Morning after the night before. After a brief closing travelogue, we head over to the Manor sun porch. While the Dolt terrorizes my husband's tiny self with ever more of those horrific baboon faces, Piper hastily exposits that the titular blondes are in Detective Darryl's custody for the death of the salesman, and that "they're [also] wanted in eight other states." She then graciously allows the Dolt to drop in anytime to scar my husband's tiny self for life, so long as she herself is not present in the Manor. She's certainly kinder about it than it comes across here, but I just want this multi-car pileup of an episode to end already.
And yet it drags on. Big Badly-Dressed Chris edges into the room for a word alone with his stupid father, and I do mean badly dressed, people. He's wearing an oatmeal-colored, eighties-style pullover -- you know, the kind with the quilted polyester epaulettes on the shoulders? It's ass. It's ass on toast, actually. And because I'm so busy focusing on the ass on toast, I miss most of the subsequent scene. Not that it matters, of course. Basically, the Dolt gets huffy with his son over that Valhalla bullshit, and then we're off to a junkyard, where Raige sets the Smurfs free to play among the rusting hulks of last year's models. No, really. Raige announces that, as the wetbacks are happy with their union settlement, the Smurfs may no longer torment the packing plant. They may, however, bounce about the surrounding steel to their hearts' content. The Smurfs cackle and zip away as Raige smiles to herself. Oh, Jesus. Aren't we done yet?
All The News That's Fit To Fuck Me. Chronic and the Feebs chat about their non-existent relationship. He doesn't like her mixed signals. She doesn't like his habit of flying off to Hong Kong whenever there isn't enough money in the budget to cover his appearance in an episode. They agree to take things a little more slowly while trying to get to know each other better. Chronic proposes they get to work on this last bit immediately over "a classy lunch." Phoebe allows a small, shy smile, and links her arm in his to amble out of the office. As we slowly fade to black, Phoebe finishes it all off with a softly-spoken, almost abashed, "Jason? Thanks for my diamonds." Aw. Not. Shut it, bitch.
Next up, we've got good news, and we've got bad news. The bad news is, Raige goes evil again when a vindictive ghost possesses her body to exact vengeance upon those who caused her death. The good news is, Raige ends up with Balthazar Getty as her new slampiece. Oh, wait a minute. Those should be switched around, shouldn't they?