Postmodern Gay thinks about how Sam called him a quarterback stallion or whatever, so he spies on Coach Bieste to get some dirt to take to Sue to get Sam promoted to head coach so he can start as QB1. He peeps her taking a lot of pills, wearing a binder, which he calls “lingerie from the Victoria’s Secret trucker collection,” and generally acting unlike herself. He wants Sue to look into it, and since Sue’s just biding her time until Darrell and Becky return from Fudruckers so she can stab him to death with a cheerleading trophy, she says she’ll peek in and see what’s the what.
Out in the hallway, Santana requests a moment of Kurt’s time. Rachel tries to skedaddle, but Santana tells her to park her buns. And then she throws the most legendary shade in the history of this earth. The sun actually goes dark. It’s like an eclipse. Homer rises from the grave, writes an epic poem about it, and destroys all copies of Iliad and Odyssey, because this is what he wants to be remembered for. I am going to transcribe it for you because honestly the only thing that improves upon Naya’s delivery is the face Lea makes while it’s happening:
Kurt, I took what you said to heart and I thought long and hard about it and it occurred to me that you may have a point. Okay, maybe Brittany and I are too young to get married. I mean, after all that’s why it didn’t work out with you and Blaine, right? Or maybe it didn’t work out because you’re a judgmental little gerontophile with a mouth like a cat’s ass. Maybe Blaine got tired of hearing a shrill, self-aggrandizing lecture about how you felt the two of you were at the very apex of the gay rights movement every time you so much as cooked macaroni & cheese together — or farted. Maybe Blaine didn’t want to be with someone who looks like they just removed their top row of dentures every time they smile, or someone who doesn’t dress like an extra out of one of Andy Dick’s more elaborate wet dreams.
Maybe Blaine grew weary of dating a breathier more feminine Quinn Fabray. Maybe he finally got freaked out by your strange obsession with old people that causes you to skulk around nursing homes like one of those cats that can smell cancer. Maybe he got tired of watching you drape yourself on every piano you happen past, to entertain exactly no one, with, say, some song that Judy Garland choked on her tongue in the middle of or some sassy old Broadway standard made famous by another dead alcoholic crone. Maybe Blaine woke up one day and said, “You know what? I don’t want to marry a sexless, self-centered baton twirler. Maybe I need someone who knows more than thre dance moves: the finger wave, the shoulder shimmy, and the one where you pretend to twirl two invisible rainbow colored ribbons attached to your hips.” So, you know what? Maybe that’s why it didn’t work out. Maybe it has nothing to do with me and Brittany. Maybe it’s just that you are utterly, utterly intolerable. Maybe that has something to do with it.
It’s the meanest, most glorious thing I have ever heard, even though I really love Kurt Hummel. I think Santana is so cathartic because she says all the things you’re not even allowed to think about other humans? I don’t know. It really turns me on, and I’m scared to figure out why. When Santana swaggers off there’s a light-up marquee that says “Get your crap together” which isn’t quite as excellent as the one that said “Act normal, bitch” at Emily Fields after Rosewood High School came to life one time and tried to slaughter her, but is still very good advice.
Tina and Quinn try to give Becky some show choir moves, but she bounces after ten minutes to go to Cheddars with Darrell. Okay, she tries to bounce, but Quinn and Tina are as weirded out by Darrell as Sue was, so they drag him to Sue’s office so Roz can interrogate him, hilariously.
What Roz finds out that makes her go, “Whaaaaaat?” better than any GIF I’ve ever seen, though, is when she realizes Sue’s late sister, daughter and best friend/confidante all have Down Syndrome, but are not the same person. Everyone tries to get Darrell to admit to his perverse sins, but he says he liked Becky from the moment she walked into Quizzno’s, ordered every sandwich, and tried to pay with a counterfeit $10,ooo bill. He’s also already called NDSS to ask about sex and they told him he and Becky can do it when their relationship reaches that point, and so everyone needs to get off his junk and let Becky make her own decisions.
Brittany and Kurt are in the auditorium, filling up a giant plastic heart with Mounds Bars as a visual representation of all the minutes Santana and Brittany have spent together. (Off-screen, clearly. If they’d spent 6,000 Mounds Bars’ worth of screentime together on this show, I never would have had to keep breaking up with it and then binging on it and then breaking up with it again.) (Yes, I would have.)
Kurt: I’m sorry I made Santana’s proposal all about me. I think Mr. Schue did some kind of self-absorption voodoo on that classroom, I really do.
Brittany: Ugh, that fucker was the worst. Listen, I think you need to go out with someone. It’s time to move on.
Kurt: No. It’s not over with Blaine.
Brittany: I mean, it kind of is. I just decorated his and Karofsky’s new apartment.
Smash cut: [to a bed-less room with more rainbow flags than the afterparty at a unicorn convention]
Kurt: NO!
Brittany: Look, man. You can either eat the chocolate or stand there with it in your hand until it looks like poop. Don’t be that second guy. Don’t be poop-hand.
Kurt: I missed you, Britt.
Brittany: Quite rightly.
However, Kurt is unable to shake the Dark Magic of William “Cucaracha” Schuester. During a performance of “Will You Love Me”/”Head Over Feet” by Jane and the new guy who is a Cheerio, Kurt runs through a whole Klaine fanvideo in his head and closes out their song with scathing, catty criticism. Rachel tells him to go home because he’s drunk on his own heartbreak. And so he does. But then he comes back and apologizes and Rachel forgives him because she gets it. She, too, has been possessed by the solipsistic demon spirit of Mr. Schuhe in this classroom once or twice.
