Rainy day = watching movies with subtitles and writing Diva!fits. I think I need more friends.

Thank you for the great response this has been getting so far! I hope you enjoy Brittany's contribution to the madness :]

I don't own Glee. Sadness.


Chapter Two: "Your LDL is SOL and it's making my brain hurt."

Kurt had only been in the building for two minutes, and he could already feel his meticulously immaculate pores protesting the airborne grease. If he made it out of this excursion without a face full of environmentally-induced acne, it would be nothing short of a miracle.

Beside him, Brittany was squirming. Kurt sighed.

He hated McDonalds.


They had been driving home from a daylong shopping expedition in Columbus, which had been a total success. Kurt had threatened a group of fourteen year old girls with a mannequin's arm in order to snag the last pair of CofH jeans in his size—and had very nearly been detained by a mall cop, but it had definitely been worth it. Unfortunately, a mere fifteen minutes outside of Lima, Brittany had declared that she needed to pee and no, she couldn't wait until they got home.

There had been a very harrowing thirty seconds after Kurt had told her to 'hold it' where all the possible misconceptions that could arise from that phrase flashed through his brain feverishly. He hastily retracted the statement, fumbling to come up with something more explicit, and stepped hard on the gas pedal. Three minutes later, he was swerving into the parking lot of the first building in sight likely to have a public bathroom.

Much as he hated McDonalds, he hated the thought of walking into a tractor warehouse or adult video store—the only other visible options—with Brittany in tow even more.

Kurt winced as his car screeched to a halt, and mentally apologized to his smoking tires. "Right," he commanded, jumping out of the car and slamming the door, "let's go." Brittany followed suit, and the two of them hurried across the mostly-empty parking lot.

"Kurt, look. They have a playground!" Brittany remarked happily, pointing to the colorful letters on the roof that did, indeed, advertise a play place. "Do you think they have a pool, too?"

For once, Kurt was able to follow Brittany's convoluted logic—Lima's largest park and playground was also home to the community pool. "I don't think so, Britt," he answered kindly. "And anyway, we're just here so you can use the bathroom, not to go swimming."

Brittany didn't seem fazed. "I know that," she chided gently, pulling open the thick glass door. "I just meant in case they don't have a bathroom."

Maybe Kurt hadn't followed Brittany's train of thought as well as he thought he had. Oh. Oh God, ew.

"Brittany," he said, aiming for patiently benevolent (but setting for somewhat irritated), "I can't believe we're even having this conversation, but you're not supposed to pee in swimming pools. Ever. Sometimes little kids do it by mistake, but you'd get in trouble if you tried it."

Brittany shook her head stubbornly. "No," she protested. "Santana was a lifeguard at the pool last summer, and she told me I should do it since the line for the bathroom was so long. And I didn't get in trouble. Santana even closed the pool three hours early and took me to the movies."

Kurt closed his eyes and counted to ten silently. There were so many things wrong with that story, and he didn't even want to begin to analyze them.

When he opened his eyes, Brittany had already gone down the tiled hall to the restrooms, and was tugging fruitlessly on the handle to the ladies room. "It's locked," she explained neutrally.

Kurt tried the handle himself—it was Brittany—and found that it actually was locked. "Come on," he sighed. "Let's go to the counter and get the key."

Five minutes passed, and Kurt and Brittany were still in line. The restaurant wasn't crowded by any means, but sole, pimply teenage boy behind the counter was moving at a snail's pace. The redheaded woman at the front of the line finally got the last of her order and walked past them with her tray full of food, and Kurt held his breath, trying not to gag at the stench.

Brittany bit her lip. "Kurt," she started warily, and he squeezed her hand.

"We're almost there," he promised, cutting her off. "Just one more person, then it's our turn." Brittany nodded, and he nodded back.

He watched the cashier dump a sack of sickly looking, uncooked fries into the vat.

Next time, he'd make sure Brittany went before they got in the car.

Finally, it was their turn at the counter. Before the cashier could start his spiel, Kurt gave him a slightly desperate smile. "She needs the key to the restroom, please," he said as politely as he could. Which was pretty polite, taking into consideration that he'd been breathing discreetly through his mouth since he walked in the door.

Einstein stared at him. "Uh, restrooms are for customers only," he recited dimly.

Kurt sighed. "Look," he said flatly, "we've been in line for nearly ten minutes waiting for the key. She's had 32 ounces of puréed fruit and organic sweetener in the last hour, and I'm not entirely certain she's housebroken."

Brittany interrupted. "What's housebroken? Don't you have a burglar alarm?" she asked.

Kurt ignored her. "Can you please just let her have the key before she pees on your floor like an incontinent puppy?" he asked.

