When a hapless babysitter in Alliance, Nebraska, scratches out her temporal lobe using nothing more than her Glamour Length Lee Press-On Nails -- stylishly shellacked with Turquoise Glitter nail polish from Hot Topic, by the way, so I think it's safe to say Stephenie Meyer is down a fan -- Our Intrepid Heroes motor on over to Carhenge to figure out what's going on, and quickly find themselves in over their heads when other townspeople end up electrocuted by wind-up hand buzzers, shredding their own stomach linings thanks to heedless misapplications of Pop Rocks and Coke, and assaulted by a heavily bearded 350-pound transvestite Tooth Fairy. Fortunately, Sam's super-smarts kick in, and he realizes all of the bizarre incidents have been occurring within a two-mile radius of one little farmhouse, where they find some creepy little eleven-year-old latchkey kid named Anthony Freemont. Or something like that. Turns out Little Anthony honestly, genuinely believes that hand buzzers can kill you, and that mixing Pop Rocks and Coke will land you in the hospital, and that the Tooth Fairy is a heavily bearded 350-pound transvestite, and that prolonged exposure to Twilight forces you to rip your own brain out of your skull, and somehow, Little Anthony's beliefs have altered reality. Well, for everyone within a two-mile radius of his farmhouse, at least.
So, after Dean shaves the palm of his right hand (yes, you read that right), Our Dear Boys research Little Anthony's background and discover he'd been given up for adoption immediately after birth by a woman who neglected to list a father on the certificate. Uh oh. The boys track Birth Mom down to a hovel on the other side of the state and, long story short, learn her virginal self had been demonically enhanced for the full nine months preceding Little Anthony's arrival, though they can't figure out why a demon would want to possess a virgin just to get said virgin knocked up. Thank Heaven, then, for My Sweet Baboo, who flutters in with his angrily feathery hair to duuuuuh, "Half demon plus half human equals ANTICHRIST, MORONS!" and then the episode goes straight down the toilet when Our Intrepid Idiots decide that the best course of action in this situation would be to sit around for 87 hours debating the morality of offing an eleven-year-old. Who is THE ANTICHRIST, for God's sake.
And in the end, they stupidly allow Little Anthony to escape to Australia. Guess he's Russell Crowe's problem now.
Rattle Rattle THEN! Our Intrepid Heroes loudly went their separate ways because Darling Sammy was having sex with a corpse for the better part of last season, but they quickly kissed and made up with each other -- after their own fashion, of course -- and are now ready to battle the multitudinous forces of Heaven and Hell together, or something like that. In other news, your faithful recapper is just loving these easily encapsulated THEN!s.
Slashy, Slashy NOW! The camera rises slowly over the back of a television as a location card reading "Alliance, Nebraska" appears at the bottom of the screen. A comely brunette who vaguely resembles Rose McGowan -- way back before Rose McGowan destroyed her face with a series of reckless plastic surgeries -- absolutely ruins her eyes by sitting on the floor all of six inches from the set, engrossed in what seems to be a cheap made-for-TV knockoff of Cujo. She absently reaches for a hairbrush and distractedly drags the thing through her dark tresses until she hears a series of thumping noises emanating from the closet at the far end of the night-darkened living room, and she rises to her feet to drift towards the source of the racket while calling out, "Jimmy?" The thumping continues as the camera lingers on her lovely Glamour Length Lee Press-On Nails which, as I mentioned in the recaplet, have been shellacked with Turquoise Glitter polish from Hot Topic, which makes me wonder if she's Team Edward or Team Jacob, because only a brain-dead Twitard of the lowest order would even consider defacing a perfectly good set of Glamour Length Lee Press-On Nails with so loathsome a shade. "However!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon. "The unfortunate lass must be commended for her stylish French pedicure!" Raoul, your remarkable powers of observation have once again put mine to shame, for I completely missed that lingering shot of the imperiled maiden's bare feet. "Thanks!" Now would you hush up for a minute so I can get to the part where she claws out her own brain? "Oh, absolutely! It sounds tasty!" Perfect.