Sand Francisco Dreamin'

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Sand Francisco Dreamin'

Many thanks to the lovely and talented Pessimist, whose hellish nocturnal vision of a world gone mad appears in this week's show-page poll for your entertainment. And now, on with the show!

Fade up on Piper and the Dolt, lounging on one of the sitting room sofas. The Dolt's slumped deep in the cushions, one hand resting protectively on Holly Marie Combs's pregnancy pad. Piper, looking lovely in a cunning mint-green satin pyjama set, sweetly smiles down at the Dolt's scary, gigantic gargoyle head. "I think I'm gonna go up to bed," the Dolt eventually announces, grunting as he pushes himself into sitting position. Piper hauls her bloated body forward on the couch and, with a sly, affectionate smirk on her face, coos, "Do you want some company?" Oh, they are so not going where I think they're going, are they? At seven o'clock on a Sunday night? Sinners. The Dolt tosses an almost imperceptible glance at the pregnancy pad and insists that he's "really tired" and "just need[s] to get some sleep." He leans in to kiss her goodnight. Piper, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, makes to smack him with a sloppy wet one on the lips, but the tricky Dolt bypasses her face entirely to shoot some Dolt-tastic baby talk at the percolating infant. He pecks the pregnancy pad through the satin pyjama top and heads upstairs. Piper, thwarted, grunts in frustration. Now, normally, even the slightest hint of Dolt sex would make me propel huge chunks of various distressed internal organs out of my mouth towards the television set. However, I'm so pleasantly surprised at how subtly they've conveyed Piper's predicament thus far that I'm simply sitting here with a sly grin of my own. Besides, horny pregnant ladies on the TV? Are a laff riot. As long as the horny pregnant lady isn't Phoebe, of course.

A light baritone picks this moment to interrupt Piper's celibate snit. "I would be glad to keep you company," the voice smooths from off-screen. Piper's eyes widen as she pivots her unwieldy torso on the sofa. The camera follows her gaze to take in a tall, dark, tousle-haired, tuxedo-clad soap star standing in the front parlor amidst several dozen lit candles. Piper hauls herself off the couch to bleat, "What are you doing here?" "Sweeping you off your feet," the gentleman croons, approaching to take her hand. His name's "Ryder," by the way, and because I am twelve years old, this makes me snicker almost as much as the horny pregnant lady does. I need help. "I can't," Piper protests, gently pushing him away while wordlessly indicating her pregnancy pad. "All I see is you," Ryder -- hee! -- claims, his moist eyes glistening in the candlelight as a stray forelock of hair dances in a mysteriously-appearing breeze. The screen flares a sudden, brief white. When the picture returns, Piper's been relieved of both pregnancy pad and satin pyjamas, and now stands in the center of the room working a wine-red evening gown with dark violet accents. By the way, as the scene's progressed, more and more lit candles have appeared in the background. They now cover every available surface and are marching up the stairs behind Piper. I'm grinning like a slack-jawed, dimwitted fool. "Ryder, please," Piper begs. "I'm married!" "Not in your dreams, you're not," he whispers, burying his face in her neck. Piper's neglected loins burst into flame as the shot cross-fades to...

...Piper, fast asleep up in the Bridal Boudoir. The Dolt's cuddled up behind her, snoring away with an unconscious hand resting protectively on the pregnancy pad. His wedding band gleams in the low light spilling in from the streetlamps outdoors. The shot cuts away to a wide angle of the room, and we see a glowing, shadowy Henry Gibson hovering by the bed. I'd quote one of his poems at this juncture, but unfortunately, I found nothing appropriate to the situation. Hank shifts his focus from Piper to the Dolt, and he sprinkles a handful of CGI glitter onto the Dolt's scary, gigantic gargoyle head. The Dolt wrinkles his nose, and suddenly...

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