"We Have A Slight Coppery Odor"

S04E15

In Ohio: Emma has, of course, disappeared in the wake of the last episode's abortive nuptials, and Will has, of course, given up on looking for her, because Will now completely sucks as a character. This means Bloaty The Gravy Clown must once again waddle to Mr. Schue's rescue, which he does by finagling Miss Pillsbury's current coordinates out of her still-bizarre parents, and after Mr. Schue wins his errant bride back with some grand romantic gesture I didn't exactly bother to watch, the two adults agree to something I didn't exactly bother to hear.

In New York: The magnificent Santana Lopez rifles through her new roommates' belongings -- as you do -- and while she mistakenly decides Dean Geyer's a coke dealer after finding a wad of a cash and a pager in his coat, she correctly decides Old Idiot Rachel's knocked up after finding that pee stick in the trash. The Horrible Hooker Of Broadway immediately starts blubbering about her now-occupied uterus, but we'll have to wait a week or so for resolution on all of that, because this evening's episode was awfully light on the plot points.

In Other News: St. Gay Of Lima's rebound relationship with Meth Head Grandpa is already on the (crack) rocks, Frankenteen informs Mr. Schue of The Kiss, and Stupid Boring New Idiot Rachezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Featuring a variety of songs from various celluloid classics, including an utterly charming black-and-white dream sequence set to the tune of "You're All The World To Me" from Royal Wedding, as performed by Mr. Schue and Miss Pillsbury; a thoroughly embarrassing version of "Shout" from Animal House, as performed by the children of The New New Directions with Dreamboat Blaine and Brit-Brit sharing primary vocal duties; an appropriately consumptive "Come What May" from Moulin Rouge!, as performed by Dreamboat Blaine and St. Gay Of Lima; a medley on the apparent theme of "Thoroughly Unappealing Midgets With Inexplicably Lengthy Hollywood Careers" that includes Top Gun's "Danger Zone" and Risky Business's "Old Time Rock And Roll," as performed by The Glee Guys with Dreamboat Blaine and Lady Lips Von Bieberhausen on lead; this noted medley of "Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend" and "Material Girl," also from Baz Luhrmann's Moulin Rouge!, as performed by Not-So-Unique and Stupid Boring New Idiot Rachel with an assist from the other Glee Gals; Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes," as featured in Say Anything..., here performed by Mr. Schue with doo-woppy backup helpfully provided by the children of The New New Directions; "Unchained Melody" from this penetrating examination of forbidden love in the California penal system, as befittingly performed by New Puck, New Finn, and a sloppy lump of wet clay; and the infamously awful "Footloose" from the infamously awful film(s) of the same name, as performed by the children of The New New Directions with solos from Lady Lips Von Bieberhausen and Artie.

"Ha-ha!" a slickly attired Will fake-laughs to open the evening as he escorts a similarly attired Emma into a rather spare, white-paneled room with pronounced Art Deco accents. "Every Jack and Jill at The Carousel Club couldn't take their peepers off of you tonight!" he gaily continues. "Oh, applesauce!" Emma modestly pshaws by way of reply as she settles herself into a plushly upholstered chair. "Honest Injun!" Will swears, and you'll forgive me, I'm sure, for skipping the rest of this opening patter, because it's already made me positively homicidal, and we're barely eight seconds into this evening's presentation.

As noted above, both Will and Emma are rather slickly attired in almost-matching tuxedos, though Will's missing his jacket for whatever reason, and while I'm guessing Emma's going for a Dietrich-in-Morocco look, here, she's ended up far closer to Janelle Monáe, which is very sad for everyone.

In any event, Bad '30s Movie Parody Will hints at what's to come by claiming his love for Emma sends the world "topsy-turvy, like gravity was never invented" and as he offers her his hand...

