Supernatural
The Born-Again Identity

Episode Report Card
Demian: D+ | 3 USERS: A+
YOU GRADE IT
Wake Up, Little Hardy Boys

Alas, neither Lucifer nor the audience gets an answer to that one, as Somnolent Sammy chooses instead to rub away at his temples while moaning, "I just need some rest!" For whatever asinine reason, the diminutive dealer takes this whiny plaint as his cue to kindly offer Our Sleep-Deprived Hero some choice industrial-grade sedatives, and before we know it, both Sam and the dealer are snoozing away side-by-side in the front seat of an abandoned Lincoln Continental, and believe it or not, that is far from this episode's most ridiculous development. God, I hate this show. Anyway, Sam seems to be settling in quite nicely, thank you very much, when suddenly, a chunky length of iron pipe comes crashing through the front window...or does it? Short answer: It doesn't, because Sleepy Sam's just hallucinating again, but Startled Sammy scrambles out of the car anyway only to wind up with a face full of Lucifer, the latter of whom begins trilling some obnoxious and hastily-contrived approximation of "Good Morning" from Singin' In The Rain because this pathetic wreck of a show can't afford the rights to the original. Scarified Sammy takes off back towards the railroad tracks, with Lucifer of course hot on his ridiculously oversized heels, and as Lucifer begins babbling away about "the longest a normal human being has ever gone without sleep" -- eleven days, supposedly -- Sludgy Sam breaks into a run that leads him straight into...

...oncoming traffic! Dun-dun-DUN! A late-model sedan plows directly into The Ginormomoron's heretofore remarkably healthy legs, and Somersaulting Sammy goes flipping up into the air and over the car until he lands in the damp and sticky embrace of this evening's...

...SNOT ROCKET!, and in case you heartless bitches were wondering, I still haven't been able to find Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon. As you'll no doubt recall, I'm sure, I last traced his movements to a social club in Bay Ridge, but as I lack the proper connections, I was unable to pursue this shaky lead further. I'm all out of options at this point, so I suppose I have little choice but to soldier on, all stoic in the face of my grief and such. I wonder what I can get for his overstuffed armchair on Craigslist. No, no, I'm just making a bleak attempt at humor, here -- I could never get rid of that mangy old thing as long as there's some faint glimmer of hope he'll return. Besides, I'd never be able to get the slobber stains out. Sigh.

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Supernatural

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