"Naughty Nymphs"? Fuck you, Kern.
We open on four hippies communing with nature beneath a full moon. Three scantily-clad and giggly females link hands to prance around an open barbecue pit while the male of the species -- a drug-addled wimp disturbingly reminiscent of that pansy leprechaun in Finian's Rainbow -- pretends to blow on a pan flute. Needless to say, he's pretending quite badly. The irksome tootling on the soundtrack in no way synchs up to the addled pansy's frantic lip-puckerings, so when a dark demonic force of indeterminate origin smears into the clearing to torch the pansy's worthless ass with a jet of flame from his hand, all I can do is cheer. The Merry Manson Maidens leap to the side of the moonlit clearing to cower and whine. All three sport gauzy configurations of chiffon in varying shades of green, and each has been burdened with a loathsome, straggly wig crowned by a twee tiara of tiny flowers. The "brunette" on the left and the "redhead" in the middle leave the nattering to the "blonde" on the right, and I must admit, it took me forever to remember where I'd last seen this woman. For one beautiful moment, I even thought Heather Graham had finally descended to her appropriate level on the entertainment industry food chain. Stupid Heather Graham. She single-handedly ruined From Hell for me with her irritating simpering and her lousy Irish "accent." Actually, that's not fair. That whole bullshit forbidden-love-between-the-detective-and-the-whore subplot ruined that movie for me. You've got an elegantly horrific Jack the Ripper gutting these fantastic English character actresses left and right as part of a vast conspiracy to secure the future of the British Empire by covering up a morganatic marriage between one of Queen Victoria's grandsons and a Catholic hooker, and you're wasting my time with Johnny Depp getting all pie-eyed over Heather Freaking Graham? Assholes.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. This shitty episode. Right. Unfortunately, the "blonde" is not Heather Graham. No, she actually once had a leading role in Center Stage as the bulimic ballerina torn between an intense desire to please her nag of a stage mother and an equally intense desire to have artfully-lit sex with Eion Bailey. That was some bad filmmaking, there. In honor of her last prominent role, the "blonde" shall henceforth be known as Bulimia. Speaking for her silent hippie cohorts, Bulimia demands to know who the demon is and what he wants from them. The demon sneers something about the Merry Mansons leading him to "the eternal spring" lest they end up like their "poor satyr." Only he, along with everyone else in this rotten episode, pronounces it "Seder," and while I know both versions are acceptable, you'd think they'd avoid that particular variant during Passover. Every time one of these losers refers to the "satyr," I catch myself waiting for some gangly adolescent in a yarmulke to pop up and ask me the Four Questions. Whatever. The demon threatens with the jets of flame, but the Merry Mansons just scamper off into the underbrush, where they presently vanish. The demon Shatners something about hunting them down and torturing the spring's location out of them if it's the last thing he does as the scene fades to a shot of the San Francisco skyline at night.
In a hotel suite somewhere above the city, Phoebe lugs a Lucite award from a buffet to a low-slung sofa and proceeds to dump the contents of her handbag onto the coffee table. As her handbag contains nothing but tampons, I'm guessing it's been a heavy flow day for the Feebs. Way too much information there, dimwit. Phoebe's squeezed into a tight, black, low-cut, leather-and-lace cocktail dress for this part of the evening's festivities, and from the looks of things, she's even managed to strap herself into appropriate foundation garments as well. And by "things," I mean "The Fun Bags," which have been poked and prodded and taped together and thrust upwards to form an imposing shelf that juts from her chest. Insert your own joke about bloating obviating the need for a Wonderbra. Chronic the Hedgehog ambles on over to exposit he's rented the hotel suite for the entire evening to provide his underlings at The Bay Mirror a place to party in honor of Phoebe's "Columnist Of The Year" award. This episode is so wickedly bad, I'm not even going to comment on the Feebs winning a prize for her piddling little advice column. Chronic's tuxedo jacket has fled the scene to avoid the unpleasantness that follows. His bow tie, however, is rakishly undone and dangling from his neck. As the last of her colleagues exits the suite, Phoebe reveals that she can't find her keys. Chronic gallantly offers her use of the suite for the night. Phoebe flirts. Chronic jumps her. "We shouldn't be doing this!" Phoebe whispers. No shit, skank -- you're bleeding. Pity the chambermaid assigned to that goddamn floor. I mean, can you imagine what she's going to find in the morning? Ew! Because he's a wealthy media tycoon, Chronic couldn't give a rat's ass about the help and just mumbles something into Phoebe's neck before tackling her into the opening credits.