Congratulations to Phyllis Lyon and Del Martin. Just because. And now, back to the WB's regularly scheduled wretchedness:
Fade up on the interior of a purportedly tony nursery school, where a passel of rugrats in a variety of colors and shapes wastes precious oxygen. The camera pans past as two of the rats entertain each other on a sit-and-spin, two more make like they're playing basketball, and yet another finger-paints. The camera finally lands on the loneliest little Psycho, plopped down by himself in a corner, flipping around a set of dangerous-looking plastic dishes while staring dully at the other children in the room. The shot cuts over to Piper, who gazes anxiously at her older son while Kathie Lee Gifford's younger and less pleasant sister burbles, "All I'm saying is, you're way behind with [the littlest Psycho] -- you really should have applied before this." Piper, incidentally, sports a loose-fitting denim jacket accented with a long, Dr. Who-ish knit scarf that trails down the front of her body to end well below her waist to disguise the fact that Holly Marie Combs is, by now, two hundred and nineteen weeks pregnant. Doing her best to appear congenial and of course failing miserably, Piper mutters something about the Psycho being barely a year old. "So?" Scaggie Lee snorts. "I had my little Jake signed up for Mommy And Me when I was still pregnant with him!" "You can do that?" Piper eyebrows, like, I know you've been terribly busy with the incessant bitching these past few years, doll, but you might have picked up a fricking newspaper every now and then. Overindulged, over-entitled white women have been pre-registering their goddamned test-tube embryos at elite nursery schools for more than a decade, and every Style section in the country prints a feature on the "trend" at least once a year. Get on the stick, hon.
In any event, Scaggie confirms that you can, indeed, do that and adds, "I'm surprised they let you sign up this late, because everybody wants to get in here because it gets you into Aldeberry Pre-School, which gets you into blah wah nightmare yuppie mother hag-cakes." The conversation eventually grinds to an uncomfortable halt. In the awkward silence that follows, Scaggie shoots an evaluative side-eye at the tiny sociopath, who's fondling a heavy plastic cup as if preparing to embed it in another rugrat's forehead. "Doesn't have any siblings, does he?" Scaggie guesses. "Uh, no," Piper admits. "How did you know?" "Because he doesn't play well with others," comes the instant and rude response. "It's common in only children -- all the more reason to start developing his social skills early." Scaggie drops her voice almost to a whisper and adds conspiratorially, "First thing pre-schools look for, you know." Piper clenches and pivots away from this horrid woman just as Phoebe and Raige creep through the nursery's front door. Delighted to be presented with an opportunity to escape the tedious bitch at her side, Piper perks, "Excuse me!" and barrels over to her sisters.
Piper greets them with something along the lines of, "Glad you could make it." Phoebe assures her that they'd do "anything for [their] little nephew" before wondering what, exactly, it is that they're doing for him at the moment. "Showing family support -- they look for that, especially when the father's not around a lot," Piper replies. "The Dolt's around all the time," Phoebe reminds her as Raige yanks out her cell phone and spins to huddle over the keypad. "He is for [The Psycho]," Piper counters. "He won't be for the school." She eyes Raige with the phone and blurts, "What are you doing? Put that thing down." "I'm trying to get a hold of [Buttfuck]," Raige exasperates. "I'm afraid he's off on some magical freak-out, or something." You're sleeping with him, dumbass. If you're so concerned about his oft-cited mysterious and annoying problems with magic, why don't you roll over, poke him in the side, and ask him about it? Stupid show. "Maybe he just needs a little time alone," Phoebe offers. Raige gets all Issue Of The Week on our collective ass when she splutters, "It just makes me question whether or not I can even save an innocent when I can't even save my boyfriend." She considers what she's just admitted, then offers an apologetic "No offense" to the Feebs. "Don't worry about it," Phoebe waves. "I'm over it." I should hope you're over it, dingbat. You vanquished that particular piece of tail over a year ago. Oh, wait. Sorry. She's talking about Chronic. Whom she neither needed nor tried to save from anything but who, apparently, is out of the picture for good. And thank the merciful Lord in Heaven for that. Christ, what a fucking tool that loser was.