RAAAWWWR! "Eeeeezzzzzzzzzzzzz!" Already with the weariness, Raoul? We're barely two minutes in. "Don't bother trying to pull that 'We're Recapping This As The Episode Unfolds!' nonsense with me, missy!" Raoul shrieks. "I know you've seen this one already and you know I've seen this one already, so let's not pretend otherwise, shall we? Because the mere thought of sitting through this one again already has me popping Dexedrine like they're Tic Tacs. I never signed on for hour-long ruminations on The Nature Of Faith! Whither the GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!?" It's going to be a very long evening. "I'll say!"

After the flames have burned away, the camera fades in on a woman perched on a hospital bed reading what I'm certain is the Bible, her back towards us as she basks in a photogenically glowing set of heavenly anvils filtering in through the bars of her room's window. At the sound of her room's door opening, she turns, and it's The Whore, now scrubbed of face and clean of hair and all beatifically greeting the person who's just entered with, "Good morning! You're not the usual guy!" The camera reverses to take in Darling Sammy, currently masquerading as a prison psych ward orderly, complete with metal clipboard and a set of white scrubs struggling mightily to contain his remarkably broad frame. "There!" Raoul shrieks, pointing frantically at the television screen. "If you're looking for proof of God's existence, it's right there in front of you: Jared Padalecki's shoulders! Now can we skip the rest of this evening's tedious presentation and get back to shooting things in the face? PLEASE?!" Alas, Raoul, we must soldier on. However, in the interest of brevity, we can skip through this bout of expository blithering to cover the main points. Long story short, The Whore is an actual whore named Gloria. "DO YOU GET IT?!" Raoul shrieks, flapping his paws around in front of his face in disgust. Raoul! Please! You're not making this any easier. "My apologies, I'm sure," Raoul allows, calming down. "Though I do think you might reveal at this juncture that your grandparents -- the ones with the terribly naughty sense of humor, apparently -- actually named your second-eldest aunt 'Gloria Madonna.'" Raoul, you leave my poor aunt alone. Hasn't she suffered enough already? "Not as much," Raoul giggles, "as her older sister Flo." Knock it off! Besides, you don't want me dragging any of your relatives into this, now do you? Hmmm? I'll take your sudden and grim-faced silence as a no.