In an entertaining throwback to the arc-light Freak Of The Week episodes of seasons past, Our Reunited Heroes decide to bail on The Apocalypse for a little while in favor of some old-fashioned monster killing. Or, rather, Dashing El Deano decides to bail on The Apocalypse in favor of some old-fashioned monster killing because he doesn't trust Darling Sammy, and wants to ease his younger brother back into life on the road to see if Sam can still handle the pressure. Needless to say, this attitude of Dean's displeases The Ginormomope, but fortunately, they manage to process through their complex and delicate emotions regarding the issue with a minimum of fuss. Or maybe I lapsed into a coma during this episode's endless goddamned Chick Flick Moments, and will therefore erupt like a volcano of bile when I have to recap them.
So, when Dashing El Deano learns of an auto enthusiast who suffered massive blunt trauma injuries while sitting in a parked car, he drags Darling Sammy to Canton, Ohio, to investigate. Seems the enthusiast, after decades of searching, had managed to purchase James Dean's infamously cursed Porsche Spyder, and when Our Intrepid Heroes examine some handy footage of the enthusiast's death, they indeed spot James Dean's reflection in the car's shiny hubcaps, so they quickly set off in search of the pissed-off spiritual remains of a mid-century movie icon, but there are a couple of problems: For one thing, it turns out the engine number on the enthusiast's Spyder doesn't match the one from James Dean's (90059, for those of you playing along at home), and for another, a nearby Lincoln expert ends up dead from a gunshot wound to the head delivered, according to the expert's Latina maid, by Honest Abe himself.
Our Dear Boys realize Canton's got a wax museum (it doesn't, actually, but whatever), and upon investigation learn the owner specializes in collecting celebrity artifacts for display on the statues, so they break into the place after hours to salt and burn James Dean's keychain and Abraham Lincoln's stovepipe hat, thinking that'll be the end of it. Of course, they have to torch Mohandas Gandhi's eyeglasses, as well, after the crazed spirit of the notorious fruitarian scales all 15 feet of The Ginormotron to snack on Sammy's remarkably healthy neck, and the boys quickly realize something else is going on. Specifically, the invasion of Canton's nonexistent wax museum by a Leshi. A Leshi who decides to take the form of Paris Hilton for the episode's final confrontation, and while many on the forum boards immediately coveted the fashionable Louboutin pumps with which she kicked Dean's stumpy little bow-legged ass around the set, all were quite gratified indeed when Darling Sammy whacked her head off with an iron axe, which everyone knows is the only way you can kill a Paris Hilton. Or a Leshi. Your choice.
And in the end, there was a Crackle, Crackle SOON! that suffered from severe amounts of awesomeness, especially the teases of Our Intrepid Heroes getting magically flipped into episodes of a Japanese game show, a sitcom, Knight Rider, Grey's Anatomy, and -- perhaps most awesomely of all -- C.S.I. Miami. Apparently, Jared Padalecki does a mean David Caruso. Kick ass.
Rattle Rattle THEN! Our Intrepid Heroes somehow managed to find the time in between busy bouts of shooting monsters in the face with rock salt to pitch a series of screaming, pissy bitchfits at each other over sappy chick flick crap like their easily bruised emotions, broke up in the middle of a ridiculously scenic highway rest stop, then kissed and made up. Meanwhile, Lucifer invaded Darling Sammy's sleepytime to make sweet, sweet love to everybody's favorite Ginormomope, and Dashing El Deano learned he was St. Michael's angel condom. Wow. That was quick. Much like the episode proper, which clocks in at a mere 38 minutes without commercials, but here I am blathering on about minor issues when I really should be shutting the hell up for the...
