Just then, a faint, infantile whine echoes through the room. Of course, Raige can't hear it. The two puzzle over Piper's apparent auditory hallucinations before an infinitely louder infantile whine emanates from the basement below. "How long do you think she's gonna spend down there?" Raige snorts. "The rest of her natural life?" If only, Raige. If. Only. "Long enough to ensure she doesn't shove her tongue down the throat of the next delivery guy," Piper sighs, hoisting the breakfast tray she'd been preparing and sailing over to the downstairs door. You know what's really vile about that line? It's not, as has been pointed out on the boards, that Phoebe's so sorely lacking in the pre-frontal-lobe department that she acts on every emotion she feels. It's that I'm supposed to believe every goddamn man in San Francisco wants to jump her bony ass. Drop dead, Kern.
Piper and Raige descend the rickety stairs to deliver Phoebe's breakfast. There's some tedious chatter about Phoebe's uncontrollable new power -- which is why Feebs set up a home office in the basement, don't you know -- before Raige notices a band-aid on Phoebe's forehead. "What happened to you?" Raige asks. "I don't remember," Phoebe confesses. "I've been so scattered lately, I must have bumped it." "Lately"? Phoebe then notices that Piper's trimmed the crust from her toast, cut her eggs into teeny bits, and added applesauce and a glass of milk to the tray rather than, presumably, coffee and a pack of Newports. Piper splutters that milk is good for strong bones. Raige is all, "What gives, freak? First with the carousels, then with the phantom infants, and now with the calcium? Get a grip." Piper expertly shuts down any discussion of her bizarre behavior as Phoebe's cell chirps. It's Elise Rothman, Girl Editor calling to order the Feebs into the office, pronto. In fact, she actually says, "You get your butt in here now, or it's your job -- do you hear me?" Phoebe, a bit dazed, hangs up and relates the conversation's details. She hasn't a clue why Elise would be so angry, as she doesn't recall heading into the office the day before. Phoebe steels herself to deal with the outside world, and she and Raige teeter up the rickety steps. By the way, Phoebe's jeans feature a gigantic appliqué butterfly on the ass. Idiot. "Don't forget your coats!" Piper calls after them. "It might rain." "Would you stop mothering us?" Raige snits in horribly overdubbed irritation. Piper blinks.
In an office high above the city, Raige perches at the reception desk, answering line after ringing line with, "Ritzteukolskyandruben, please hold." Her garbled enunciation of the firm's name and her too-chipper manner remind me of both Rosalind Russell in Auntie Mame and that goddamned chirpy fat chick in Office Space. Heh. Raige promptly abandons her post, however, when a glum colleague mopes by with a box of her belongings. "Flo" has been fired for rebuffing the lecherous boss-man's latest advances. Raige wonders why Flo didn't ask for help. Oh, but Flo did, Raige -- yesterday. "Obviously, I don't rank high enough in importance for you to remember," Flo guilts, and adds that as it's now a matter of "[her] word against his," she's screwed. Figuratively speaking, of course. Lecherous Boss-Man, who couldn't look more like Ed Rooney if his name were Jeffrey Jones, appears to hurry Flo along. Lecherous Ed then smarms something about Raige's "pretty ass" before sliming away. Raige gets huffy.