I want nothing to do with this episode. Nor, apparently, do the inanimate objects that surround me. Tonight's episode is so hatefully bad, my laptop froze up twice in protest as I attempted to begin this recap. Then, the light bulb in my desk lamp committed suicide. I fully expect my VCR to spontaneously combust before we hit the opening credits.
Fade up on the exterior of P3. The walkway beneath the awning contains a mere two dot-bomb yuppies, and they're headed out towards the parking lot. They are, however, an interracial couple, so the number of minorities we've seen on this show just shot up to, say, eight. Were it not for Piper's remark last week regarding the club's declining receipts, I'd simply assume it was last call at the bar. Or, you know, a Tuesday night. Because why would that otherwise thronged walkway be empty? Aside from the fact that Piper's club sucks, of course. Okay, whatever. I'm stalling to avoid entering the episode proper, and in doing so I'm only prolonging the agony. Let's get to it.
Down at the bar, a waitress places an appletini in front of a whore negotiating her rates for the evening with Liam Gallagher. Sorry. My bad. It's Phoebe, and she's actually on a date with a gentleman she met online. A gentleman who appears to be at least ten years her junior. Cradle-robbing tramp. After some awkward first-date chatter, Phoebe yanks a pad of paper and a pen from her handbag to grill Liam on his online dating experiences. She's actually writing an article about Internet matchmaking for The Bay Mirror, you see, which is the only reason she agreed to meet Liam in the first place. Phoebe's not one for hooking up over the Internet -- it's too impersonal. Besides, she'd rather hook on the street like a normal person. And with that, I promise not to crack anymore whore jokes. Noting Liam's slight frown, Phoebe asks, "You mad?" Liam takes a moment, then smiles shyly and admits, "No. I still have high hopes for this evening." Really? In that case, I hope you have plenty of cash in your wallet, because Miss Phoebe doesn't take checks. Whoops! Sorry! Liam reaches across the table to take Phoebe's hand in his, but as soon as his fingers brush up against her skin, Phoebe's flung into a premonition. A premonition we don't see, mind you, but after four and a half years of watching her shriek and gasp and tense every muscle in her body while squeezing her eyes shut and shuddering, we all know what's going on. Yes, I realize I just described an orgasm, and yes, the idea of Phoebe in the throes of passion flies in the face of all that is right and holy, and yes, I want to die. Shut up before my laptop chokes again.