This was it.
This was the day she would finally get to document in her journal that today she finally conquered Will Schuester.
True, it wasn't on par with taking out Noriega with one well-placed kick in the cojones, but when she took stock of her life's accomplishments, this would most certainly rank in the top five. The defeat of New Directions, and by extension, Will Schuester fell somewhere between bringing about the cancellation of M*A*S*H (because really, there is nothing funny about horrendously bad television and Alan Alda was more annoying than the case of crabs he gave her after a night unbridled hate-sex), and the time she convinced one Monica Lewinsky that a certain blue dress would in fact be easy to clean if she ever happened to stain it. If only destroying the soul of Will Schuester wasn't so easy, it might have cracked the top three.
As it was, she had to give points for difficulty and per usual William and his band of barely functioning Sesame Street Muppets had walked right into her plan with open arms. All this time, and they still naïvely thought she would actually remember vague never-meant promises about concentrating on things other than destroying their depressingly low-rent walking United Colors of Benetton ad.
She snorted to herself as she crossed her arms in front of her favorite triumphant black tracksuit with gold piping. She had also promised not to toss her Nazi hunting mother into a home at the first opportunity and that lasted all of three minutes. Her mother was currently locked away in the highest security nursing home for the criminally insane Thailand could provide. Promises were only meant to be kept so long as it was more entertaining to keep them. And quite frankly given the depressing state of network television, Schuester should count himself lucky she only held off until Shark Week ended.
Looking around the room of what Sue naturally assumed were illiterate inbred losers and the cousins who bred them, she had to admit this little singing competition was better attended than she had thought it would be. Sure, she had attended at least two in the past, but naturally those crowds and been present to see her. Apparently there were people who actually attended these things because they liked show-choir. Of course, these were often the same people who attended Star Trek conventions and thought figure-skating was an actual sport and they were all losers. And most of them were fat. Note to self, Sue quickly scanned the crowd not bothering to keep the contempt off her face, quarantine these people and make sure there is no chance of their genes continuing on. This failure of Darwin's theory must not be allowed to continue.
If everything was going according to plan, (and why wouldn't it? Everything else had) then right now, William was watching his every pathetic dream going up in smoke for a second time in his miserable life. The trouble she had brewed would be bubbling over to the breaking point. Friends were becoming enemies. Paranoia would be at an all time high. Relationships destroyed with a single word. She couldn't wait until this current group of singing losers finished so she could go backstage and retrieve her tape of the green room. Trust and optimism were ground to a bloody pulp. It was a lesson that would serve them well in live and one Scheuster should've learned a long time ago. Failure: The Butt-Chin Story was going to be the feel-good movie of the year. Kirk Cameron had already been contacted about playing the lead.
The last time she was this excited, she had just found out canons were completely customizable.
The applause shook her out of her anticipatory triumph. Why were they all clapping? There was nothing worth applauding. There were no flips, no triple tucks, no somersaulting through a flaming hoop. All those kids did was stand there and sing. It was the tendency to reward mediocrity like this that made people like William Schuester think he was actually accomplishing something. And that thinking had lasted for far too long. It was time for someone to take a stand and say "No! That sucks! You suck! And everyone who took part in it deserves to be put to death."
Per usual, it was up to her. Again.
As the emcee, the local boozehound D-list actor the organizers had sprung from rehab that morning because clearly no one worth any actual attention would host a national show-choir championship, practically staggered back on the stage, Sue glanced down at her program. The slow, superior smile that always came when she knew her Cheerios were the best team on the field crept up her face. In mere seconds, the fruits of her year-long plan were finally ripe for the picking.
"Ladies and gentlemen….from Lima, Ohio…please welcome the McKinley High New Directions." Boozey McGee tilted his head and blinked a little. "New Directions… that sounds a lot like…"
The band kicked up even louder to cover up what every 8th grader had figured out years before glee club was even a piece of crud in William's eye. Sue settled back into her chair, resting her chin on the points of her fingers. Now it was time to enjoy the show.