...we cut to a black-and-white iris-out that's centered on the two in the center of the room, and what follows is a damn-near-perfect gem of a musical number. I've seriously watched this thing six times in a row, and I could easily watch it another dozen without getting tired of it. Basically, they've turned Fred Astaire's famous version of "You're All The World To Me" from Royal Wedding into a one long, single-take, deep-focus duet, and it's so well done, my brain pretty much shuts down every time I even attempt to comprehend all the work that went into getting it right. I'm utterly incapable of describing it, too, so just go ahead and watch it here if you missed it the first time around. Trust me, it's worth it. I think my favorite bits include the part where Matthew Morrison swoops under the desk to land on his feet on the opposite wall, and the part where he swings from the far chair for a little bit before hopping up to the ceiling, and the part where Jayma Mays turns herself into a rather curvaceous upside-down tchotchke while he does a little soft-shoe on the wall behind her. Abso-frigging-lutely delightful, and I absolutely mean that. And when it's over...

...Real Will bolts upright atop his DVD-strewn bed, all but screaming himself awake from that opening dream sequence. He takes a sweaty, panting moment to collect himself and, after he's wearily shut off Royal Wedding on his TV, Will flops backwards into this evening's Moulin Rouge!-inflected title card.

Snap open on The McKinley High Music Room, where the assignment for the week is -- wait for it -- "MOVIES!!!" You know, because Mr. Schue's been watching a lot of them lately. God, he sucks. The assembled children don't seem to care too much about that, though, if their strenuously enthusiastic response to this week's half-assed assignment is anything to go by. "Unique knows all there is to know about The Crying Game!" Urethra Franklin shouts out amid the general revelry, because of course. Meanwhile, Pretty Kitty eyes Stupid Boring New Idiot Rachel and hisses, "You don't get dibs on Les Miz just because you are the poster." Hee. "Finally!" Lady Lips Von Bieberhausen shouts, totally not getting it, at all. "I get to do my Nicolas Cage impression! Ahhh! Not the bees! Ahhhhh!" Mr. Schue somehow manages to restore order long enough to inform the children that this week's competition will also pit the genders against each other. Oh, and the songs they select must be medleys, so we're getting, like, three half-assed assignments for the price of one. Or something like that.

Artie rolls himself forward at this point to sweeten the deal by offering the winners "starring roles" in his inaugural "micro-budget feature," but as that particular part of this particular subplot is never mentioned again this evening, I don't know why I bothered making note of it. And as the children break into groups to work on their song choices -- Sugar Motta wants The Glee Gals to tackle The Artist so they don't have to sing -- Frankenteen lurches to his monstrous feet to drag Mr. Schue out into...

...The Hallowed Halls Of Dear McKinley High for a private chat about Miss Pillsbury's current whereabouts. Long story short, Mr. Schue still doesn't know where she's hidden herself, and as her parents continue to "stonewall" him, he's decided to abandon the search for now. Of course, Bloaty The Gravy Clown finds this unacceptable, even though it really is none of his fucking business in the first place, so after he needlessly makes reference to both Stand and Deliver and Zero Dark Thirty, he waddles off to...

By Demian

...Coach Sylvester's office to ask for her help, because he's an idiot. "I assume she's checked into some ginger asylum somewhere now that she's escaped from Will Schuester's living doll house of the damned," Coach Sylvester opines, "but even if I were privy to that information -- even if I did know -- I certainly wouldn't divulge it to a flop-sweat-smelling, fake-teen-teaching, army-deserting, high-school-lurking, Sectionals-losing, special-needs-baby-hating..."

"...point is, Sue didn't know," Frankenteen admits. We've hopped back to the music room, where Bloaty The Gravy Clown is now enlisting the aid of Artie, even though all of this is still none of his fucking business in the first place. "What we have on our hands," Artie determines, "is a lady-manhunt: We need a hard-target search of every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse, and doghouse." "Ain't nobody got time for that," Frankenteen buhs. "Then just talk to her parents," Artie shrugs. Eventually, Old Finn agrees to the plan.

Hallowed Halls Of Dear McKinley High. Brit-Brit and Dreamboat Blaine skip on over to Single-T Tina, Lady Lips Von Bieberhausen, New Puck, and Stupid Boring New Idiot Rachel to propose the following: Since it sort of sucks that The Glee Guys have once again been set against The Glee Gals, why don't they all get together to perform one cinematic classic together as a warm-up for the main event? The others find this an excellent idea, with Lady Lips suggesting they sing "Dream Warriors" from Nightmare On Elm Street and Single-T Tina opting for "Let The River Run" from Working Girl, while Stupid Boring New Idiot Rachel recommends "Wind Beneath My Wings" from Beaches because Stupid Boring New Idiot Rachel is actually a sixty-year-old gay man with a fondness for blousy Hawaiian shirts, chunky turquoise jewelry and fluffy little white dogs named Pickles. Shut up, you drippy snore.

