A brief opening travelogue accompanied by several ominous strings and a pair of tense bongo drums whisks us over to "San Francisco Memorial Hospital," wherein a not-terribly-ailing Raige rests her perfect coif on a queen-sized bed in a private room. Rather than on a gurney in the ER. Whatever. Piper's at her side, and asks if she should summon the Dolt for a bit of his tingly healing touch. Raige waves this off, noting that she's suffering from nothing more than a mild concussion. Besides, the concussion is entirely her fault, as she was, after all, nattering away on her phone while attempting to maneuver an automobile. Thanks for the public service announcement, sweetheart. Piper next asks if Raige remembers anything about the accident. Raige claims that she was just talking to the Feebs, and the next thing she knew, she was "spinning out of control." "Kinda like my career," grunts the Feebs from her perch at the foot of Raige's bed. You selfish. Self-centered. HAG. Your damn sister is lying in a hospital bed after her steering wheel tried to mate with her face, and you bring up the piddling advice column you hack out for some tabloid rag? SHUT UP! Piper, rather than employing the Hands Of Discontent to vaporize Phoebe's skull, picks up the "life sucks" strand of the conversation and knits herself a twin set of self-pity while expositing about P3's plumbing problems, which are quite the irritation given the health inspector's scheduled visit that afternoon. Raige rolls her eyes and mutters something akin to "when it rains, it pours" that unfortunately involves Mercury being in retrograde, like, don't involve the planets in this week's set of massive contrivances, okay?
Episode Report CardDemian: B- | 577 USERS: B-
YOU GRADE IT