Crap. Cuoco lives. And shut up, Brian Krause's Hair.
The camera fades up on the Manor faĂ§ade. Deep within the center parlor, Piper paces in front of the sun porch's doorway as she shrieks, "Okay, people, we gotta get a grip, here, otherwise what are we doing? We might as well just go back to fighting demons again!" "Even if they think we're dead?" Raige snits from a nearby armchair. "It was a rhetorical question!" Piper stupidly rages, because her IQ has for some reason dropped a hundred points during the summer hiatus. "No," Raige duhs for me, "it wasn't." "I think," the Dolt interjects with his usual amount of uselessness, "the point is we need to take it slow, you know. Be patient." "Tell that to my premonition," hoots Phoebe the selfish hag. "And my stoopid charge," Raige adds, and I suddenly find myself falling in love with Rose McGowan of all people, despite the fact that I happened to pause the tape at the precise moment wherein her manic mugging has transformed her into a seventy-eight-year-old stroke victim. Piper whistles again, and oh, shit. I'd completely forgotten about this part. Well, I forced myself to forget about this part, because it is so mind-bendingly asinine, I'd have ended up in an asylum by lunchtime on Monday had I not put it out of my head. Piper's "going to be late" for the cleansing day of beauty she'd scheduled for herself just because she and Phoebe were watching their third-season Sex And The City DVDs, and you can tell Holly Marie Combs herself detests that aggressively harebrained plot point. Phoebe snatches up the DVDs in question from their exceedingly unlikely yet handy place on the center parlor's coffee table and whines something annoying about Carrie Bradshaw never having to marry guys she didn't know. "Why can't we live our lives like they did?" Phoebe sighs. Oooh! Oooh! I know this one! Because you're not on HBO and you have a writing staff even shittier than theirs was! Am I right? Huh? I am so totally right, aren't I?