Fortunately, Stupid Boring New Idiot Rachel's horrendous taste in music doesn't matter because Brit-Brit and Dreamboat Blaine have already chosen "the perfect movie song" -- one that is "totally iconic" and that "everyone loves," supposedly -- a thoroughly embarrassing rendition of "Shout" from Animal House that quickly takes everyone involved prancing through just about the entire school until it mercifully reaches its end in the cafeteria. It's bad, people. Not that the original's much better, of course, but still. I also think it's the most aggressively heterosexual song they've ever attempted on this show, and God knows that's not helping matters, either. It's just so viciously unpleasant that I suggest we all agree never to acknowledge its existence again, and instead, won't you join me as I blow right past it to land in...

...My Ancestral Homeland? Excellent. Santana Lopez stands at the barred windows of The Improbably Bohemian Loft, glaring at the snow falling outside as her voiceover crabs, "My first real week in New York, and I'm snowbound in Bushwick with a bunch of musical theater queens." Oh, ow. That poor woman. You have all of my sympathy, here, Santana. Of course, you generally have all of my sympathy everywhere, but nevertheless. OW.

Behind her, St. Gay Of Lima and Meth Head Grandpa amuse absolutely no one by throwing lines from Downton Abbey at each other until Santana's Voiceover observes, "It's like Eli Roth decided to make a gay horror movie, and this is the scene right before we all eat each other." Santana crosses from the windows to the kitchen table to attempt small talk with Meth Head Grandpa, but it's really just an excuse for her to ask of St. Gay, "Are you guys dating? 'Cause at Mr. Schue's bomb of a wedding, you and Blaine, like..." "Shut up!" St. Gay snaps before icily reminding Santana that he and The Horrible Hooker Of Broadway are allowing her to live in their apartment rent-free. "Where is Rachel, anyways?" Santana loudly wonders. "Giving that living mannequin a bikini wax?" Meth Head Grandpa helpfully exposits that Rachel's filthy whore of a boyfriend is "working" at the moment, and that The Horrible Hooker herself is currently occupying the loft's sole bathroom. "Let's hope she's embracing her inner bulimic," Santana smiles by way of response, "because let me tell you: Homegirl has been looking extremely pumpkin-like, and not just 'cause of the Tan-In-A-Can." Unable to bear any more of this in silence, Old Idiot Rachel bursts from the john to blurt, "Okay, you have to move out, because this is our sanctuary, and by 'our,' I mean mine and Kurt's and..." There's more, but you get the gist, I assume.

Eventually, St. Gay breaks through the blithering long enough to order the gals to retract their claws, and there are mutterings involving Fake Drama School In New York cancelling classes due to the blizzard, and would anyone like to indulge in a little movie marathon? But of course! Santana's already gone through the available DVDs and suggests either Knocked Up, Rosemary's Baby, or She's Having A Baby, all of which Old Idiot Rachel immediately shoots down, for what Santana and I both hope are obvious reasons. "Oh, really?" Kurt teases in a hilariously bitchy sing-song. "Not even She's Having A Baby? 'Cause you always cryyyyy at the end when Elizabeth McGovern has the baaaaay-by!" Hee! "I'm not in the mood!" Old Idiot Rachel all but shrieks, but that's okay, because St. Gay Of Lima would rather watch Baz Luhrmann's Moulin Rouge!, anyway. Santana looks ready to throttle someone, but unfortunately, we must first pass through this evening's first commercial break before she gets a chance to do so.

