This week, we're off to Providence, Rhode Island, where a few of the more marginal members of that city's society have lately embarked upon killing sprees, which the deadbeat dirtbags claim were ordered by an angel. This leads to many endless discussions on the topic of faith, during which we rather unsurprisingly learn that not only does Saint Sammy pray on a daily basis, he also believes in heavenly messengers sent by God to tell loser drunks and scabby whores to gut their neighbors like fish. Equally unsurprisingly, El Deano confirms that he doesn't go for any of that God crap, bitch, so when Saint Sammy himself insists that he's been touched by the angel as well, Dean quite reasonably questions his younger brother's sanity before demanding a sÃ©ance to summon the presumably damaged and evil spirit of a recently murdered priest who Dean (correctly) assumes is responsible for the so-called divine interventions. Once the guy materializes, though, it becomes evident that he's not so much damaged and evil as simply misguided, and a quick administration of Last Rites sends the guy, um, elsewhere, never to bother the scabby whores of Providence again. And in the end, Darling Sammy's forced to admit that maybe there isn't someone Up There watching out for him after all. Aw. Poor puppy. Come to Demian and let him make it all better. First, though, you have to promise him you won't participate in an episode this boring again.
Crackle, Crackle NOT! We leap right into the so-called action this week, as the camera fades in to pan over a few dirty dishes currently being deployed as butt-littered ashtrays while Mimi Bobeck's voice asks of Drew Carey, "How little?" This sets her long-ago live studio audience into fits of laughter as the location card phases in to reveal we've found ourselves in Providence, Rhode Island, for this week's festivities, and if the significance of that particular anvil doesn't hit you immediately, don't worry, because it will long before the end of the evening. The camera continues past a tangle of discarded clothing on the floor before angling up level with a side table filled with little clay statuettes depicting angels in various states of torment, as best I can tell. It could be ecstasy. I don't know. Given what's currently playing on the off-screen television, though, I'm going to opt for the former. As Drew and Mimi continue to have it out with each other, the camera at last shifts focus to zero in on a set of black-lacquered nails curled around a lit cigarette. And there we hang for a moment until the camera leaps far above the cigarette's owner to stare down at her rat's nest of a coif before slowly settling towards the floor, lingering on the woman's face so we might note her dull eyes focusing through rings of smeared mascara on the TV in front of her, and damn. Girl looks rough, what with her naturally sallow complexion breaking through the layers of makeup she's neglected to scrub from her skin for the last week or so. She's like a scabby Weimar-era whorine in Cabaret. "Liza?!" Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon shrieks. "My Liza?!" No, dude. From the Broadway revival. Calm.
In any event, finally tiring of the crap sitcom rerun, The Whorine wearily reaches for the remote and switches to the next channel, which unfortunately for everyone involved features one of those greaseball televangelists who still manage to be on the air despite the decades of graft, hypocrisy, and scandal associated with the profession. Lest we think this little lady is so down and out that she'd give the greaseball's message more than a second of her time, though, she quickly rolls her jaded eyes at the guy and listlessly switches off the set. Of course, the instant she does so, all of the lights in her tawdry little hole of an apartment start buzzing and blinking on and off. DUN! Annoyed, and entirely unaware of the dire meaning behind all of the buzzing and blinking, she stubs out her cigarette in an actual ashtray and is about to push herself to her feet to investigate when the television switches back on, seemingly of its own accord, still loudly tuned to the televangelist's station. The Whorine gasps in surprise and clutches at her nonexistent pearls as the televangelist assures her in vaguely Southern tones, "You don't have to suffer -- you don't have to be lost! The Lord is talking to you right now! He's saying, 'You are my child and you have a purpose!" The Whorine frantically tries to shut off the goddamned TV with the remote again and again, but the slimy little Southern-fried greaseball refuses to go away, his voice increasing in volume until he nearly shouts, "You think God forgot about you? I tell you no! All you gotta do is listen! Can't you just hear those angels singin'?" By this point, the televangelist's camera has pulled in on an extreme close-up while ours has ducked down beneath The Whorine's TV so that we're getting an enormous and distorted version of his face. "You'd think televangelists could afford better dental care," Raoul snorts, eyeing the Southern-fried greaseball's jagged row of crooked lower teeth.