The Girl Next Door

Episode Report Card
Demian: D | 7 USERS: B
It's Like The Hardy Boys Aren't Even Trying Anymore

Dippy El Deano: Bobby! You're alive!
Laconic Bobby: 'Course I am.
Dippy El Deano: We thought you were dead!
Laconic Bobby, Who Deserves To Rot In Hell: Well, I ain't.

And that's all we'll be hearing about Bobby's miraculous escape from Leviathan Edgar for the rest of this goddamned episode. Of course, to make matters worse, Bobby's there to rescue both Sam and Dean -- like, how convenient, and so much for Our Intrepid Dimwits finally fixing their own goddamned problems for once in their miserable lives -- and of course, rescue both Sam and Dean Bobby does, but first we must endure a sequence of supposedly anxiety-laden events that primarily involve Doped-Up El Deano hobbling through the hospital corridors on a pair of crutches while various Leviathans chase after him, but because I'm so disappointed with how ineptly they've chosen to resolve last week's enthralling cliffhanger, I'm not sure I have the strength to give you good people a blow-by-blow of the action. Suffice it to say, then, that after Bobby loads a still-unconscious Sam into the back of a handy ambulance, Dumbass El Deano hauls himself into the ambulance's front seat just in time for Bobby to peel off, leaving those various Leviathans to scowl and seethe and stare straight into the oncoming...

...SNOT ROCKET! "I'm bored!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon, flopping about atop his overstuffed armchair in an elaborate and elegant display of ennui. "Is the entire installment of this usually charming Friday-evening divertissement doomed to be so listless?!" Well... "Hmmm!?" To be brutally honest with you, my scaly friend, we're going to get a hint of brain-sucking about halfway through, and then at the very end, someone we don't care about gets stabbed to death. "That's it?!" I'm afraid so. "Then I'll thank you not to wake me! ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Oh, how I envy you, Raoul. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" And hate you at the same time.

The camera fades up on a ridiculously scenic rustic homestead located on the far outskirts of what the just-appearing location card claims is "Whitefish, Montana." Infuriatingly enough, the location card is presently joined by another wee bit of text that arrives to inform us it is now "Three Weeks Later," and Supernatural can go fuck itself. "ZZZZZZ -- language! -- ZZZZZZZ!" It would help me immensely if you remained silent whilst in your Coma Of Boredom, houseguest, and also: WHATEVER. After that godawful clusterfuck otherwise known as "Season Six," they start their entirely unnecessary Season Seven off with an unexpected and unexpectedly enjoyable bang, only to pull this bullshit on us at the beginning of the third episode? I repeat: Supernatural can go fuck itself.

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