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Demian: C- | Grade It Now!
I Don't Think You Ready For This Jelly
t's not what's really great about you, Rachel." Rachel's impending tears threaten to dislodge her carefully applied false eyelashes, and she whimpers that she thought this sort of thing was what Finn liked. "Not at all," Finn shakes his head before realizing, "Funny! I was just having this conversation last week with Kurt!"

Smear to a week ago, with a furiously scheming Kurt too-casually wondering, "So, what kind of girls do you like?" Finn, ambling along beside him down McKinley's halls, replies, "Oh, well, I like 'em when they're natural and stuff? Not a lot of makeup, not skintight clothes -- that sort of thing, you know?" A foul, wicked smile spreads across Kurt's face, and he perks, "Totally!" right before we smear back to...

...the present, where Rachel's abject humiliation continues apace. "I feel like an idiot," she whispers, crushed. Finn hastens to assure her it's far more his fault than hers and, realizing he's doing neither of them any good by remaining in Rachel's boudoir, he apologizes again, and flees. We don't get to see it, but I'm sure Rachel collapses to the floor in tears. Poor Rachel. Poor, stupid, obnoxious Rachel. Sigh.

Casa...what the hell is Kendra's last name? Ah, yes: "Giardi." Kendra's trio of redheaded, mouthbreathing morons have lashed Puck and Quinn back-to-back in a pair of chairs, and now run rampant through the living room, toppling tables and plugging each other in the face with cakes and such while Quinn snarls at Puck for a little assistance in slipping the knots that bind them. Puck, who'd supposedly been texting either Gaylord Weiner or Butt Lunch because one of them's been having "weight problems," finally drops his phone to offer an assist, and I think we're meant to believe sparks of romantic electricity pass between the two when their hands inadvertently touch, but I don't watch this show for the crappy and pointless high-school dating angst they seem determined to shove down my throat, so I'll be ignoring all of that in favor of zipping ahead to the point where they've freed themselves. In a desperate attempt to get the shrieking little mutants to shut the hell up already, Quinn yells, "Hey! Want to see a real, live music video?" For whatever reason, the feral imps do, and so, the next thing we know, Puck's unleashed his acoustic guitar, and he and Quinn treat the hellions to an impromptu version of Madonna's "Papa Don't Preach," and sweet Jesus, that video I just linked to takes me back. That goddamned song was everywhere during the summer of 1986. Shut up, Madonna. And Staten Island can cram a sock into it, too. But I'm meant to be typing about Quinn's performance, aren't I? Well, it's sweet-sounding enough, but her technique is a little light for a song I've long associated with Miss Ciccone's heavier, throat-rasping wails, so whatever. I think I'd like it better if Quinn stuck to, like, Shirelles covers, or something. And then it ends, and Kendra's vile little rug monkeys are of course mesmerized because music has charms to soothe the savage breast, and as I'm on the verge of shoehorning yet another boob-related joke into the recap at this point, I'll simply note that one of the evil ginger dirt smears bays, "Sing it again!" and leave it at that.

Later that evening, the wretched threesome are sound asleep in their bed, much to Terri and Kendra's horror. "What's that smell?" Kendra grimaces, crinkling her nose. "Soap," Quinn mildly replies. Terri and Kendra snap their heads around towards Quinn like they're in some day-glo colored remake of...well, you'll hear it in a second, and Terri gasps, "You got them to take a bath?" "Mmm-hmmm," Quinn smiles. "What are you?" Kendra spits. "A exorcist?!" And thanks for stomping all over my joke, Kendra. Yes, it was a lousy one, but still. Cow.

Meanwhile, out in the kitchen, Will's waxing rhapsodic over his shitty little crapped-out Corvette to his brother-in-law, but when Phil asks, "What're you gonna do when the kid comes?" Will's face falls, for you cannot install a car seat in a shitty little crapped-out Corvette.

And then it's Puck and Quinn's turn to pull focus as they coo and canoodle over in the hall. Quinn admits she had some qualms about how the evening would turn out, what with Puck constantly texting Shaft or Other Asian or whomever at the beginning there, but he managed to pull it all together in the end, and that's making her feel a lot better about keeping her fetus. "We proved something tonight," Puck agrees, adding, "This parenting thing? We can do this!" Quinn smiles.

BAM! Rachel slams Kurt's locker shut in his face the next day at school and seethes, "You set me up!" Kurt plays dumb, an act he really should avoid, because Brittney's so much better at it. "How could you do that?" Rachel rants, getting all up in Kurt's face. "I thought we were friends!" "And what made you think that?" Kurt airily replies, shutting her up but good. "You should be thanking me," he snottily pisses, reveling in Rachel's humiliation. "All I did was help you realize that your schoolgirl fantasy of running off with Finn was nothing but a fairy tale!" And, yeah: "Fairy tale," just like the little fairy's fairy tale himself, and ha-ha, and whatever, and Kurt haughtily sniffs, "I was just helping him understand that you are not a viable second choice!" "If I were second," Rachel immediately counters, earning major points for her proper use of the subjunctive, "or fiftieth, I'd still be ahead of you because I'm a girl!" Kurt, momentarily stung, pinches his prissy lips together to collect himself, then freezes her with, "Okay, here's the dope, princess: There's no hope for either of us. He loves Quinn -- they're having a baby together! -- and we're nothing but distractions. The sooner we realize that, the better." And with that, he flounces off down the hall. Bitch.

BAM! Santana Lopez slams Quinn's locker shut in her face and seethes, "Keep your paws off my man! Clear?" Quinn plays dumb, an act she really should avoid, because Brittney's so much better at it. "Who's your man?" Quinn icily inquires. "Don't play stupid, Tubbers," Santana Lopez snottily pisses, apparently agreeing with my point above. "And for the record?" she continues with much waving of her hands. "Asking someone to babysit with you is super '90s." Quinn, her confidence faltering, nevertheless counters, "I happen to know that Puck cares about me." "Well, wake up!" Santana Lopez sneers, getting all up in Quinn's face. "While you two were babysitting, Puck and I were sexting!" There follows an entirely unnecessary definition of "sexting" for the especially slow in the audience before Santana Lopez challenges Quinn to check Puck's cell for her "super-hot texts" if Quinn doesn't believe her, as Santana Lopez's sexts are "too hot to erase." And with that, she flounces off down the hall. Bitch. And God love her for it.

BAM! Oh, sorry. Thought they were going with The Rule Of Threes, there, but they're not. That should actually read "COMMERCIAL!"

Music Room. It's time for the scrimmage between McKinley High and The Haverbrook School Of The Deaf and for some reason, I'm certain the experience will be excruciating for everyone involved. Well, for everyone involved who happens also to be in the audience, at least. Mr. Schuester introduces "The New Directions" to their guests with Dalton Rumba translating for the benefit of his charges, and they're off! Like, really, really off. The hair-heavy number they perform for the vaguely disgusted ladies and gentlemen of The Haverbrook School Of The Deaf is actually a mash-up of "Hair" and Beyoncé's "Crazy In Love," and while it's nice to see Artie and Mercedes trading off on the leads again, the song...well, let's face it: The song sucks. And Will seems to realize it, go figure. Dumbass. The vaguely disgusted yet proper ladies and gentlemen of The Haverbrook School Of The Deaf, barely suppressing their hearty rounds of eye-rolls, politely applaud when it's o

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