Improbably Bohemian Loft, Lushly Romantic Dream Ballet Fantasy Sequence Rooftop Division. Dreamboat Blaine emerges from the stairwell to step onto a mistily moonlit soundstage recreation of that elephant set from St. Gay Of Lima's favorite movie, and with little ado, he croons the opening lines of "Come What May." And much as it pains me to say this, Ewan McGregor did it better. Though maybe I'm allowing those hurl-inducing fuzzy-edged flashbacks of happier moments in his relationship with St. Gay to color my judgment of Dreamboat Blaine's performance, because the instant they're gone, I start finding this number more than just a little bit enjoyable, especially when Kurt materializes in the gently-falling snow to handle the Nicole Kidman bits. In fact, I start finding this number so goddamned enjoyable, I'm not even gonna bother trying to pick it apart. I will note one interesting choice, though: While there's an almost urgent ardency to Fantasy Blaine's performance throughout the song (read: He makes a lot of endearingly doofy faces, as is his wont), Fantasy Kurt remains warily aloof, which kind of blows for him, given that it's his lushly romantic dream ballet fantasy sequence we've been watching this entire time. If I actually liked the character at this point in the show's run, I'd be feeling mighty blue for him right about now.

But setting all that aside, it really is just a lovely number, and it's another I could easily watch a dozen or so more times. Which of course raises the question: If they can get this one so right, why can't they do the same for all of the other musical numbers on this goddamned show? Why do so many of them have to suck so much, huh? WHY? WHYYYYYYYYY?

Ahem. In any event, our Fantasy Boys rather significantly cut off the song's last line before they hit the "until my dying day" bit, and as they cling to each other in the soundstage snow, the camera pans up to cross-fade back to...

...The Improbably Bohemian Loft, where we find Meth Head Grandpa, St. Gay Of Lima, and The Horrible Hooker Of Broadway huddled in a swoony clump of verklempt on the sofa while Santana sits rather regally off to one side, once again looking like she's ready to throttle someone. Heh. And as the number ends in the actual movie on their television set, Meth Head Grandpa glances over at his would-be boyfriend and wonders, "Are you crying?" "No! No," St. Gay Of Lima hastily LIES before spouting some obvious line of bullshit about his damn dirty contact lenses, and Santana glares at him for a lengthy moment before too-innocently noting, "I would have thought that you were crying because you and Blaine used to talk about how it was your dream to sing this song to each other at your wedding." "Did we?" St. Gay bites, clutching at his imaginary pearls while desperately attempting to will her mouth shut telekinetically. "Yeah!" Santana brightly continues, completely ignoring death rays now shooting from St. Gay's eyes. "I remember you telling me that singing this song to someone was a more intimate act than sex!" "Who wants popcorn?" St. Gay hoots, attempting to change the subject, but Santana's got that one covered, as there's something she'd like to discuss with her new roommates.

"I have tried to keep this to myself," Santana begins, pausing the movie while rising from her chair to address them, "but I will be silent no longer: That Brody character is a freaking psycho." Kurt, instantly intrigued: "Go on..." Hee.

"When I first met him," Santana obliges, "I totally thought he was weird -- he smelled all talcum-y, like a Cabbage Patch Doll? -- and then he said that I wasn't a real New Yorker until I had my first makeover, and I was, like, 'What does that even mean -- like, who are you?'" "Brody's a sweetheart," Meth Head Grandpa interjects. "That's what I told myself!" Santana readily agrees. "I said, 'So what if he's completely hairless and made out of plastic -- I'm gonna look past the fact that he probably has a disgusting porn star landing strip, and I'm gonna give Lars And The Real Boy one more chance, but then? I found this." At that, Santana withdraws a wad of cash from her pocket and waves it around in the air. "Twelve hundred dollars in cash," she emphasizes. "When did you find that?" Old Idiot Rachel wonders. "Last night," Santana casually admits, "when I was rooting through all the pockets and drawers in this apartment."

Cut to a flashback of Santana rooting through all the pockets and drawers in that apartment, even going so far as to burrow through the mountains of crap beneath Rachel's bed. It's far more amusing than it has any right to be.

