Buttfuck, eager to change the topic of conversation, offers to take a look at the disposal. He's all manly, of course, and therefore able to do something about it, or some such bullshit. I, on the other hand, do not hesitate to pester the landlord when the smallest thing breaks down in this place, and I'm not ashamed in the least to admit to that. I pay enough goddamned money to live here, after all. The fat bastard who's profiting off my tired ass can change the goddamned light bulb in the hall, is all I'm saying. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Buttfuck flips a switch, and the vile pond of brown water in the sink gurgles a bit. Piper crosses to lean against the counter with Raige, expositing that in addition to their gunked-up disposal, the cable's on the fritz, the washer's making wonking sounds, and the sink in the upstairs bathroom's suffering from what appears to be an enormous hair plug. "Sounds like fun," Raige offers, while offering no help whatsoever. "That's my life!" Piper jazz-hands. "All about fun." Buttfuck, meanwhile, has been anxiously eyeing the gals. He reaches what is apparently a difficult decision and places his left hand above the Froot-Loop-dotted water in the sink. His hand glows yellow and emits a series of wavering rays of white light that somehow fix the disposal. Raige, delighted, enthuses, "He's handy to have around!" Piper, suspicious, snots, "I thought you didn't use magic anymore." Buttfuck shrugs that he only unleashes his bizarre mojo on "little things." "Do you want me to fix the washer?" he asks. Raige and Piper give simultaneous and contradictory answers. Three guesses which shrew said no, like, button it, Piper. Buttfuck's just trying to help.
Phoebe distractedly jiggles in for help choosing a pair of earrings, but stops short when she spots the slampiece in the kitchen. A bright, false smile appears on her face as she greets him, and the smile only gets tighter and faker when Piper informs her of Buttfuck's bizarre mojo display. Phoebe orders Piper into the hall, where she hisses, "Didn't [Buttfuck] lose it the last time he used magic? I mean, like, really lose it?" "I can assure you he remained in complete control over the garbage disposal," Piper deadpans before wondering why Phoebe's so "dressed up" at seven in the morning. This will shock you, I'm sure, but Phoebe actually appears to have just rolled out of bed. Seriously -- she's wearing this filmy, low-cut, knee-length pink thing that looks more like a flimsy bit of lingerie than a proper dress, so I have no idea where Piper's getting this "dressed up" shit. Oh, that's it -- the script. Anyway, it would appear Phoebe has a "video-conferencing" "date" with Chronic, who's still in Hong Kong. "We just open our laptops, and there we are," she explains, "in living color." "Mmm-hmm," Piper nods. "In each other's laps." Do not go there, honey. I don't want to imagine the perverted acts those two perform for each other via their web cams, okay? Let's just hope for humanity's sake that they're both on heavily secured DSL lines, because the last thing the world needs is another Hilton-esque atrocity propagating through the internet courtesy of FuckedCompany.com. Though Fucked Company would likely have an amusing headline for Chronic's efforts, wouldn't they? Phoebe tries to flip the topic back to Buttfuck and his supposed Willow-like addiction to magic, or whatever the hell it's meant to be, but Piper sternly warns Phoebe to mind her own business. Piper then glides up the stairs for further drudgery involving the hair clot in the bathroom. Phoebe mugs maniacally while examining her earrings. Drop dead, hag.