Smash to a shot of The Maharishi's overwhelmed secretary the following morning as she struggles to keep her head above the flood of surly phone calls now swamping the school's switchboard. Meanwhile, out in the hall, a volcanically irate Epiphany Johnson holds a sparkly slab of posterboard that reads, simply, "ANGRY." Deep within The Lair Of The Maharishi, Will's of course screaming that they "can't just cut the musical" when "Sue's pom-pom budget is four thousand dollars a month," but Figgins will not be swayed, especially because he was assaulted that very morning in the parking lot.
Smear to that very morning in the parking lot, where Epiphany Johnson stomps up to Figgins's car and howls, "My son can't read, and you want him to sing and dance?!" right before she hurls a brick through his windshield, and wow. That's one hell of an arm she's got.
Smear back to the present, where Sue all-too-patiently explains, "We're in a recession, William, that's about to double-dip into a piping-hot Crock-Pot of voter fury, and if this school doesn't learn some priorities? Well, come November, the voters will gladly teach you some." And as there's absolutely nothing funny about that line at all, I'll just continue on to note that Will quite naturally gets one of his brilliant ideas, this particular one involving a plan to raise the funding for the musical himself. "Good luck with that," Sue sneers as she rises to leave. "The arts are going down," she states with nary a hint of a filthy double entendre in her tone. "Today, the musical," she promises, "tomorrow, the Glee Club. Next week? NPR and opera and brunch and Tom Bergeron." Oh, Sue. Can that last entry on your list take this piece-of-shit show with him? Please? PLEASE?
Cut to the interior of Santana Lopez's locker, which has been papered with an absolutely adorable cat cartoon hand-drawn by Brit-Brit herself. "Lord Tubbington thinks you are Purrrrfect," reads the caption, "and so do I." Aw. Though who the hell knew Brittany could spell? In any event, Santana Lopez stuffs a pom-pom in amongst her books as Mercedes approaches to leadingly inquire, "How many solos did you get in Glee Club last year?" "A few," Santana nonchalantly shrugs. "One," Mercedes correctly corrects. "I was also the lips in Rocky Horror," Santana protests, and while that's true, darling, it's also certainly nothing to brag about given the unmitigated crapfest that particular episode ended up being. But I'm spinning off on a tangent, here, instead of paying proper attention to Mercedes, who's simply using this enumeration of Santana's greatest hits as a means to convince everybody's favorite cheerleader of all time to bail on New Directions once and for all and join her in Idina's competing choir. "We'd get all the solos and the duets," Mercedes argues before adding, "Plus, it's an all-girl group." "Why would I care about all-girl?" Santana suspiciously side-eyes, but Mercedes didn't mean it that way at all. Or so she claims. No, it's all about creating a womyn-safe space within the perniciously patriarchal confines of McKinley High, or something like that, but that's not important right now because what is important right now is the fact that Frankenteen's begun to lurch along behind Santana and Mercedes as they companionably amble down the hall, the better to listen in on their private conversation like the oppressively sexist gender-normative pig that he is. Shame! Shaaaaaame!