. "And the vertical?!" Raoul gasps, increasingly unhinged. They do, indeed, my scaly friend. "So, they can roll the image and make it flutter!?" If they so choose, yes. "BASTARDS!" Raoul! Really! You'll give yourself an aneurysm. "Well, I am sorry, I'm sure! But I did not endure that wretched writers' strike just to come back after the subsequent and lengthy rerun- and reality-filled hiatus to find these simpletons so rudely occupying those darling Winchester boys' proper place on the television dial!" Perhaps you should pen a strongly worded letter to Dawn Ostroff. "Who?!" Never mind. Now, are you done with the outrage for the moment? Because I'd like to get back to the recap, if you wouldn't mind. "Oh, by all means! And I do apologize for that shocking outburst of mine, most sincerely!" Don't worry about it, my faithful reptilian companion. "Thanks! I won't!"
So, where the hell was I? Oh, yeah: The RAAAWWWR! completely falls apart to reveal a louche-looking Harry lounging on a mid-70s-vintage wingback armchair, running a fingertip around the rim of a brandy snifter so that low ringing noise those things make when you do that underscores him introducing his tuxedo-clad self to the audience. I think you should know from the outset that Harry's bowtie is not the only thing rainbow-colored about this evening, though in its defense, the bowtie is at least trying to be subtle and tasteful about the whole thing. The camera cuts over to Ed's face for an introduction of his own before shooting out to capture both of them suavely positioned on their matching plaid-upholstered monstrosities, and Ed's sporting a pair of mustard-colored Chucks with his tux, just so you know. Asshole. "If you've received this tape," Ed begins, "you must be some sort of bigwig network executive. Today is your lucky day, mister." And why, pray tell, is that, you sexist asshole? "Because the unsolicited pilot you are about to watch," Harry answers for him, "is the bold new future of 'reality TV.'" Yes, he inserted those airquotes himself. Sexist asshole douchebag. The two idiots continue with the spiel, making cracks about the strike and how the networks don't need "lazy fat-cat" writers around when geniuses like they themselves have so much to offer -- and for so cheap as well, I presume. "Our team faced horrible horrors to bring you the footage that will change your world forever!" Ed claims, now holding a blackened skull beneath his own head for whatever dimwitted cheap sexist asshole douchebag reason as Harry reaches over to a jury-rigged dimmer and drops the lights to an appropriately "spooky" level. "Strap in for the scariest hour in the history of television!" Ed continues in yet another unnecessarily close shot. "Strap in for..." "Ghostfacers!" the two hiss in something approximating unison as a rapidly beating hi-hat heralds the arrival of the show-within-the-show's opening credits.
And those credits are...vaguely amusing, I guess, in the amateurish (or, rather, amateur-esque) way they're supposed to be, but they still look a little too pricey and polished for these nitwits to pull off. Plus, the jumpy quick-cuts feature one of the characters mere seconds before that character's death later in the episode, so, you know: They're tacky dimwitted cheap sexist asshole douchebags. ANY-way, the important bit is that we get names for everybody in tonight's presentation right off the bat, so here they are, in credits order: Ed and Harry, whom we've already met; another white guy with glasses named Spruce, who peers directly into the camera's lens for his shot; an Asian girl named Maggie, who looks like she'd blow away in a stiff breeze; the sloe-eyed, Army-surplus-sporting, and doomed Corbett; a big, screaming stuffed bear's head who doesn't get a name; and, finally, Our Intrepid Heroes. "What?! The boys!? Our boys?! WHERE!?" Raoul shrieks, rousing himself from a brief Coma Of Boredom to flap his exquisitely manicured claws around in the air, and dude: Right in front of you on the TV screen. See? "I do, indeed, and oh, my!" Raoul titters. "That adorable little bow-legged one is being awfully saucy, don't you think?" I assume you refer to the heavily pixillated middle finger he's just now offering to the camera? "I do! Naughty boy!" Oh, Raoul. You're so sheltered. "I am!"
In any event, the faux credits sequence ends with tonight's five guest actors striking appropriately douchey determined positions on and around various pieces of equipment in the driveway of what I'm assuming is one of their parent's houses as the scratched-up GHOSTFACERS logo splashes across the screen. There's a skull in place of the O, by the way, and that's...absolutely everything I have to say about that.