...Slashy, Slashy NOW! As the NOW! advances from the blackness to shimmy through a variety of antique auto parts stacked neatly on a set of metal shelves somewhere high-priced and suburban, the owner of said antique auto parts enters his high-priced suburban garage through a door in the far blurry background of the shot, flicks on the lights, and leads a fellow auto enthusiast across the concrete floor. "What's so important you couldn't tell me over the phone?" the houseguest asks as the two approach a low, cloth-covered mound in the center of the garage. "Trust me, Jim," the houseguest's host replies, thereby gifting his companion with a terribly clever character name for the evening's festivities before continuing, "it's important." Jim takes a gander at the low, cloth-covered mound and pretty much Keanus, "Whoa! You're not telling me...?" "Yep," his host nods, practically piddling himself with childish delight, and in one grand, sweeping gesture, he whisks away the cloth to reveal a sinister-looking Porsche Spyder that's sporting a 1955 California license plate along with the custom-painted nickname "Little Bastard." "Eeeeeeeeeeeee!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon in gleeful anticipation, for he is surprisingly well versed in the gruesome mythology surrounding James Dean's death car, and cannot wait to bear witness to the mayhem that's certain to follow. "It's true!" Raoul shrieks again. "Why, that darling little automobile has litrilly littered this great country's roadways with the delightfully battered and lumpy remains of its various owners for the last fifty-four years!" Raoul pauses, catching his breath while a fluttery yet perfectly manicured paw hovers over his heaving chest, then fixes his positively dewy-eyed gaze upon the image on the television screen to dreamily shriek, "It's my hero!" and Raoul, I am shocked and appalled. "Whatever for?!" I thought you only had eyes for the Impala. "Pish! When that sordid metallic mess of braggadocio and Turtle Wax racks up a body count as impressive as my darling little Porsche Spyder's, then perhaps we can talk!" And all this time I thought I knew you. "[Titter!] I am litrilly a veritable cornucopia of surprises!" Um. I don't think you used that word correc... "LITRILLY!" Oh, whatever. "Hee!"
In any event, Houseguest Jim's eyes goggle, and he reverently whispers, "You found it!" "The numbers match," Houseguest Jim's host nods, which makes him a LYING LIAR WHO LIES because, as we'll learn later in the evening, the numbers do not match at all. "What!?" shrieks Raoul, for it is now his turn to be shocked and appalled. "That hairy little nightmare of a suburban wretch has LIED to me?!" I'm afraid so, my scaly friend. "DEATH!" roars Raoul, leaping to his beslippered feet from his overstuffed armchair to jab a condemnatory albeit exquisitely honed claw at the hairy nightmare's widescreen digital image. "DEATH TO HIM WHO WOULD PURCHASE A FAKE COPY OF MY PRECIOUS PORSCHE SPYDER ON A FICTIONAL PIECE OF TELEVISUAL ENTERTAINMENT!" and for Christ's sake, Raoul. Calm down. "WHY SHOULD I!?" Because even though the car's a fake, that guy still doesn't live to see the title card. "Oh!" shrieks Raoul, instantly composing himself and settling back down upon his many cushions. "That's quite a different story altogether! By all means, hurry along to the appropriately gruesome moment!" I would, if you'd stop interrupti... "CHOP CHOP!" Rrrrgh.
ANY-way, the onscreen gentlemen admire the fake Spyder's many glamorous attributes for a very lengthy period of time until Houseguest Jim's host slides behind the wheel while Houseguest Jim scurries off for a video camera, the better to film his host while the latter keys the ignition for what's supposed to be the very first time, though you'd think the guy would have tested that bit out before buying the goddamned thing, but then again, this idiot got the various vehicle identification numbers wrong, so I don't know why I'm expecting anything resembling sense from him or his easily impressed companion, and as Raoul has now taken to shooting me increasingly baleful glances while I've been prattling on about plot holes, I'll skip ahead to the bit where Houseguest Jim's host, left alone in the garage with his precious fake Spyder, exhales, because that exhalation's become ominously visible in the suddenly cool high-priced suburban garage's air, and DUN! "Eeeeeeeeeeeee!" The fake Spyder's radio just as suddenly snaps on, seemingly of its own accord, and as the hirsute host frantically fiddles with the controls, the camera leaps back indoors, where the roar of an engine and the squeal of skidding tires just now reaches Houseguest Jim. Uh oh. The squeal's promptly followed by a tremendous crash, so Houseguest Jim quite reasonably calls out, "Cal?" and oh, show. Oh, clever, clever show. Houseguest Jim, not terribly bright, ignores the creepy cacophony assailing his ears and instead strolls back into the garage, the video camera's viewfinder all but hot-glued to his eyes, so we're treated to an entirely unnecessary through-the-viewfinder shot of Houseguest Jim's progress until he rounds a corner and... "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" For yes, gentle reader, Cal's head has been rammed into the top of the convertible's exposed windshield, which has embedded itself at an angle five inches into his face, and Dead Cal's now-sightless left eye stares dully at the streams of blood and brain matter cascading down the front of the fake Spyder while the incessant strings on the soundtrack wail and Jim screams and screams and screams and...
...SPLAT! "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" shrieks Raoul, still delighted with the fifth season's bloody title card, though I believe that in this case, his enthusiastic and piercing squall might just be a continuation of the giddy shriek he emitted the instant we first saw Dead Cal's violently vivisected head. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" I take it you are pleased, my impressively fanged companion? "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Then shall I continue with the recap? "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Excellent. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!"