And once we've cut back to the present, Old Idiot Rachel howls, "You went through all of our stuff?" "Yeah," Santana shrugs. "It's a thing I do." Hee. "That's completely unacceptable!" St. Gay Of Lima protests. "Oh, okay," Santana replies. "I like how you guys pretend to be all 'accepting' about everything, but when your friend suddenly shows up in your home, moves in, and goes through all your stuff, you're offended?" HA! "Just because he has a little money on him," Meth Head Grandpa interrupts, "doesn't mean that he's a psycho." "That's what I thought!" Santana agrees, again. "I mean, who cares if he's terrified of banks? 'Cause if I were made out of plastic, I'd be scared of a lot of things, too -- open flames, barbecues -- but then, I found this!" Santana pulls a pager from her other pocket, explains to Kurt and Rachel what a pager actually is, and proceeds to insist upon the following: "There is only one type of person in this world that carries cash and a pager. Your friend Brody? Is a drug dealer." No, Santana, their friend Brody is a WHOOOOOOOOOORE! But you weren't around last time for that scene, so I'll forgive you. Needless to say, St. Gay Of Lima and The Horrible Hooker gape and gawp at Santana's incorrect accusation, but before we get a chance to delve more fully into their respective reactions, we must first shuttle back to...

...The Hallowed Halls Of Dear McKinley High, where Frankenteen and Artie have lured Miss Pillsbury's bizarre parents for a sit-down chat under false pretenses. The boys, you see, have donned red wigs, and are claiming to represent McKinley's "Stop Ginger Bullying Club" -- supposedly founded of course by Miss Pillsbury herself -- and they're "leaderless," and they're "hemorrhaging money," and could Ralph Malph and Mrs. Malph please find it in their hearts to let Bloaty The Gravy Clown and Artie know where their daughter is? "You two don't smell like gingers," Ralph Malph frowns. Frankenteen's all, "Huh?" so Ralph Malph explains, "Gingers smell like pennies -- we have a slight coppery odor." "It's true," Mrs. Malph agrees, adding, "When Rusty's away on one of his business trips to Ecuador and I'm really missing him? Sometimes I shove my face in a bowl full of loose change and inhale really deeply, and it's like he's sitting right to me." And as all of that is so utterly revolting in ways I can't even begin to describe, I'll keep this moving, okay? Wonderful.

So, long story short, after a little more chatter -- some of it involving this show's fucked-up idea of college admissions schedules -- Ralph Malph and Mrs. Malph agree to write down their daughter's current address. By the way, Ralph Malph's a leftie. Which makes sense, I suppose, given the Satanic shade of his hair.

Bushwick. The four snowed-in residents of The Improbably Bohemian Loft talk amongst themselves for a bit until Santana steers the conversation back to Rachel's filthy whore of a boyfriend, which naturally drives Old Idiot Rachel insane, so she calls the gentleman in question up on her product-placed iPhone to prove to those assembled that he is not, in fact, a drug dealer. Unfortunately for her, the too-sketchy and too-hasty conversation she proceeds to have with her beloved only serves to reinforce Santana's misguided beliefs, so consider that a fail on The Horrible Hooker's part.

McKinley High Music Room. "I hope they mash up 'Batdance' with 'Howard The Duck'!" Sugar Motta squeals, and having already seen what The Glee Guys actually proceed to perform, I must admit I am desperately sorry they didn't follow Sugar's sage advice.

Led by Dreamboat Blaine and Lady Lips Von Bieberhausen, the boys take to the risers to offer us their versions of "Danger Zone" from Top Gun and "Old Time Rock And Roll" from Risky Business, and the only thing this wretched mess has going for it is Jacob Artist's thighs. Thank God he finally turned twenty, because I was getting sick of perving on a goddamned teenager. And once The Glee Guys have finished assaulting our ears with their extremely ill-advised tribute to Tom Cruise, we whip through this evening's commercial break to land in...

By Demian

...The Novak, where The Glee Gals are just now finishing their cosmetic preparations for this week's big competition number, and given the fact they're all dressed like this version of Marilyn Monroe, I'm gonna go out on a limb, here, and guess that they'll be performing "Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend" at some point in the two or three minutes.

