Raige groans and gingerly rolls onto her side. The Flaming Ball Of Smacking Hapless Raige To The Carpet gouged a bloody gash just below her right shoulder, and has left a bit of her white strappy top charred and smoking. A casually dressed middle-aged gentleman races down the stairs, calling, "Mother?" "I'm okay," Granny Healy assures her son. "The sons of bitches missed me!" Heh. Foul-mouthed old ladies are funny, especially when they're wearing expensive pearls and a twin set. When they're toothless and filthy and living out of a box under the El tracks? Not as amusing. Raige squints her eyes and groans, "So much for normal," as we smack into the opening credits.
You know what I adore about the opening credits? In all of Holly's shots, she's got this expression on her face that practically shouts, "I can't believe the shit I put up with for a fucking paycheck." God love her.
The opening travelogue is endless, mainly because everybody and their mom are guest-starring tonight. Including, apparently, a shark. However, the travelogue does feature many lovely shots of fog rolling in towards the city from the ocean, so its length doesn't bother me as much as it might otherwise. Oh, and tonight's Travelogue Ovary just happens to be wailing the episode-appropriate "Stop haunting me -- it should be easy, as easy as when you stop wanting me." Good Lord. We're six minutes into the hour, and nothing's pissed me off yet. Something horrid's just around the corner. I can feel it.
AAAUUUAUUAUUUAGH! Shut UP, Phoebe! Over at the Manor, Moron McDipshitty herself levitates six feet above the main hallway, eyes closed and legs crossed, chanting, "Ommm." For some reason, there's a pillow snugly affixed to her bottom, like, hello? You're floating in the air. What's with the fucking pillow, asshole? And how is it not falling to the floor? She stapled it to her bony ass, didn't she? That's it. She stapled the fucking pillow to her bony fucking ass. Hag. Dimwit hag asshole. ANY-way, Piper, drudge that she is, bustles about beneath her rude -- rude! -- sister, vacuuming the rug. Phoebe stops chanting, grimaces, and then has the utter gall to bitch, "Piper, do you mind? I'm trying to meditate up here." Oh! My! God! Float your levitating hag ass up to your fucking boudoir if you want some privacy, you ungrateful fucking shrew! ACK! I HATE her. Piper, rather than beating the Feebs like a piñata with the upright, simply wonders why Phoebe can't "block out the noise," and oh, boy. Here it comes. Phoebe claims she has no problem with the vacuum. Nope. What's setting Feebs's dykey haircut on end are Piper's "nerves," which Phoebe is presently channeling. Intrusive bitch. Piper rolls her eyes and growls, "It's my first date, not yours." Oh, so we're going there tonight, too, are we? Joy. Not. Phoebe whines, "But it feels like my first date." "Can't you control it?" Piper snaps, and thank God she's finally calling the Feebs on this empath bullshit. Phoebe insists that she's trying, but you can tell Piper's not buying it. Go on and whack her, Piper. We both know she deserves it.