There follows an extended Getting To Know These Tedious Idiots We Will Never See Again sequence that's played for laughs, so I'll be keeping it as brief as I possibly can, shall I? "You shall!" Thanks for the vote in favor, Raoul. "Not a problem at all, I'm sure!" Ed and Harry -- whom I'm already having trouble differentiating and so will likely endow with rude nicknames in the very near future -- fake slow-motion strides towards the camera as they V.O. about their day jobs at Kinko's, and wow. The dark-haired one is packing. If you know what I mean. Guess poor Corbett's not a size queen, then, now is he? "Demian!" Raoul shrieks, appalled. "Spoiler!" Hey, do you want me to get to your gore already or not? "I do!" Then hush up so I can get through this crap, okay? "Okay!" So, the other one -- the one with the evidently tiny dick -- explains that they used to be "two lone wolves" with regard to all of this paranormal investigation shit until they realized two lone wolves "need other wolves," so we bounce past a title card that reads "Phase I: The Homework" to join Dick and Dickless as they head into someone's parents' garage in order to meet the rest of the team. First up is poor, doomed "Alan J. Corbett," who's labeled as "Intern, Cook" in the little identifying card that pops up at the bottom of the screen while he lugs some groceries in from outside. As he pulls some General Foods International Coffees from the bags, he explains he first met Dickless when the latter was posting flyers for a new ghost-hunting club, or whatever, and because poor, doomed Corbett obviously has no taste, what with all the Hazelnut Belgian Café and Dark Mayan Chocolate he just paid good money for, he immediately developed a severe crush on the bespectacled loser and tagged along after him like a tiny gay stray puppy dog. Or something like that. up is "Maggie Zeddmore" -- "Research Team, Adopted" -- who happens to be Dickless's -- wait for it -- adopted sister. She notes that Dickless has been "obsessed with the supernatural" since they were tots, and the instant he met Dick at computer camp, "it was love at first geek." But, you know, not in a gay way, because that's Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett's job this evening. Finally, we get around to "Kenny Spruce" -- "Camera, Licensed Shamanologist, 1/16 Cherokee" -- who tells us, "I am fifteen-sixteenths Jew, one-sixteenth Cherokee," like we couldn't read that last part ourselves. Jackass. He continues, "My grandfather is a mohel, my great-grandfather was a tallis maker, and my great-great grandfather was a degenerate gambler and had a peyote addiction." Stow it, dicksmack. God, I hate this show. By the way, Spruce delivered this interview while working his own day job, cruising through the putting green at the local golf course, collecting balls. Though, again, not in a gay way, because Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett's got that covered, thanks very much.
At very long last, we reach tonight's initial bout of expository blather. The so-called team's target on this mission is The Morton House, which becomes "the most haunted place in America" once every four years, on February 29th. "The Leap-Year Ghost," in fact, is so freaky that no one has ever succeeded in making it past Leap Day's midnight, though many, apparently, have tried. During all of this, Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett's been pulling a Ianto from Torchwood, passing mugs of fresh French Vanilla to Maggie, Dick, and Dickless, the latter of whom takes a sip and murmurs, "Mmm. That's good." Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett shyly explains he purchased that particular variety just for Dickless, and the jumpy, hand-held camera hops from Corbett's bashful smile to Dickless's blank and utterly clueless expression before landing on Dick's mightily furrowed brow before we zip over into...
...a confessional, of sorts, wherein Dick, seated in the Gremlin, insists that he really, really, really, really isn't a homophobic asshole douchebag prick (albeit a homophobic asshole douchebag prick with an enormous package) when he praises Corbett for being a good worker and whatnot, but: "I think he's got the hots for [Dickless], and that could spell trouble for the whole team." DUN! NOT! Shut the fuck up, whatever your fucking name is. Unless, of course, you're jus jelass, in which case...oh, ooops! Sorry! Forgot the impending bit where we learn you got the hots for Dickless's sister, so you can go right ahead and shut the fuck up and drop dead and go to hell and magically resurrect so I can kill you all over again myself, okay? Thanks.
After an unfortunate insert in which Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett praises Dickless's manfully hairy visage, or some such shit, we head back into Exposition Land to learn the 29th is "this Friday" before everything attached to the garage door shudders and collapses onto the concrete, because Mr. Zeddmore or Mr. Spangler or whoever has arrived home and activated the automatic opener. Wah. Wah. Waaaaaaaah!
