"Quit makin' out in the shop!" Burt good-naturedly teases as he brushes past them to chat with his morose special unicorn of a son, who's spent the entire scene thus far slumped over on a stool in a far, lonely corner of the floor. "What do you want?" Burt immediately demands. "Nothing!" St. Gay Of Lima testily glooms by way of reply before whining, "Is Finn the only son who can help out around here?" Of course not, but as Burt knows St. Gay only volunteers to work when he's got something on his mind, Burt's quite naturally wondering what gives. St. Gay produces a list of "the only musicals [he's] a shoo-in to play the lead role in," and among those musicals are La Cage Aux Folles, Falsettos and "Miss Saigon, as Miss Saigon." Burt, bless him, interrupts the whiner with a beautifully blunt, "Dude, you're gay." "And you're not like Rock Hudson gay," Burt correctly points out, "you're really gay -- you sing like Diana Ross, and you dress like you own a magic chocolate factory." HA! Kurt bemoans the fact that his blatant feyness will only prevent him from landing the parts he really wants to play, but Burt -- bless him again -- sees this pathetic pity-party for what it really is, and swiftly but kindly tells him to knock it off. "If they're not writing movies and plays for performers like you," Burt opines, "then you gotta start writing your own." And as I've sat through far too much crap authored by and starring otherwise uncastable "actors" in the past, I know Burt's suggestion is not necessarily a good thing, but if it gets Kurt to stop acting like such a goddamned fucking martyr all of the time, then I'm all for it. "I'm just tired of being a unicorn," gripes St. Gay Of Lima. "You know what they call a unicorn without a horn?" Burt counters. "A friggin' horse." Kurt cracks a reluctant smile at that, and so Burt wanders off, his work here done. Until St. Gay's next self-manufactured crisis.
Booty Camp. Gaylord and Mr. Schue put the pathetically inept Frankenteen through his paces, and Frankenteen trips over his own stupid feet to crash to the auditorium stage, and Frankenteen despairs, and Mr. Schue delivers a pep-talk, and Frankenteen rises to his stupid feet to try it again, and even though FINN STILL SUCKS WITH THE DANCING, everyone applauds when he makes it through the routine without killing himself.
And when it's over, a freshly scrubbed Quinn materializes at the side of the stage. Gone are the nose ring and the pink hair and the tattered clothes and the menthols, and she's back to her wholesome-looking little blonde self. "Can I help you?" Mr. Schue inquires, all oddly stiff and overly formal about it. "I heard this was for people who need a little help with their dance moves," Quinn shyly smiles. "I'm a little rusty," she confesses, "and would it be cool if I joined in?" "Absolutely," Mr. Schue beams. "Welcome back!" Well, that was easy. The other children greet the prodigal's return with open arms, and as she takes her place at Puck's side to begin learning their next routine, he gushes, "I'm proud of you." In an instant, the sweet little smile on Quinn's face vanishes, and she gets all crazy-eyed and intense as she hisses, "I have to get her back, and if that takes dyeing my hair blonde and pretending that I think I'm special, that's something I'm willing to do!" "We're going to get full custody!" Quinn psychotically concludes, and Puck, quite naturally scared shitless by the she-beast from Hell that's suddenly taken over his ex-girlfriend's body, gapes all the way into this evening's final commercial break.