Supernatural

Episode Report Card
Demian: C+ | 1870 USERS: B-
YOU GRADE IT
The Hardy Boys Spend One Night In Paris
In a hurry? Read the recaplet for a nutshell description!

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!"

Supernatural

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