"Phase II: Infiltration" appears on the screen, and the thing we know, the camera's gone all Cloverfield on the audience's collective ass as the GHOSTFACERS scurry up to the locked chain-link fence that surrounds The Morton House, and I'm sorry, but I found this kind of camerawork to be far beyond annoying way back during the heyday of Blair Witch, so you're going to have to forgive me if I refrain from a play-by-play of the action for most of the rest of this episode, especially because Raoul himself looks like he's about to boot. "[Urp!] It's true!" So, long story short, the assembled idiots (plus Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett) natter at each other about the local cops for a bit until they hear a car approach, at which point they all dive for cover. One of the cameras manages to focus on the intruder, and it is, of course, The Impala, with Sam and Dean coolly appraising The Morton House's façade from the front seat as Grand Funk Railroad blares from the dashboard's speakers. After a moment, Metallicar grumbles off into the night, so Dickless leaps back to his feet to slice through the fence's chain with a pair of bolt cutters, and soon enough, the assembled idiots (plus Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett) are racing across the overgrown lawn to break in through the kitchen door. After a few poorly lit camera sweeps through the main floor, Dickless decides to set up base in what remains of the home's living room, and we speed through a montage of the others setting up overhead cameras on various walls before they regroup, only to break up again for a general reconnaissance mission through the house, which one would think they already achieved by scampering around the place with their fucking stupid night-vision cameras, but what-EVER, because it's time for Phase III, which they are calling "Face Time!" The exclamation point is not mine, by the way. Just so you know. Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett and Dickless are the first team we follow, and Corbett's got a FaceCam of some sort attached to his head that focuses solely upon his own reactions to everything, which I mention only because it comes into horrifying play later in the evening. They bungle around for a bit until a noise leads them to switch to night vision, and the visuals in this wretched episode just got three thousand times more annoying.
Upstairs, meanwhile, Dick's EMF shoots off the scale as the temperature drops eleven degrees. Spruce's camera fritzes out briefly once again before snapping into focus on a dapperly dressed gentleman who looks like he just stepped off the set of Mad Men. "Look, buddy," the apparition begins as the shot flips from Spruce's camera to Maggie's and back again, "I'm sorry -- that's it. I'm telling you it's all the money I have." Barely has the ghost gotten out that last word when the loud report of gunfire echoes through the room, and Don Draper's chest explodes. "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!?" Raoul perks to wonder, as he'd fallen into yet another brief Coma Of Boredom during that last scene. Sorry, Raoul. No gore, because the goddamn fucking camerawork's so fucking jumpy that nothing comes into focus, EVER. "I waited thirteen and a half minutes for nothing?!" I'm afraid so, my scaly friend. "Those BASTARDS!" Raoul rages, quite understandably, if you ask me. "Thanks!" Don't mention it. "I won't!" Oy. In any event, Dead Don buzzes and blinks and flickers out long before his aerated and spectral torso's had a chance to hit the floor, and Dick and Maggie would allow their lower jaws to unhinge down into the METAL TEETH CHOMP!, I'm sure, had The Kripkeeper not jettisoned the blameless METAL TEETH CHOMP! in favor of a tacky GHOSTFACERS logo for this evening's presentation. God, I hate this show.
Back from the break, there's more jumpy, hand-held bullshit downstairs as Sam and Dean invade Dickless's operations base to lay a little exposition on his whiny ass while Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett's left to film the entire exchange in silence with the seven hundred little cameras he's attached to every available part of his body. I think. So not rewinding to make sure, because Raoul's about to hurl again. "[Buuurrrrrap!]" "Oh, my! I do apologize!" Raoul shrieks, patting one perfectly honed paw against his chest. "That was most indelicate of me, I'm sure!" Not a problem. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah: College Boy whips out a sheaf of research he's done on The Morton House, and there have been dozens of disappearances tied to the place over the last half-century, all of them occurring on February 29th, and most of them involving idiot assholes like the GHOSTFACERS here who decided to spend various February 29ths at the place on dares, or whatever. As Dean attempts to herd Dickless and Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett out of there before they become the manse's victims, however, Dick arrives on the main floor with his part of the posse to babble excitedly about what just transpired in the bedroom above. Maggie replays the footage on one of their laptops, and Our Intrepid Heroes quickly step off to the side for a private conversation that's quite conveniently subtitled. "Think we're off on this?" Sam whispers. "That was just a death echo." "Yeah," Dean agrees, "but what's it doing here? Did anybody get shot here?" "Not that I could find," Sam shrugs in the deep shadows at the far end of the room. Spruce, who's apparently endowed with bionic hearing, loudly wonders what a death echo is, and Dean explains before again attempting to herd the assembled asshole idiots (plus Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett) out of the house before midnight hits. Generalized babbling ensues about the equipment they'll be leaving behind and whatnot until Dickless suddenly realizes Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett's gone missing. D'OH!
