For reasons of which we are well-aware, SunMoonStar is romance and the steppes of Russia and the pants on a Roxy usher and all of the other cunning rhyming couplets from that song.
Fade up on [72virg=ins], wherein Phoebe slides through the crowd of dot-commers on her way to Prue and Piper's table, only to be accosted by a young man whose opening gambit is, "Are your parents terrorists? 'Cause, baby, you're the bomb!" I knew the new name for [qua=ke] would come in handy. Phoebe buhs and bounces off her first suitor into the arms of a second, who smarms, "Ask her if it hurt when she fell from Heaven, 'cause I know an angel when I see one," and these guys have to be whipping out these lines as part of a dare, because I refuse to believe heterosexuals are this toxic and stupid. ["Believe it, my friend." -- Sars] Phoebe blows past the tool brigade to greet Piper and Prue, who apparently have been occupying themselves by watching an obnoxious heterosexual couple making out by the bar "for the last hour." What did I say last week about investing in vibrators, you losers? Yeah, that's right. Do so. Quickly. In keeping with the hastily-established and tedious theme for the evening, a blonde cocktail waitress named "Skye" stops by the table with a glass of chardonnay for Prue. Evidently, some smitten young gentleman across the room would be most honored indeed if Prue would allow him the pleasure of getting her tanked on his dime. Skye points the gentleman out, and I swear to God, in the seconds-long shot of him raising his glass in a toast, I can tell immediately that the guy's an unnatural cross between David Johansen of The New York Dolls and Mark McGrath from Sugar Ray, and that said example of transgenic mutation goes against everything that is holy and good, like, ew. Prue is either as disgusted as I am or simply mindful of the fact she's supposedly dating a cop who could pistol-whip her faithless ass should he learn she accepted a cocktail from a stranger, so she asks Skye to return the drink with her regrets. This, I have found, is not necessarily the best thing to do in the situation. The stranger could get shirty and demand to know if he's not good enough for you, and in such cases it really is easier to accept the cocktail and then sabotage the mindless small talk with your temporary benefactor that's certain to follow for the time it takes you to finish the drink. Follow this with an offer to exchange phone numbers (no, you'll never call, and it's perfectly acceptable to give a false number of your own) while excusing yourself to go look for that "friend" of yours who's never on time, goddammit, and before you know it, you've received a free cocktail with no strings attached. As a matter of fact, if you're as skilled as I am with sabotaging small talk, chances are you'll never even reach the phone-number-plus-lying stage. Then again, I've never dated a cop who could pistol-whip my faithless ass when the mouthy gossip of a bartender tells him I've been whoring for shots. I really have to find a new bar to hang out in. Randy can be such a bitch sometimes.