Before that happens, though, we must first toddle on down to Stupid Boring New Idiot Rachel's end of the toilet for a brief exchange between herself and Pretty Kitty. "I have a confession to make," Kitty opens. "For the past six months, I've said behind your back and in front of your face that you're poor and fat and mousy and boring and you dress like Zack Galifianakis." She had me at "mousy and boring." "I apologize," Kitty continues, "but God made me, and He's not through with me yet, and besides! We're both dating Puckermans, and someday we'll be sisters-in-law and hanging out with Jews." Stupid Boring New Idiot Rachel, because she is stupid and boring and an idiot, absorbs all of the above and decides to look guilt-stricken over the "dating Puckermans" bit, rather than frothy with rage over everything else. God, I hate her. "I saw that," Kitty speed-talks. "What's going on?" Stupid Boring New Idiot Rachel looks around to make sure no one else is listening, then leans in to whisper, "If I tell you something, do you swear not to tell anyone?" Jesus Christ, she's a dumbass. Kitty crosses her fingers behind her back and vows on her mother's grave never to repeat what she's about to hear, because of course she does, Stupid Boring New Idiot Rachel! AUAUAUAUUUUGH! "Last week, Ryder kissed me!" Stupid Boring New Idiot Rachel confides, and who the hell is Ryder? "Oh-em-gee!" Kitty gasps, dramatically covering her mouth with both hands as she does so. Then, after a pause, she asks, "Was he any good, or did his humongous donkey teeth bite into your lips?" Yeah, I still don't know who this Ryder person is. Thanks for nothing, Kitty.

And when it's over, Emma leans out her bedroom window to giggle, "Will, are you crazy?" "Crazy for you," he replies like the tremendous and nearly insufferable dork he truly is before adding, "but that's Vision Quest, and Matthew Modine skipping rope isn't nearly as romantic as John Cusack holding a boombox." Yeah, but Matthew Modine at his worst in that movie was still way hotter than John Cusack has ever been in his life, so roll it up tight and cram it, Will.

He ignores me, because he always ignores me, and he instead calls out for Emma to come downstairs so he might pitch a little more woo. And after he awkwardly tells the kids to scram, Emma does just that, and wow this is dull. Show of hands: Who actually cares about the state of their relationship at this point? Anyone? Anyone? Yeah, didn't think so.

So, basically, Will and Emma agree to start all over again at the beginning -- again, some more -- because God knows we haven't had enough of their tiresome Issues at this point, and once that's over and done with, we head into this evening's commercial break. Joy. Emma's coat is adorable, though, so I guess the scene wasn't a complete waste.

My Ancestral Homeland. Santana Lopez returns to The Improbably Bohemian Loft to find Old Idiot Rachel curled up on the sofa, alone, and waits not one second before announcing, "New York may be disgusting -- especially when it's covered in grey, nasty snow -- and the people may be horrible and rude, and some smelly homeless man in pee-stained tighty-whiteys might have groped me on the subway and then asked me for a dollar, but I gots to say, I finally feel like I found my people!" Hey! I think I ran into that guy on the Lexington Avenue express once. Small world.

The Horrible Hooker Of Broadway snarkily congratulates Santana on "finding [her] corner of the sky," so Santana retaliates by wondering if "Pablo Escobar" ever came home after the blizzard. Old Idiot Rachel sniffily replies that her filthy whore of a boyfriend is in the shower, thank you very much, but that only leaves her open for this bit of beauty from her new roommate: "Where he will be for the hour, scrubbing the drug shame off of his frictionless body." Hee. The two bicker a bit more over Rachel's beloved before Santana leans in and says, "Okay, look: Now that we're alone, I want to talk to you about what I found in your bathroom trashcan."

Cut to Santana, sitting on the toilet with her panties around her ankles, digging through God alone knows what kind of gross to retrieve Rachel's discarded EPT. Hee!

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rachel LIES. "You're really not gonna tell me?" Santana prompts. Rachel's chin starts quivering, and tears well up in her eyes, but she still manages to stiffen her spine and protest, "You had no right!" "I'm your friend," Santana counters, adding, "you can trust me -- just tell me what's going on." Poor Rachel visibly crumbles at that -- and I really have to applaud Lea Michele in this scene, because she is selling the hell out of it -- and as she collapses, sobbing, against Santana's shoulder, Santana freaks for exactly one second before pulling Rachel into a hug. "It's gonna be okay," Santana assures her, but you can tell from the look in Santana's eyes that she doesn't believe a single word of it. Why did they wait fifteen episodes to move this character to New York? Huh? This episode absolutely lit up whenever she appeared on screen with Rachel and Kurt. God, the people running this show are morons.

