Aaron: Can I bum one of those?
Demian: They're Reds.
Aaron: The better to keep me awake.
Demian: Oh, whatever. You're the one with the good Sunday-night shows. I've been stuck with this crap for four years!
Aaron: Bitch, bitch, bitch.
Demian: And with good reason! Come on -- look at the women you get to recap! Brenda. Carmela. The freaky-looking chick from that lesbian cheerleader movie. Anita from West Side Story, for Christ's sake!
Aaron: You forgot Lauren.
Demian: And who have I been putting up with? Alyssa. Fricking. Milano!
Michael J. Anderson: That little whore makes me feel ten feet tall! [Pause.]
Demian and Aaron: Get out. Now.
Fade up on tonight's hateful guest testicles lip-synching forgettable frat-boy reggae on a low, sun-drenched stage beneath a banner that screams, "KQSF BEACH BASH!!" It's the second exclamation point that really makes the sign, don't you think? Various egregiously white extras gyrate on the sand below, clad in nothing but board shorts and bikinis. Peppering this sea of Caucasian yuppiedom are exactly three young ladies of color, just so we're all sure Aaron Spelling isn't racist. Off to the side, Alyssa Milano and her brand-new dykey haircut chair-dance beneath a white canopy that presumably belongs to the radio station sponsoring this afternoon's event. The song goes on for forty-nine seconds -- which, of course, is about fifty-three seconds too long -- after which the lead singer pulls these "You da man!" pointy fingers at the crowd while the camera cranes up above the swarm of Beach Blanket Bozos to soar over to Phoebe's tent. Next to the Feebs slouches some dippy yahoo in jeans, flip-flops, and a ruffly button-down, who's howling, "YEAH! Let's HEAR IT! Ca-MON!" into a microphone. Zip it, dipshit.
The dipshit doesn't listen to me, choosing instead to introduce himself as "Hangin' Chad! Comin' back live at the KQSF annual beach bash, winding it up with our special guest -- the stunningly. Beautiful. Phoebe Halliwell!" I want to cram plastic explosives into every hole in his body and set him on fire, and I neither need nor care about fuses. Phoebe's face mugs manically beneath her tragically butch 'do as the crowd cheers. I want to set them on fire, too. Hangin' Dipshit proceeds to lavish Phoebe with praise for her column, citing rave reviews of her "insightful" advice from various unspecified "critics." "Are you psychic?" he asks. Phoebe, grinning, claims she simply "read[s] people pretty well." Flirtatious banter follows, during which Hangin' Dipshit challenges her to "read" him. Haven't I been doing that from the moment he appeared onscreen? Ingrate. After a bit of faux-humble hemming and hawing, Phoebe inquires of the Dipshit, "What do you want advice on?" Seems there's a certain woman he'd like to date, but he's afraid to pop the question. Phoebe smirks lewdly as ethereal wind chimes tinkle, followed by a heavenly choir shrilling a chord. "Why don't you just ask me and find out?" Feebs: "[Giggle!]" Crowd: "Woo!" Dipshit: "D'oh!" Demian: "Drop. DEAD."
Meanwhile, back at the Manor, Big Gay Chris languidly leafs through the Book of Shadows up in the attic, a capped black pen dangling from the corner of his mouth. Of course, he's languidly leafing with a bit of Whitelightery telekinesis, and no, his fluttery fingers couldn't possibly be more fey. Chris eventually lands on the entry for the "Trok Demon," who, interestingly enough, sports a single eye on each of his two heads. I'd transcribe the entry, but this particular beastie's dispatched before the opening credits, so we'll just be moving this along, 'kay? Chris halts the flipping pages, rather suggestively uncaps the pen with his teeth, then scribbles the vanquishing spell on a small pad of paper just as a swirling green portal opens on the far side of the room. The erstwhile Bride Of Riley emerges from the crappy digital overlay to slink across the floor, clad in a low-slung suede miniskirt with a matching midriff-baring boobsling. Appropriate Warrior Princess accessories bedeck her arms and shoulders, and a thin leather headband holds her brittle, bleach-damaged hair as neatly in place as possible. The trampy animal-skin get-up, combined with Ivana Milicevic's protruding Vulcan ears and freakishly wide-set eyes, would make the Bride here perfect Elvish masturbatory fodder for the most discriminating Tolkein fanboy, but she has other matters on her mind. And thank the merciful Lord in Heaven for that.