Charmed
A Call To Arms

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Demian: F | Grade It Now!
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A Call To Many Crappy Arm-Like Digital Inserts Of Discontent

Out near the parking lot, Phoebe violently rocks the stroller to and fro while crooning the infant's name in a vain attempt to quiet the monstrously annoyed Tiny Gay Chris. "'Chris,' huh?" the suddenly appearing Inspector Sheridan snorts as she too-casually ambles over with an uneasy-looking Detective Doormat in tow. "Interesting name," Sheridan adds. "Same as the guy who died in your house a couple of months ago, isn't it?" Now, how the hell does she remember that? We were led to believe that everything that happened in the altered reality remained in the altered reality. Otherwise, how would everyone afterwards explain away their memories of multiple amputations for minor offenses, not to mention all those summary executions over parking spaces? Huh? Fucking show. Gah. "Are you following me?" Phoebe demands. Yes, Phoebe. She's following you and you alone, because no one else exists on this fucking show. Hag. Sheridan confesses she would have approached Phoebe sooner were it not for the Doormat's intervention. He thought the gals needed "some time to mourn [their] loss," you see, which should not have deterred Sheridan at all, given the questions she's about to unleash on the Feebs. Sheridan is evidently still investigating the many, many mysteries of Big Gay Chris, and is actually there to serve Phoebe with a summons to appear at Trudeau Memorial, formerly The Loneliest Precinct House In The World, formerly Andy's House Of Beef, for questioning regarding "what really happened to the other Chris." Questions, she continues, like "how he broke out of jail, how come he doesn't seem to appear in any database, how come you didn't have a funeral for him -- what happened to his body? You know, just stuff like that." You know, hon, "stuff like that" would have automatically triggered an investigation TWO FUCKING MONTHS AGO. WHATEVER! Long story short, the Feebs is expected downtown at four that afternoon, and I'm sorry to spin off on another tangent, but this episode's timelines? Are all fucked up. Forget about all the gauzy summer outfits and outdoor weddings and unnerving tans in the middle of January in San Francisco -- shouldn't it have been four o'clock in the afternoon already? When are they holding this stupid wedding -- at noon on a weekday? And am I really writing this recap FROM THE FUTURE? I'm so damn confused.

Sheridan slinks far enough away for Phoebe to rail at the Doormat for abandoning the Manor Morons in this, their latest hour of need. The Doormat overenunciates that he had little choice in the matter, and Dorian Gregory's acting is as dismal as it's ever been, and I still no longer care about the character, so let's keep this moving. "You're gonna have to choose a side," Phoebe tells him. "That's just the way it works." You mean, like the way you chose the side of evil when you became Queen of the Underworld? Great. This should be fun. Not. The Doormat looks conflicted. Or lobotomized. You decide. The Doormat skulks away as Phoebe tucks the summons into her purse. Phoebe's tapeworm is angry, because he thought she would eat it.

Wedding. Jeevan does that thing with the red stuff and the petals that they did on The Amazing Race a few weeks back as the priest gets to the only part of the ceremony that matters. "As the circle is the symbol of the earth and the sun and the universe," he recites as the couple beams at each other, "I call upon the god and goddess that created all things to bless this sacred union." There's more after that, but it's not important, for a burst of golden glowy Hindu mojo has suddenly streamed down from the sky to form two swirling circles above the tent. "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Piper eyebrows. The Dolt does indeed, but a quick glance around seems to confirm that everyone else in the congregation remains oblivious. Piper gazes up at the mojo in admiring astonishment for a moment until, for some stupid reason, the separate swirling circles make a sudden dive into the two formerly marrieds. Piper and the Dolt flare up briefly, but barely move in their seats. Once he's absorbed his bit of the mojo, the Dolt asks, "You okay?" "Dunno," Piper replies, blinking. "Feeling a little woozy." She retrieves her handbag as the Snickering Sitar Of Impending Six-Handed Hijinks hijacks the soundtrack. Her two real hands undo the clutch as a third hand reaches around her waist to paw through the bag for a handkerchief. The third hand clearly belongs to an extra, and that extra must have some hellaciously long arms, for not only must the poor woman reach around Combs's body, she must also then stretch up to dab at Combs's forehead for a bit as the Dolt goggles and doofs his way through a reaction shot. I hate this show. Then, in a supremely crappy bit of CGI, a fourth arm erupts from Piper's left side, accompanied by some rather revolting sound effects. "Uh oh," dolts the Dolt.

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Charmed

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