Back at the Manor, Piper retrieves a Mason jar of some no-doubt foul substance from the kitchen cabinets as Phoebe bumbles into the room, burbling something vapid about how much a gal can get done in a day if she wakes up early enough and doesn't mind a little sleep deprivation. "What about the demons?" Piper interrupts, cutting through the crap. Phoebe "couldn't find anything in the Book to help identify them," but she did have a fabulous time reading up on the family history. "Did you know that Beatrice Warren only had one leg?" she wonders, unduly fascinated by this tidbit of information, and I'd bust on her for that, but alas. I greeted the news of my great-great uncle Louis Brabander's similar legless existence at the turn of the last century -- in Cleveland, of all places, like, ew! -- with an equal amount of inappropriate fascination. So, you know, no room to talk -- leg room, that is! Har, har, har! Okay, that was abjectly pathetic, but I've got to do something to prevent myself from throttling the yowling canine shit factories befouling my apartment at the moment, and if telling rotten jokes is it, then you'll all have to deal. So there. There's a bit of uninspired, promo-style non-hilarity involving the vat of demon blood bubbling on the center island's burner before Piper announces her intent to scry with said blood for Kevin's current location after she completes the vanquishing potion. "Wow," Phoebe eyebrows, hoisting one of the vanquish's apparent ingredients from the counter. "Jacklebeet. So exactly which state are you trying to blow off the map?" Please say Ohio, Piper. Please, please, please, please, PLEASE? Stupid Ohio.
And speaking of stupid Midwesterners, the depressing dinner party fairies are now playing video games on the roommate's computer while listening to a endless disco remix of Donna Summer's greatest hits. Might I remind you that these foul losers are all on the very far side of forty? Christ. How the fuck do I end up associated with dim assholes like this?
Anyway, despite my desperate entreaties, Piper has no intention of obliterating the Buckeye State. Sigh. Could I get you to reconsider? I might even stop busting on your erstwhile husband if you...no, never mind. Not even for the promise of Cincinnati in flames would I deny myself the sweet, sweet joys of Dolt dissing. Let's keep this moving then, shall we? Piper's well aware of that particular ingredient's destructive power, thanks. She simply doesn't want to take any chances with the scorching hotties they encountered earlier in the alleyway. There then follows more endless blathering about Piper's current issues with the Dolt, whom she is studiously avoiding at the moment, as she proves when she declines to retrieve yet another potion ingredient from the nonexistent attic, where the Dolt's apparently set up shop for the duration of this episode for some massively asinine reason. For some equally asinine reason, Slampiece Sparklies gets name-checked during this discussion, and fuck you very much for reminding me of his existence, Phoebe. Somehow, this all leads to Phoebe admitting that the call she ignored earlier was actually from Detective Doormat. Piper's all, "Why is that useless waste of production payroll dollars calling you?" Phoebe warns Piper not to share the information that follows with Raige because -- shout it, baby, shout it! -- Withholding Vital Information From Each Other Has Always Worked So Well For Them In The Past, and urgently whispers, "[Doormat] actually thinks [Li'l Bulging] Brody had something to do with [Pepper Anderson, The Best Policewoman In The History Of Forever]'s disappearance!" DUN! Okay, totally not a DUN! at all, but I've got fucking Kool and his fucking Gang screaming at me to celebrate good times from the living room right now, and a heightened sense of urgency -- no matter how artificially generated -- can only help my focus at the moment.