...the music room, where she informs the others that Ongina has pulled out of the benefit, which means that none of Ongina's Twitter followers will be in attendance, either. "I told you she's evil!" Rachel hisses just as Puck arrives to announce that a mere six people have shown up for the concert, and no. Just...no. Counting Blaine and Kurt, Quinn and Puck's mothers, Artie's father, and the fantastic parental duos of Rachel, Finn, Brit-Brit, Mercedes, Lauren, Santana, Tina, Gaylord, and Trouty Mouth, there should be at least 23 people sitting in that auditorium, and I'm not even including Will, Gwyneth, and Sue and her minions, of whom there are at least...oh, fuck it. I can't be bothered with this bullshit anymore, and I still haven't gotten to Gwynnie's grotesquely condescending lecture yet, so this stupidity can kiss my ass, and when it's done kissing my ass, it can kiss my ass some more, and when it's done doing that, it can drop fucking dead.
ANY-way, Rachel insists that the show must go on, so Single-T Tina heads out to the stage to drone, as promised, Lykke Li's unbearable "I Follow Rivers." Fortunately, Sue's heckling minions immediately start hurling invective at her, so Single-T Tina has little choice but to scurry right back into the music room from whence she came, where Mr. Schue rather gratingly decides to turn the whole thing into A Teachable Moment by noting they might find themselves in front of a hostile audience at Nationals. So, you know, this experience is pretty much a good thing as far as he's concerned. Shove it, hairdo.
Still, Mr. Schue decides it might be for the best if they "shut those hecklers up for a number or two," and to that end, he sends Quinn out into the audience with several boxes of saltwater taffy, which she freely distributes to Sandy, Jewfro, Azimio, and Becky for reasons I hope are obvious just as Lady Lips announces "the dance stylings of Mr. Gaylord Wiener as he busts a move to Jack Johnson's 'Bubble Toes,'" and fuck. ME. GOD, Jack Johnson SUCKS. No, seriously: SUCKS! And I swear to the freshly arisen Christ Himself that the fucking radio station they played every single goddamned day in my office in Chicago would feature this fucking song every fucking hour of every single fucking day OF THE YEAR. This and Pablo Fucking Nutini's "New Shoes." Fucking earthy-crunchy Boomer-hipster BULLSHIT, is what it is. AUAUAUAUUUUAAAUUUUUUUGH.