Someone To Witch Over Me

Episode Report Card
Demian: D+ | Grade It Now!
Big Chris To Watch Over Me

Previously on Charmed, there was Sparklies. Shudder. There were also Li'l Orphan Brody, some Avatars, and, interestingly enough, Pepper Anderson. She's not in tonight's episode, but there must be a reason they're reminding us of her existence, right?

Sorry. Forgot about which show I was recapping there for a second. Sometimes I crack myself up.

Currently on Charmed, a lovely corner brownstone -- at the intersection of "Polk" and "Gough" in what can only be Not York City, because Polk and Gough Streets in San Francisco run parallel to each other -- is aflame. Roughly seven dozen firemen hose the building down; the camera pans over their truck to take in a horde of gawkers pushed back across the intersection behind a couple of sawhorses before it finally settles upon the Feebs, who impatiently checks her watch as Raige steers around the corner behind her in her little green Volkswagen. Raige pulls over to the curb and hops out to ask, "Has anyone gotten hurt?" "Not as far as I can tell," Phoebe replies, for she cannot see through the television screen into the real world, where I am currently gouging out my eyes. Why? Because Raige is sporting a scoop-necked -- as in, scooped-below-her-navel-necked -- pink fuzzy sweater with complementary rhinestone appliqué piping over a nude-colored satin bodice piece, and Phoebe's slung the Fun Bags into a gold lamé tube top that's sprung a little belly-burying skirt. Where the hell do they find this shit? Anyhoo, Raige next inquires regarding the brawny and thoroughly heterosexual Kerr Smith's whereabouts. Phoebe answers by flapping her arms around and howling, "What are we doing here?" Classy. She looks like an emaciated Third-World chicken. In sparkly scag drag. With implants. Raige babbles that Li'l Orphan Kerr assured her it was a matter of great demonic import, or something, leading Phoebe to sneer, "Yeah? Well, we're not 'Brody's Angels,'" and that has to have been at least the eighth reference to the earlier Aaron Spelling extravaganza that I've seen on this show. Get some new material, guys. Like, yesterday. Please. Raige frowns, for she is as tired of the Charlie's Angels references as I am. Or maybe she's just too stupid to understand the allusion.

Phoebe immediately yammers out a not-terribly-sincere-sounding apology regarding her first week back at All The News That's Fit To Fuck Me after her ill-considered sabbatical and the accompanying stress she feels as a result and blah blah blah blah cry me a river, you self-serving harpy, just as Kerr Smith and his jeans and the little FBI badge attached to the belt loop of those jeans and the nearly obscene bulge contained by those jeans amble up behind the two women to bark, "Follow me." "Keep an eye on the third floor," he adds, brushing past them without breaking his stride as the camera cuts back to a low angle of the flaming building to underscore the fact that all of the windows on said third floor have been blown out. "Why?" Phoebe blurts, trailing along after the bulging heterosexual. "Somebody's trapped inside, and if I'm right, he's gonna jump, and he's not gonna get hurt," Li'l Bulging Brody speed-talks as Raige stares slack-jawed at the scene. "How do you know?" she wonders. "Just a hunch," is the stolidly Kerrt reply. Well, no, it's not "just a hunch," dear. It's a theory based on three previous incidents of a remarkably similar nature, but we'll go with your term for it for now, because everyone knows words of more than two syllables are only to be used by the barbarous sodomites. Phoebe snips something in that pissy tone of voice she reserves to address, oh, every guy Raige has ever dated on this show, because Phoebe is an ungodly beeyotch. Phoebe continues with even more obnoxious commentary as shouting erupts across the street to cut her short before I reach into the television set to wring her anorexic fucking neck.

Over at the burning brownstone, a figure has appeared in the third floor's large corner window, clinging to a decorative pillar as it eases itself out onto the ledge. The imperiled gentleman hollers for the firemen to swing the ladder in his direction as Phoebe and Raige gaze dumbly at the "drama" unfolding far above their heads. Just then, a fireball billows out through the shattered window to the imperiled gent's left, sending him reeling backwards on the ledge as the shot shifts into slow-motion to capture the impending stuntwork in all of its glory. It's actually pretty cool, really -- the guy twists around and sails off the edge of the ledge, hurtling towards the fire escape's upraised auxiliary ladder. Hushed, unearthly whisperings exactly like those in all of the angel-heavy scenes in Wings Of Desire hit the soundtrack the moment before the imperiled gent's hands connect with a couple of the ladder's rungs, with the sudden addition of his weight quickly dragging the ladder itself down to the sidewalk. The formerly imperiled gent's feet slam onto the concrete, and he whips his head around, mouth agape, as he realizes what just happened. Phoebe and Raige are freaked. Kerr Smith furrows his brow, winces, and scratches his incredulous forehead as a couple of firemen race to the formerly imperiled gent's aid. "Oooo-kay," Raige eventually breathes. "How did you know that?" "Because that's the fourth person that's happened to in the last month," Kerr replies, and see what I was talking about with that whole "hunch vs. theory" stuff in the last paragraph? Huh? Shut up, Kerr Smith. "If the pattern holds," Kerr adds, paying me no mind, "he's about to die." "Pattern?" Raige snorts as Phoebe makes strangling noises of disbelief. "What pattern?" Kerr ignores them both to clench his radio in his manly right fist and bark, "All right, guys. Stay on the survivor. And keep recording!" Rose McGowan gets this hysterically stupid Cletus-on-Contin open-mouthed glaze across her face as the equally stupid Feebs cringes and cowers, no doubt terrified that the evil metal bird in the sky with its thin whirring wings, the choppy roar screaming from its beak, is going to sweep down and chew on them for dinner. Or maybe I'm being a little too hard on poor, overworked Phoebe and as a result am drastically selling her intelligence short.

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