"Charmed Firestarters"? Okay. So, clearly, the WB Promo Man is allowing his recreational drug use to interfere with his professional responsibilities and requires an intervention, followed by several months in a tastefully-appointed rehab facility, but to be honest with you, I don't much care. Why? Because tonight I get to see Ken Marino die. Several times. In slow motion. Score!
We fade up on a suspiciously lush Manor porch. Seriously: The roof groans under a load of blossoming wisteria, the support columns are entwined with lilac and flowering ivy, and there are pots and pots of blooms lining the walk. In San Francisco. In November. Pleasing to the eye, certainly, but six months out of step with Mother Nature. Amid this riot of anachronous horticulture, Phoebe and Gonzo Marino make with the tiresome post-date banter. Phoebe smirks that all "good dates" end on the front porch. Gonzo flirtatiously wonders where the "great dates" wind up. Phoebe bats a pair of bedroom eyes at The Chinless Wonder and promises to answer his question "in a second" as she leans in for a kiss. Just as I raise the cherry end of my cigarette to my eye, Piper interrupts the macking with a bellowing off-screen "Heads UP! Pregnant lady with groceries!" Piper brusquely wedges the two sick-making lovebirds apart with her body and enters the Manor. Piper's pantywaist of a husband trails behind her with a few shopping bags of his own. Some wise-ass in the props department made sure to include a box of Lucky Charms in one of Brian Krause's bags, by the way. "What's wrong with Piper?" Phoebe asks of the Dolt, who mumbles something nonsensical about paper versus plastic by way of response. He eases himself into the front hall and slams the door behind him. Phoebe fiddles with her purse strap and grimaces at The Chinless Wonder.
Indoors, the Dolt rather curtly wonders what crawled up Piper's ass and exploded this evening. To my immense relief, the wife blames not her icky pregnant-lady hormones, but rather Phoebe rebounding from her shattered marriage with a wholly inappropriate dork of a swain like Gonzo. As the two bear their respective loads down the hallway, Piper ticks off what she deems to be Gonzo's worst qualities: The Chinless Wonder is recently divorced, bathes in cologne, and toils as a computer programmer. That's it? What about the googly eyes, the beaky nose, the non-existent jawline, the Satanic knack for choosing horrible television projects like Men Behaving Badly, First Years, Leap Of Faith, and Dawson's Creek, and the fact that anyone who willingly chases after a shrewish, self-centered, irresponsible, brainless, wasted, bony-ass hag like the Feebs should be taken out and shot? What about all that, Piper? Huh? Piper, content with her paltry list of three perceived shortcomings, ignores me to blather on about how Phoebe and Gonzo are quite simply incompatible, and that if Phoebe doesn't watch herself, she's going to get hurt. "We should just vanquish him," snarks the Dolt. Oh, look at the Dolt, making with the cutting remarks! Thanks for the offer, honey, but The Angel Of Death has that covered for the evening, you useless, dimwitted sweetheart, you.