And speaking of morons, Stupid Boring New Idiot Rachel's just now entering The McKinley High Pottery Room, where she finds New Puck waiting fozzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Basically, he's summoned her there so they can recreate the pottery scene -- scenes? I have no idea -- from that godawful Ghost movie and oh, my holy Christ, this is SO BORING. It's so boring, in fact, that even Stupid Boring New Idiot Rachel has an aneurysm that hurls her into this absurd out-of-body experience where she's more or less making out with both New Finn and New Puck at the same time, even though everybody knows it'd be a hell of a lot more interesting if those two guys got it on on their own, and when it's all finally -- finally! -- over, Stupid Boring New Idiot Rachezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Sorry, but I will never, ever care about bonehead teenagers and their super-scandalous stolen kisses. Now, if she and New Finn had actually fucked each other, New Puck might have something to whine about. Though, you know, it's not like that little punk-ass dumbass owns her goddamned vagina, so all of these dimwits can fuck the hell off right now. Oh, and also: This evening's final commercial break!

Music Room. Mr. Schue enters to announce the winner of "this year's Mash-Off" -- which...okay, didn't know that's what we were doing, here, but whatever -- and it's everyone! "What?" Single-T Tina snarls. "Why do you always do this?" Dreamboat Blaine wails. "This is a shame!" Not-So-Unique scolds as New Finn Hulks out and hurls a chair against a wall. "Why don't you just send Maria Shriver in to give us all hugs?" Kitty acidly remarks. "In reality, what you're saying is we're all losers!" Sugar Motta pouts. "Why did we bother having a competition in the first place?" New Finn demands. Alas, New Finn never does get an appropriate response, as Mr. Schue takes this opportunity to call Bloaty The Gravy Clown out into the hall for a private chat.

By Demian

Cut to Santana, sitting on the toilet with her panties around her ankles, digging through God alone knows what kind of gross to retrieve Rachel's discarded EPT. Hee!

By Demian

Oh, and there's no way in hell I'm spending any more time on this stupidity than I absolutely have to, so: Long story short, Bloaty The Gravy Clown admits he shoved his tongue down Miss Pillsbury's throat a month ago, and instead of behaving like the thirty-seven-year-old adult he's supposed to be, Mr. Schue gets his panties in a tremendous wad and stomps off down the hall in a teary-eyed rage. Someone needs to whack both of these dolts across the face with a tire iron. Or maybe a sock filled with batteries. Whichever -- I'm not choosy.

So, you remember how Artie babbled some nonsense about his inaugural "micro-budget feature" about a thousand years ago when this episode was still fresh and new? And you remember how I told you to forget about it because that particular subplot would never be mentioned again this evening? I lied. Tonight's final number apparently represents the fruits of Auteur Artie's micro-budgeted labor, and if Auteur Artie spent more than $2.74 on this crap, he spent too much, because it's nothing more than a straight cover of the infamously awful "Footloose" from the infamously awful film(s) of the same name, as performed by the black-clad children of The New New Directions with solos from Lady Lips Von Bieberhausen and Auteur Artie himself. Sure, there are a couple of cute bits involving the kids playing around up in the flies -- cutest of all being those bits with New Finn -- and yeah, there's one stretch where they sort of half-assedly recreate the leg thing from The Will Rogers Follies, but for the most part, it's just the children bopping around on the stage for two and a half minutes, and I'm sorry, but that shit will not cut it when the music's this bad. Who did Kenny Loggins blow to get two songs into tonight's episode?

week: Mr. Schue continues to act like the responsible adult he is, except for the part where he totally doesn't do that at all. It's going to be hateful. Have fun!

Demian's been snowbound with a bunch of musical theater queens on several occasions, and that shit gets real ugly, real fast. You may reach him at demian_twop@yahoo.com.