Anywho, Raige, having finally wrestled Tiny Gay Chris out of his befouled diaper, wrinkles her nose and sends the thing into a nearby trashcan with her orbing telekinesis, eliciting a howl of protest from Piper over that whole stupid using-magic-for-personal-gain thing. Fine, Piper, Raige is a lazy sow for not taking two steps over to dump the thing into the bin herself, but then again, it's just a fucking diaper. Have a cocktail already and get over it. And you can get over yourself while you're at it, too. But I'm getting agitated for no good reason, as that exchange simply serves as an awkward segue into an even more awkward bout of expository dialogue involving Phoebe's long-lost powers, Raige's supposed cabin fever, and Piper's newfound agoraphobia. The powers and cabin fever don't interest me in the slightest. The agoraphobia is quite boring in its own right, but as it relates to the death of my very late, very lamented, and very pretty husband, I'll pay attention to it. For now. Raige notes that lately, she hasn't been able to get out of the house as often as she'd like before clumsily adding, "It wouldn't hurt you to get out a little bit, too. I mean, you've been cooped up in here ever since..." Raige trails off as Holly Marie Combs, in a bit of toxically stupid direction, quickly averts her gaze to examine quite closely the bland set of kitchen magnets decorating refrigerator door. That bit of business would have made a certain anvilicious sense if a photo of Big Gay Chris in happier times had been affixed to the appliance. However, you have to remember how cheap the fucking bastards are who produce this shit. If they'd scattered pictures of Big Chris around the Manor, they'd have to pay Drew Fuller for the use of his image, and we can't be having that sort of drain on the budget, especially when some boyband fucktard I just want to PUNCH in the FACE is now on the payroll for six episodes. In any event, Raige urges Piper to open up about the events of the finale, but Piper goes all Cleopatra on Raige's meddling ass, what with the "Chris is FINE, do you hear me? FINE!" type of denial that's sure to swing around and bite her in the asp before the evening is over. Actually, her ex-husband's asp, but I'm getting ahead of myself. And making supremely bad "jokes" while I'm doing it. God, this is awful.