We immediately join Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett upstairs, where he's inching his way down the hall, pleading for the ghost to speak with him for some asinine reason. Something fritzes out a bit of his equipment, forcing him to switch once more to night vision, and when he finally refocuses the lens on his glowing eyes to smile, "That's better!" something large and Lurch-like's popped up behind his shoulder. DUN!
Downstairs, the squabbling continues until Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett's howls of anguish and terror descend from the second floor. The remaining GHOSTFACERS fly into a mad frenzy and tear up the rickety stairs despite Sam's bleeped-out cries for them to remain in the living room. The shot cuts over to Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett's FaceCam as Lurch drags the hapless lad through some random corridor, and Corbett's screams continue as a title card flashes on screen to let us all know that the clock's just now ticked over to midnight on the 29th. We head back to the remaining GHOSTFACERS -- who've since been joined by Sam and Dean -- just in time for the visuals to collapse into a completely disjointed mess, and they all somehow end up back in the living room, where the douchey asshole idiots fuck around with their laptops while Our Intrepid Heroes realize the entire house has gone into some sort of supernatural lockdown, one in which every possible exit has been sealed off. Everyone gathers near the front door (I think) and Dick grasps at Maggie's hand (I'm pretty sure) just as the electronic equipment starts fritzing out again (I know). The reason this time? Yet another death echo, this of an obviously inebriated fat man who starts staggering around obliviously right in front of their eyes. Dashing El Deano manfully stompy-clomps over to bellow in the specter's face as Sam explains it's possible to startle the echo out of its loop "if you can talk to the part of the ghost that's still human." Unfortunately for Dean, one usually has to "have some sort of connection to the deceased," so all of El Deano's manful stompy-clomps and bellowings are for naught. Just then, a horn goes off nearby, and the bleary sot of an intoxicated spirit lifts his tubby little head right on time to get smeared yet again by the locomotive that killed him all those many years in the past. "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" shrieks an eagle-eyed Raoul as he writhes about upon his overstuffed armchair with delight, for yes, friends, the tubby boozehound first dissolved into a spray of bloody guts before the invisible train whisked his spectral corpse off into oblivion. "HOORAY!" Feeling better? "Much, thanks! Wheeeeee!" Glad one of us is. "I believe you should lighten up, Mr. Grumpypants!" Don't call me that ever again, houseguest.
Anyway, a short time later, the assembled idiots (plus Sam and Dean) wander through one of the floors, wondering what's responsible for the crap they've encountered thus far this evening. Eventually, they find themselves in the den, where the house's last owner -- Freeman Daggett -- left behind various belongings when he died of a heart attack in 1964, including a certificate of commendation for twenty loyal years as a janitor at the local hospital, a raft of C rations and Cold War-era civil defense pamphlets, and a lockbox that includes a text on taxidermy and the toe tags of three people, one of whom died of gunshot wounds and another who was hit by a train. "Ewwwwwwww," Darling Sammy slowly realizes once the implications of the lockbox's contents have settled into that freakish Cro-Magnon skull of his. Hee. Of course, they have to explain to the various douchebag nimrods surrounding them at the moment that the relatively harmless death echoes are trapped in the house because Daggett dragged their corpses home from the hospital's morgue "to play." This elicits a round of Ewwwwwwwws not half as amusing as Darling Sammy's, but no matter, for Dean's about to realize something.
