Anyway, Phoebe won't shut up about her stupid subplot, prattling endlessly about how Sparklies picks only "fix-it" letters to publish in the column and she's left him three messages in the last twenty-four hours about it but he's ignored every single one of her calls and would you please, please just fuck him already and send him on his way, hag? Because NO ONE CARES. And even more boring, if that is at all possible? Piper's Issue Of The Week, which involves getting the Dolt to spend more time with the kids in order to convince him that "he's loved and needed" and that "life isn't all that bad." I neither love nor need him, and life at this very moment quite frankly sucks. So there. Someone whack me with a tire iron when this is all over to make sure I'm not dead.
Oh, Christ. While all of the above has been transpiring at the Glamorous Ladies' table, a couple of yuppie extras seated far down the sidewalk have been peering through binoculars at the Tiny Gay Log stapled to Piper's right one and making stink-faces about the supposedly scandalous situation to the café's manager. Eventually, the manager strides over and orders the gals to make with the tit-sucking elsewhere, only he does so in the most obnoxiously unctuous tone possible, like of course he would be a complete prick about the whole thing. Of course. And why is that, you ask? Because the Manor Morons Can Do No Wrong, and anyone who disagrees with or crosses them is a Poopy-Brained Doo-Doo Head who is also, in all likelihood, Jiss Jellass. Piper, ever the martyr, immediately prepares to exit, but Phoebe chooses to leap to her feet and bray, "You can't do this!" "Actually," the manager notes, "I can." He directs her attention to one of those "Management Has The Right To Refuse Service To Anyone" signs, and you will never in a million billion gazillion years be able to convince me that this would actually happen in San Francisco so whatever and bite me and why wasn't this show cancelled four years ago? Rrrrgh. Phoebe starts to make a federal case out of it, but Piper presses her lips into a grim little line and hisses, "We're going!" Phoebe splutters and gapes and annoying! while Phoebe's tapeworm inches forward into her mouth to salivate over the untouched cinnamon buns on the café table.
Not!warts Not-So-Great Hall. Raige, wearing white shoes after Labor Day, stands at the center of the room before the trio of velour-robed ever-useless Elders who are to determine the school's fate. Even I, who have seen no more than two episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation, recognize the lead Elder as Q. Backing him up are some bald guy who doesn't get any lines, and Lunch Lady God from Joan Of Arcadia, who is even more imposing without the hairnet. Sullenly witnessing the proceedings from a semi-circle of couches in the shadows behind Raige are clots of nose-picking Not!warts Nit!wits. Q notes that Not!warts was "a noble experiment," but adds that he's "afraid it's run its course." Raige, still somewhat unnervingly tan but with no visible Max Factor moustache as of yet, frets -- of course -- about The Children. "Where are they going to go?" she demands. "Where are they going to learn to develop their magic?" Lunch Lady God quite reasonably answers Raige's question with one of her own: "Where did you learn to develop yours?" As Raige babbles something about the Manor and Grams and Teeth! and how not everyone has a support system like she did, a thirty-two-year-old nose-picking extra shoots a spitball that nails Raige in the back of her neck. Were I Raige, this is the point where I would have announced that The Children can rot in hell for all I care and bailed. Actually, I take that back. I would have made that announcement the first time Not!warts was threatened with closure a year ago. God, I hate this show.