Bimbo Boudoir. Phoebe and Gonzo barrel through the doorway and start ripping off their clothes. What the hell? I thought Phoebe was wearing a knee-length white coat, but apparently, it's some sort of blouse, because off it goes and out pop the Fun Bags. Bra-encased Fun Bags, to be sure, but Fun Bags nevertheless. You're probably wondering why I'm not scraping out my own eyes with a spoon as Phoebe body-checks The Chinless Wonder onto the bed and shoves her tongue down his throat. It's because I don't want to miss the delightful premonition that now smacks Phoebe in the teeth. A shiny-headed officer of the law leaps from his prowler with pistol drawn and shouts, "Get down on the ground!" Gonzo gawps at the cop on his right, then gawps at the gun-toting hip-hopping gangbanger on his left. The gun-toting hip-hop gangbanger instantly becomes my new TV boyfriend when he plugs The Chinless Wonder twice in the chest. Marry me, Gun-Toting Hip-Hopping Gangbanger! The Chinless Wonder drops to the asphalt, a thin trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth as his googly eyes glaze over. Pause. Rewind. Play. Pause. Rewind. Play. Pause. Rewind. Slow-forward. This episode's already a keeper. Phoebe snaps out of it as The Strings Of Impending Guest-Star Doom thrum on the soundtrack. "Where'd you go?" Gonzo asks, rather sensitively for one so loathed. "Are you okay?" Phoebe gasps and pants and plows face-first into the opening credits.
The Goo Goo Dolls are tonight's guest testicles for the opening travelogue, which features some very nice new footage of San Francisco. The camera rears up over a hill on the Marin Peninsula to land on the Golden Gate Bridge with the city in the distance, then cuts to a gorgeous tracking shot along the Bay Bridge with the Ferry Building low in the background before cutting again to an aerial pan towards Telegraph Hill as the morning fog withdraws from the city's skyscrapers. I'm sure this new footage will irritate me to no end when they immediately recycle it for next week's episode, but for now I'm enjoying it. Over on Prescott Street, the Manor's actual front porch, unfortunately, in no way resembles its soundstage counterpart from the top of the hour. Considerably fewer flowers, people. Unless the heaving boughs of lilac and wisteria shriveled up and died overnight and were carted away by a magical brigade of mulching pixies, the continuity editor screwed up. Again. Up on the sun porch, the gluttonous Dolt helps himself to an overflowing plate of breakfast treats at the wrought-iron table as Piper asks Raige, "So how come we never met your couch buddy before?" Raige, in wry good humor because she got some the previous evening, smirks that her slampiece is more than a couch buddy. "His name is Max," Raige smiles, grabbing a cup of coffee, "and I think he might actually have some potential." I'll be the judge of that, missy. And, yes, my ears perked up when she mentioned his name. The Dolt asks his sister-in-law to "define potential." Raige, reveling in the attention, offers, "He is wickedly smart, perversely funny, and has just the right touch of weird style for me." Hmm. Either Rose McGowan is making some sort of meta-comment regarding Marilyn Manson's baffling personal appeal, or Daniel Cerone is tossing yours truly a tremendous, albeit sly, shout-out.