Phoebe storms into the offices of The Bay Mirror, a tabloid that advertises itself as the "Newspaper of the Year." Her outfit bears description. It also beggars it. She's wearing a long-sleeved, scoop-necked, tight white shirt under a loosely-crocheted pink wool poncho trimmed with long, dangling tassels, over a hobblingly-tight knee-length denim skirt with fringe at the hem. At her throat is a blood-red choker with pieces of mother of pearl woven into the pattern. "Wow," says a passing reporter, though neither in disgust nor in disbelief. "Hi," he wolfishly continues. "You are?" "Married," Phoebe goofs. The Fun Bags, despite the layers of clothing, jut like a massive silicone ice shelf trapped in pink netting. That the strap of her shoulder bag bisects the Fun Bags does little to lessen the effect. Phoebe asks the reporter man to point the way to Elise's office. He does so silently. Phoebe adjusts her purse to cover her ass, like, that's not the protrusion he's staring at, moron, and heads over to a closed door inlaid with opaque glass. Before she can knock, Elise Rothman, Girl Editor pops out. Phoebe explains that she's there to account for Molly's absence. Elise explains that Molly's fired. Long story short, Phoebe bluffs her way into learning that Molly's an advice columnist with an eight o'clock deadline and a whopping pile of unanswered mail. I see where this is going, and I didn't find it amusing when it involved Charlie Sheen and went by the title of Good Advice.
However. Remaining with Phoebe as she charms her way through the combative and cruel world of cutthroat urban journalism to become a celebrated, nationally-syndicated dispenser of judicious, sage, and heartfelt advice would be preferable to what comes next. An electric guitar wah. Wah. Waaaahs on the soundtrack as the camera skims the bar top at an empty P3. Piper's off-screen shrieks of delight join the wah-wahs as her cell phone chirps on the bar. Piper -- clearly naked -- pops up from below to answer her phone. They're...not.
WHY ARE THEY DOING THIS TO ME?
Avert your eyes, children. Lord, how I wish I could avert mine. Over in Molly's office, Phoebe inquires as to the status of the potion. "P-p-p-potion?" Piper stutters. Yes, she's stuttering. Which means that the Dolt's down there somewhere on the floor, doing something unimaginably horrid to a body part I never needed to know Piper had, with a body part of his own that I really don't want to imagine, and oh! Look! There's the Dolt now! COMING UP FOR AIR! He still has his shirt on, which I would count as a minor miracle were it not for what follows. Piper manages to note that Raige is mixing the potion proper. As the Dolt plants a hickey on the back of her shoulder and moves his hands somewhere out of sight, Piper pants that she has "ten. More. Minutes!" left before she has to return to the Manor to add the hyssop. Phoebe, oblivious, relates the details of Molly's precarious employment situation, and asks how she should respond to a twentysomething woman in Marin County who's still living at home with her parents because she's afraid of being alone. The Dolt goes south. Piper gasps.