And what he's realizing is that stupid Maggie's broken off from the pack to search for Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett on her own. Moron. She frightens herself with her own reflection in a mirror until Dashing El Deano pops up behind her to chase her back towards the others. Unfortunately, once they arrive, Dick's EMF shoots off the scale again, and there's more fritzing with the already indiscernible visuals while someone pants that something big is coming, which sounds dirty in a totally gay way, but so totally isn't, because that gay crap is Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett's job, and besides, it turns out something big is not coming so much as something big is disappearing. Yep, as the cameras fritz, The Ginormotron vanishes right before our eyes, leaving behind his wee bitty flashlight, which clunks to the floorboards over by the desk he'd been hovering above. DUN! "SAM?!" Mighty El Deano would shout into the METAL TEETH CHOMP!, I'm sure, but unfortunately for all of us, the METAL TEETH CHOMP! vanished from this godforsaken episode long before Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett and The Ginormotron did. Stupid show.
Morton House. Aftermath. Endless hollering of "SAMMY!" and "CORBETT!" is followed by an endless scene in which Maggie turns to Dick for comfort during this, her hour of need, and Spruce quite literally croons "Bamp-chicka-wow-wow" to himself while filming the subsequent macking until Dickless shows up to get all outraged and challenge Dick to a duel for feeling up his adopted sister, or whatever, so Dickless and Dick whip 'em out in an extremely non-gay manner 'cause that gay crap belongs to Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett and Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett alone, thank you very much, and finally -- finally -- Dean stompy-clomps over to chew them out in a totally non-gay way, reminding the idiots that they're down two men already, the implication being that such bullshit infighting will result in nothing more than additional casualties. Got all that? Excellent. 'Cause it's time for some...
"Demian, darling!" Raoul shrieks, each syllable lovingly gift-wrapped with sincere concern. "Whatever is the matter with you?! Did you not just hear the glorious sucking sound that bit of cutlery made as the unnecessarily tall gentleman pulled it from that poor boy's neck!? Delicious!" Oh, I know, I know, my scaly friend. But with those cameras so close in on the action, and with Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett so palpably petrified that he was utterly unable even to scream in his own defense, it all just felt a little too...intimate, if you know what I mean. I prefer my Supernatural violence to be a bit more broadly framed -- spectacularlygruesome, rather than this unnervingly personal gruesomeness we just witnessed. And I should note that infernal Lesley certainly didn't help matters. "You hush your mouth this instant!" Raoul shrieks, chiding and appalled. "Everything's better with that sassy little lesbian, do you hear me? Most especially GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" Okay, I give up. Should I get back to the action? "You should!" All righty, then.
So, Lurch lets go of Poor Little Dead Fey Corbett's hair, and the hapless corpse just slumps forward slightly in his chair, his vacant eyes seeing nothing while those seven hundred goddamned mini-cams keep capturing every last detail, from Darling Sammy's remarkably broad chest heaving with horror and fear right on down to the blood that still trickles down Poor Little Dead Fey Corbett's face. Disturbing! "I do believe you meant to type 'Delightful!'" Shut up, Raoul. "Okay!"
Back upstairs, the assembled idiots (plus Dean) scamper through the den again until Dean puts Daggett's C rations and the civil defense pamphlets together and stumbles across A Remarkable Insight Into Freeman Daggett's Decidedly Psychotic Frame Of Mind.
Down in the party that never ends, Darling Sammy seethes and squirms as Lurch approaches. "Just relax," Daggett whispers, and his Lurch-like body obscures Sam's from the various cameras' points of view for a moment. When Daggett retreats, we see he's adorned Sam's head with a conical party hat, tilted at a festively jaunty angle. Heh. Now utterly humiliated on top of being trussed up and held captive by a psychotic ghost, Darling Sammy pouts. Hee!
Meanwhile, Dean's arrived at the basement door, announcing to all douchebaggy idiot assholes present that Russkie-fearing Daggett likely built a bomb shelter down there, and that's where they're most likely to find their missing compatriots. Unfortunately, only he and Spruce make it onto the basement stairs before Daggett's spectral presence slams and seals the door behind them, leaving the other three alone on the main floor. Dean, thinking fast, shouts through the wood, "There's some salt in my duffel -- make a circle and get inside!" Dick and Dickless think real hard about this instruction for a very long time before Dickless finally guesses, "...inside your duffel bag?" "Inside the SALT, you IDIOT!" Dean roars, and the morons scurry off while Dean -- after rolling his weary, weary eyes around in his head -- leads Spruce down the stairs.
