You'll forgive me if I keep this brief, as I'm having one hell of a Charmed flashback, here, and it's making for rather an unpleasant evening at Chez Demian.
After receiving an urgent plea for help from an old babysitter of theirs in Housatonic, Massachusetts, Our Intrepid Heroes motor on back to The Bay State to salt and burn the remains of some knocked-up witch who's been buried unnoticed beneath a carpet of willow moss in the babysitter's basement for the last three hundred years. However, none of that is terribly important as far as this evening's larger plot is concerned, because Lucifer's hellbound minions have apparently been on the line with our great nation's comprehensive network of Satanists over the last couple of months, promising cash money for the head of Dean Winchester. DUN!
So, naturally, when this 17-year-old Masshole nerdling named Gary decides to fuck around with a Grimoire with his friends one evening just for shits and giggles, he gets his damn fool self possessed long enough to hear the demons' pitch, and so decides to flip a little body-swapping mojo in The Ginormotron's looming direction once Our Dear Boys have arrived in Housatonic in their especially noticeable and especially fine ride. Hijinks, of course, ensue until one of Gary's friends finds her eyes flipping beetle black when one of Gary's other friends foolishly calls for some demonic backup, and people get their still-beating hearts ripped from their ribcages and whatnot until Dashing El Deano and Nerdling-In-Sam exorcise that roiling cloud of bitterly black demonic goo back to where it came from.
Meanwhile, Capital-D Death has finished with the 5,987,580 former residents of what once was Missouri, and has now moved on to vanquish the 2,855,390 people just south of the state line in Arkansas. Pity!
Rattle, Rattle NONEXISTENT THEN! and crap! "Oh, for Heaven's sake!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon, tossing his exquisitely manicured paws into the air to gesticulate wildly in a positive agony of disgust and despair. "Not again!" I'm afraid so, friend of friends. I'm afraid so. "BOYCOTT!" howls Raoul, and with that, he wriggles his tubby derriere from the depths of his overstuffed armchair and flounces off to his den, from which presently emerges Andre Previn's opening theme to that timeless classic of the American cinema, Dead Ringer. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" This show can kiss my ass.
Well, it looks like I'm in for a very, very long evening, so let's get this rolling: The camera fades up on the interior of a tacky-looking cocktail lounge to linger on an into-the-mirror shot of the bartender pouring out a lovely glassful of something soothing before it pans over to capture a thirtysomething bleached blonde wrapping her collagen-enhanced lips around the complimentary straws she received with her margarita. As the camera focuses in on the thirtysomething's somewhat bored yet decidedly randy expression, Darling Sammy bounds into the frame to lean in over the straw-sucker's left shoulder and perk, "Evening, barkeep -- I would like to purchase some alcohol, please!" and we thus immediately know Something's Not Quite Right With This Pointless And Awful Episode because Jared Padalecki -- God love him -- is doing a completely shitty job impersonating a 17-year-old nerd impersonating Darling Sammy and yes, I realize I've gotten way ahead of myself, here, and have therefore likely blown the teaser's Shocking Twist for all of you lovely people out there on the Internet, but you know what? We're barely 23 seconds into this pointless and awful episode, and already I've reached the conclusion that this show blows, and that I want to die, and... "Estelle Winwood?! EEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
I hate my life SO MUCH right now.
ANY-way, there's some more tedious and seemingly neverending nonsense involving this Imitation Of Sam ordering a banana daiquiri, of all the stupid things, before he finally settles onto a stool, at which point "Krystle" The Collagen-Enhanced Thirtysomething proceeds to compliment him on his remarkably broad shoulders, and everyone except Imitation Of Sam can see where this is going because Imitation Of Sam -- despite being a perpetually horny 17-year-old male beneath that remarkably broad and healthy 26-year-old exterior of his -- is entirely, completely, retardedly stupid about The Sex, so Klassy Krystle must s-l-o-w-l-y spell it all out for him, and I'd blast her for continuing to pursue a gentleman as obviously challenged, mentally speaking, as Imitation Of Sam is here, but she's had a few, and Imitation Of Sam does look like Jared Frigging Padalecki, after all, and we've all been there at one point or another in our lives, so whatever, and look at that! While I was babbling on, the camera slid from Imitation Of Sam's reflection in the barroom mirror to Imitation Of Sam himself, and it's some pimply-faced geek from 7th Heaven! DUN! "Love that jacket on you, by the way," Klassy Krystle kroons. "Thanks!" The Pimply-Faced Geek From 7th Heaven proudly and cheerfully replies. "Actually," he adds, taking a moment to admire his Darling Sammy reflection one last time before escorting Klassy Krystle back to her boudoir, "the whole outfit is new!"
SPLAT! "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" shrieks Raoul from the depths of his den, for I believe Edith Phillips has just shot Margaret DeLorca in the head. Raoul can kiss my ass. "I heard that!" Liar. "Hey!"
Metallicar grumbles across the rain-slicked driveway of a squat little colonial as the just-arriving location card informs us we've landed in "Housatonic, Massachusetts" "Thirty Six Hours Earlier" and yes, the just-arriving location card neglected to include the hyphen in "Thirty Six" because even the just-arriving location card hates me tonight. "Dean and Sammy Winchester!" a bright-eyed blonde sings as she places a plate of cookies and a pitcher of lemonade in front of Our Intrepid Heroes once they've settled themselves down around the coffee table in the squat little colonial's living room. "How long's it been?" the bright-eyed blonde muses as her ashen-faced gloom of an adolescent daughter squirms uncomfortably beneath a comfy-looking knitted afghan on the couch opposite Sam and Dean. "Summer before sixth grade," Darling Sammy remembers, and everyone old enough to do so waxes sentimental about Super-Smart Sammy nerdishly assigning himself his own reading list back in the day until they finally get down to business. Long story short, bright-eyed "Donna" here babysat for the boys on a couple of occasions back before she was married, and because she was apparently banging their worthless bastard of a so-called father at the same time as well, Sucky John decided to fill her in on the true nature of The Family Business, so she of course knew whom to call once a poltergeist made its presence known within their squat little colonial. "Started a month or two after we moved in," Donna's sturdy, blue-collar husband explains. "Yeah," Donna nods. "First, it was just bumps and knocks and scratches on the walls, and then it started breaking things." And then the thing attacked their daughter, "Katie." "Can you show them, honey?" Donna gently asks. Gloomy Kate reluctantly but dutifully rises from the sofa to hike her t-shirt above her stomach, upon which The Thing has scrawled "MurdErd CHyldE" in L.A. Girl Maroon Lip Liner from Hot Topic. Dashing El Deano gallantly refrains from peppering poor Gloomy Kate with certain obvious questions regarding Gloomy Kate's reproductive history as of late, and instead assures the afflicted trio that he and Sam will take care of everything. A grateful Donna thanks them before bolting off on an impromptu Winchester-recommended vacation with her brood, and we zip on over to...