Yeah, I'm not really expecting an answer for that one. And when it's over, and when the kissing and the hugging are done, New Puck slaps a high five in New Finn's direction, excitedly shouting out, "She liked it!" New Finn struggles to stifle his heartbroken sobs as he watches the love of his life canoodle with a girl. DAMMIT! "Another guy." New Finn struggles to stifle his heartbroken sobs as he watches the love of his life canoodle with another guy. Also: Commercial break.
Wow. We're at the wedding already? They're not wasting much time tonight, are they? So, we return from the commercial break to plunge directly into the first part of this evening's heavily promoted matrimonial extravaganza, and after we linger on a wide shot of the chapel's flower-bedecked interior for a second or two, we hop down into the pews, where Santana Lopez and Quinn Fabray are just now taking their seats. "It is a carrot top convention!" Santana remarks, casting a cold eye on Emma's trio of redheaded bridesmaids while Quinn touches up her lipstick, and yes, the bridesmaids' dresses are clashing with their hair. Like you had to ask. Santana's gaze next sweeps down from the altar to take in Brit-Brit and Lady Lips Von Bieberhausen giggling amongst themselves a few pews up, and she contorts her face into a bright, brittle smile when they turn to wave at her. "I am so over this," Santana groans, rolling her eyes, "and it hasn't even started yet." "I'm clearly the hottest bitch in this lousy joint," she correctly states, "but I'm all alone, stuck here sitting with you." "Do you want me to slap you again?" Quinn eyebrows, passing Santana her compact. "I hate weddings," Santana continues, snapping the thing open to check on her hair, "and I hate Valentine's Day -- they were invented by breeders to sell cheap chocolate and false hope." I'm finding absolutely nothing to disagree with, here. Meanwhile, some wrinkly chump who clearly overdid it with the Clairol Natural Instincts For Men that morning winks at Quinn, prompting the following mini-tirade from the object of his affections: "Do you know what I hate? Men -- every single one of them is a pig except maybe Mr. Schue." "And Al Roker," Quinn adds, after giving the matter a tiny bit more thought. "And you know what?" she asks of Santana, who's currently shooting her a very funny side-eye. "You were right -- I do let men define me, but not anymore. Like Gloria Steinem said: A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle." So close, Quinn. So close. Santana allows herself an amused little grin, passes the compact back to Quinn, and smirks, "Al Roker is disgusting, by the way." "Whatever," Quinn shrugs. Hee.