So, upstairs, the remaining douchebag assholes sit cross-legged on the floor within their circle of salt, with one of them mindlessly repeating the stupid GHOSTFACERS theme song to himself until I want to reach through the television screen and throttle him. "VIOLENCE!" Raoul howls in anticipatory glee, because the imaginary gay dragon on the Internet fails to understand that an actual human being in the real world can't really strangle one of the little people in the television set to death. Besides, I can't figure out if it's Dickless singing or Dick, and I might end up throttling the wrong one. "Strangle them both! WANTON ACTS OF UNREPENTANT VIOLENCE AND GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" Yeesh. Okay, backing away from the Raoul, now. Again. Some more.
So, where the hell was I? Oh, that's right: This fucking awful scene. So, Poor Little Dead Fey Corbett shows up again in his death echo, and Dickless -- mindful of Sam's admonition that only those with a connection to the deceased can break the pattern -- finally screws up the courage to step out of the salt circle and talk to the poor dead gay guy. His initial attempt fails, and as Poor Little Dead Fey Corbett continues to choke on his own blood, we...
...hop back down to the basement for a moment to find Darling Sammy blasting another round of rock salt into Daggett's rematerializing chest before we...
...jump back upstairs, where Dick has a plan. A plan so offensively worded that my eyes and fingertips are bleeding at the very idea of transcribing it, so I'm going to paraphrase. Briefly. Long story short, Dick informs Dickless of Corbett's longstanding crush on the latter and, after assuring Dickless he is indeed "brave" enough to do what's necessary to resolve this unpleasant situation, Dick announces, "You gotta go be gay for that poor dead intern! You gotta send him into the light!" I think it was the "brave" bit that sent me into a rage so murderous upon the second viewing of this episode that I blacked out on the sofa and could only be revived with a couple of healthy inhalations from Raoul's trusty vial of smelling salts. "Speak not of it!" Raoul shrieks, attempting to be helpful. "I find it's always best not to dwell on such unpleasantness!" I think I have little choice in the matter, my scaly friend, because this goddamned episode still has six and a half fucking minutes to go, and I'm on a deadline. "Then what are you waiting for?! Chop-chop!" I love it when you're being sensible.
"Electromagnet," Sly El Deano explains as he and Darling Sammy climb aboard the Impala. "Wiped out every tape and hard drive they have." Wait. Can that actually happ...you know what? I DO NOT CARE BECAUSE THERE ARE ONLY TWENTY-THREE SECONDS LEFT IN THIS AWFUL EVIL EPISODE AND THIS SHOW BLOWS AND I WANT TO DIE AND I DO NOT CARE. "Atta girl!" Raoul approves. Thanks, friend of friends. "Don't mention it!" I won't! See what I did there? "I do! Very nice, I'm sure! Hee!"
In any event, Dean fires up Metallicar, and Our Intrepid Heroes speed off into the closing credit card. Wow, that sucked. And not in the good gay...oh, forget it. There's no way in hell I'm going there after what I've just endured.
week: I have no idea, because WGN failed to screen the promo after their much-delayed airing of this episode early last Friday morning. "Oooh, goody!" shrieks Raoul. "It's a mystery! I love mysteries! Kisses, my pretties!"
Demian does not like what you've done with your hair. Raoul, however, thinks you're divine. You may reach the former at demian_twop@yahoo.com. The latter is an imaginary gay dragon on the internet.
"Electromagnet," Sly El Deano explains as he and Darling Sammy climb aboard the Impala. "Wiped out every tape and hard drive they have." Wait. Can that actually happ...you know what? I DO NOT CARE BECAUSE THERE ARE ONLY TWENTY-THREE SECONDS LEFT IN THIS AWFUL EVIL EPISODE AND THIS SHOW BLOWS AND I WANT TO DIE AND I DO NOT CARE. "Atta girl!" Raoul approves. Thanks, friend of friends. "Don't mention it!" I won't! See what I did there? "I do! Very nice, I'm sure! Hee!"
In any event, Dean fires up Metallicar, and Our Intrepid Heroes speed off into the closing credit card. Wow, that sucked. And not in the good gay...oh, forget it. There's no way in hell I'm going there after what I've just endured.
week: I have no idea, because WGN failed to screen the promo after their much-delayed airing of this episode early last Friday morning. "Oooh, goody!" shrieks Raoul. "It's a mystery! I love mysteries! Kisses, my pretties!"
Demian does not like what you've done with your hair. Raoul, however, thinks you're divine. You may reach the former at demian_twop@yahoo.com. The latter is an imaginary gay dragon on the internet.