"Previously on Charmed"? We'll go with that. You realize this means I'll now be skipping all of the tedious expository dialogue the writers are bound to shoehorn into the episode proper anyway, right? Right. So, previously on The Show That Will Not Rest Until Our Souls Have Been Sucked Dry: Raige's Moustache vowed to prevent the ever-useless Elders from shuttering Not!warts; Phoebe's Tapeworm grew restless as its bony host refused to ingest solid food for the eighth straight month; Elise Rothman, Girl Editor granted Phoebe a sabbatical from All The News That's Fit To Fuck Me just to get the filthy whore to stop having sex in the office; Elise then hired Professional Boyband Fucktard Nick Fucking Lachey to ghost "Ask Phoebe" in the filthy whore's absence; Phoebe decided that screwing Slampiece Sparklies would be her best course of action over the next few episodes; Brian Krause unleashed a series of repellent faces while the Dolt sporked Stupid Uncle Phil high atop the Golden Gate Bridge; Brian Krause aged ninety-three years in a single day; Piper's dangly chandelier earrings vowed never to reveal the Dolt's murderous ways because Withholding Vital Information From Each Other Has Always Worked So Well For Them In The Past; and a giant green floating Head assaulted the Dolt by crooning, "We want you! Muah ha ha ha ha ha ha! DUN!"
Currently on Charmed, some mouthbreather with feral forearms -- I'm guessing, here -- flips the latest "Ask Phoebe" column onto a table at an outdoor café. The lead letter's from "Glass Ceiling In Sausalito," who has "an M.B.A. in business" but is still being "judged purely on [her] looks and not [her] brains." Do I need to comment on that? "An M.B.A. in business"? Didn't think so. From off-screen, Phoebe bitches, "That's not me!" as the camera pans up from the paper to take in a frappuccino-sipping Piper, who happens to have the tit-suckling Tiny Gay Log attached to her right breast at the moment. By the way, both the Tiny Log and the breast to which it has been affixed are discreetly hidden away beneath a yellow blanket. In any event, Piper, indicating the column's hideous byline photograph, snarks, "Sure looks like you." Heh. The camera cuts to take in the hideous occasional columnist herself, and good God, woman! What is your problem? Aside from, you know, that tapeworm you've been harboring for the better part of the last year. No, I speak of Phoebe's hat -- a spectacularly awful concoction fashioned from avocado-green burlap encircled with blue denim for a brim and accented with a thin, dark purple ribbon. Who the fuck would wear something like that out of the house? Oh, that's right: this bit of sun-baked trash. Gah. In any event, Phoebe's getting her g-string in a knot over what Slampiece Sparklies has supposedly done to her column. She claims he's dispensing advice as a man would, focusing on fixing the problem at hand rather than "validat[ing] feelings," or some such tiresome bullshit. In fact, just today he had the unmitigated gall to give that nice lady with the M.B.A. in business "step by step [instructions on] how to deal with her boss." The bastard! Piper clearly couldn't give a rat's ass about any of this, but patiently bides her time, since Tiny Gay Chris has yet to finish his lunch. Besides, she'll be needing the toothy shrew to help her lug the kids back to the Manor in about three minutes. Meanwhile, the dead-eyed, stroller-bound Psycho lurks in the background, scanning the unsuspecting passersby for his next victim.