No previouslys this week, as we fade up on Piper toting a precariously balanced stack of boxes into the kitchen from the dining room while cradling the cordless in her neck. For some spectacularly contrived reason, the "cocktail napkins" meant for P3 were delivered instead to the Manor, and she tells the nightclub underling on the other end of the line to "be outside in twenty minutes" as she's "gonna do a drive-by." She slams the cordless onto the table while wretching, "Please let me have my keys!" "They're on the counter," blares the off-screen Retarded Bimbo, startling the woman who actually owns the Manor and therefore has every right to be there twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, Retard, into dropping the precariously balanced boxes to the floor. "Ssssorry," lisps the Retard while ssssetting a breakfasssst tray onto the sssssenter island. "I didn't mean to sssscare you." Piper waves it off, insisting she's just frazzled, as she has to check in on Tiny Gay Chris at Daddy Dearest's before stopping by P3 with the napkins, hitting the supermarket, and picking up The Dead-Eyed Psycho from The Preschool Of The Damned a little early so she can "make cookies for his Valentine's Day party," and they've been rearranging the calendar more often than they've been rearranging the various boudoirs on the second floor of the house this season, because The Dead-Eyed Psycho's birthday episode aired four weeks ago, last week's episode supposedly took place on January 29th, and this week we're up to Valentine's Day? Whatever, show. None of that matters, because what happens next makes me want to unplug the television set and haul it out to the Dumpster rather than watch the remainder of this episode or, indeed, anything else on TV ever again. Piper, noticing Maggot Neck's snottily and self-pityingly snarled upper lip, apologizes to the uninvited house guest for Piper's own supposed self-centeredness by allowing that her hectic schedule "pales in comparison to what [her UNINVITED HOUSEGUEST is] going through." "Yeah, well," the Bimbo flippantly breezes, shrugging her shoulders around and all too exaggeratedly sighing, "life goes on," and Piper should blow her the fuck up right now and be done with it. Sure, I'd be pretty damn happy if Piper just punched her in the neck a couple of times, but the Mighty Hands Of Discontent are really the way to go, here, if you ask me. GOD. HATE! HAAAAAAATE. ACK!