Back near the parking lot, Phoebe rocks a temporarily placated Tiny Gay Chris as Piper and the Dolt hustle over with Piper's upper body swimming in the Dolt's oversized suitcoat. "Wedding over already?" Phoebe wonders. Piper wordlessly opens the jacket to reveal four crappy arm-like digital inserts wiggling around her waist. This effect sucks some serious ass. The skin tones are off, the lighting angles are off, the proportions are off -- it's just...wrong. "Oh, my God!" Phoebe bleats. Piper rolls her eyes and darts off into the commercial break with the Dolt at her many-armed side.
Manor sun porch. Aghast and all but mute, Phoebe and Raige's Moustache stand gawping as Piper's many arms simultaneously feed Tiny Gay Chris a bottle, tuck Tiny Chris's blanket in a bit, stir up some gruel for the dead-eyed Psycho, and futz with toys on the table. Oh, and did I mention that Piper's changed into that white satin sari-esque shift with purple sash that she apparently just had hanging in her closet? I didn't? Excellent. Kill me. No, really, you can kill me for that omission right now, because I can't take any more of this bullshit, and we haven't even hit Nick fucking Lachey yet. The Dolt bumbles in behind the agog Ps, clad in Eilish's version of traditional Indian attire, so you can immediately understand how good it looks without a lengthy description of its various attributes, right? I will note that it's very beige, which is of course doing the Dolt no favors at all. Hee. The Dolt blithers something about how beautiful Piper looks before bolting to her side. One of her hands reaches around to latch onto his massive ass, but the problem is, the shot's so poorly filmed and awkwardly cut, I thought she was squeezing one of those rolls of fat protruding from his stomach. Raige's moustache mouths something stupid about the ass-squeezing as the phone rings. Phoebe orders Raige's Moustache Bookwards for a little abuse as she herself retrieves the cordless from one of Piper's many crappy arm-like digital inserts. It's Elise, calling with the simply dizzying news that she's already found Phoebe's replacement. Heh. I'd bet Elise has had replacements lined up ever since the skanky Feebs started boning her coworkers in the office during business hours. That is, I would have bet that were it not for the presence of this particular replacement. Over Phoebe's protestations of prior commitments, or whatever, Elise orders her into the office within the hour to meet "Leslie" and snaps shut her cell. "She can hardly wait to meet you!" Elise enthuses as the camera pans over to reveal boyband fucktard Nick Lachey, long ago of 98 Degrees, recently of Newlyweds, and currently, thanks to those marketing geniuses at the WB, of this Godawful motherfucking show. I want to die. But first, I want to PUNCH Nick fucking Lachey in the FACE.