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!"