Brittany brightened visibly. "Oh, puppies. I thought you were talking about houses." She smiled fuzzily at the cashier. "My sister's favorite game is pretending we're puppies. I'm trained, though: I can pee on a fire hydrant and I don't bite Kurt when he comes over. Can I use your bathroom now?"

Kurt had never seen a human being move so fast. In less than four seconds, Brittany had been handed the oversized wooden keychain, and she was walking leisurely back toward the hallway bathroom.

Seeing the frozen, terrified expression on the cashier's face, Kurt softened a bit. He could have been a little nicer. This was probably the boy's first job. And he remembered being fourteen, intimidated by random cheerleaders and plagued with bad skin.

"I'm sorry about that…" Kurt squinted at the name tag, "Michael. It's not you, it's us." He smiled reassuringly. "She really had to pee, and I get a little emotionally volatile and verbally abusive around giant vats of grease. It's nothing you did, and I apologize if we were a little rude."

Michael still looked wary. Kurt sighed and pulled out his wallet. "I'll take a small Diet Coke please."

Brittany chose that moment to come bounding down the hall and back over to Kurt, swinging the bathroom key wildly like it was one of her pompoms. "Kurt!" she called out. "They have My Little Pony toys! Can we get one?" She pointed to the display case, which was showcasing four different miniature horses. They were faded and dingy—and had probably been there since the early '90's—but Brittany didn't seem to notice or care. And her eyes were so shiny and hopeful that Kurt had to smile.

He turned back to Michael. "Make that a small Diet Coke and a My Little Pony Happy Meal—hamburger, with apple slices and a chocolate milk. You need your calcium, and fried chicken parts are so bad for your complexion," he lectured Brittany, who nodded solemnly.

Watching Michael put together their order, Kurt thought for a moment that it would all be okay. They'd get out of McDonald's, he'd get an extra facial to counteract all the toxic exposure he'd received over the past fifteen minutes, and Brittany would get her toy. His car would smell like hamburger, but nothing a thorough vacuuming and some carpet shampoo couldn't fix.

And then, he heard the stifled laughter.

He looked around for the source, and spotted a middle-aged couple at a nearby table eyeing Brittany derisively. Brittany either hadn't heard them or hadn't put two and two together, and Kurt narrowed his eyes.

Oh. Hell. No.

"Britt," he said evenly, not taking his eyes off of the woman, "why don't you go clear a spot for your Pony in the car? You can move some of the bags to the trunk."

Knowing Brittany as well as he did, Kurt could practically feel her brow wrinkling in confusion, even if he couldn't see it.

"Can't he ride on my lap?" she asked innocently, and Kurt shook his head.

"It's the law," he told her, "children and ponies under the age of fourteen have to sit in the backseat and wear a seatbelt." He held out the keys to Brittany, who took them and started for the door. "Don't turn the car on!" he called after her, and waited until she was out of sight before approaching the offending table.

Hands on his hips and prissiest glare in place, Kurt raised an eyebrow at the couple. "Can I help you with something?" he asked, tone laced with annoyance.

Though the woman was clearly surprised, she awkwardly held her ground. "Isn't your friend a little old for a Happy Meal?" she asked him.

Kurt smiled evilly.

"What Brittany chooses to eat is her business, not yours. Happy Meals are smaller portions of restaurant food and, while disgusting and over-processed, contain an appropriate number of calories for a teenager's meal. Especially since she'll inevitably drop the burger before she finishes it."

He shuddered involuntarily, and made a mental note to steam-clean the floor mats as soon as he got home.

Turning back to his target, he tried on a vicious scowl, size medium. "You, on the other hand, have selected a ten-piece order of nuggets and a large order of fries, and what looks to be a medium soda. I'm going to assume that the purple blotch on your shirt means it's a grape soda," he added, voice poisonously sweet. "In that one meal alone, you're consuming about 1,275 calories, well over 1,000 mg of sodium, and at least 35 grams of fat, most of which is probably saturated or trans fat. If you haven't cracked open a newspaper in the last ten years, trans fat is the kind that increases your risk of having a heart attack, a stroke, and diabetes, among other horrible afflictions."

The woman's mouth dropped open to protest, but Kurt was on a roll. "As for the calories," he continued, "the government only recommends about 2,000 calories a day for the average woman, but you're on the short side, so I'm going to slash you down to about 1,800. Which means that your tray has just made up about two-thirds of your daily intake. And sir," Kurt turned his attention to the man sitting across from his original victim, who was looking bewildered at Kurt's lecture. "You have a McFlurry and a supersized meal. Do you realize the damage that you're doing to your arterial walls? Raised cholesterol, elevated blood pressure, blood sugar spikes—"

Kurt shook his head in frustration. Then realized that everyone in the room was staring at him.

Kurt glared around the room. Not one of the twelve people seated at the tables had a healthy meal in front of them. "Heart disease is no laughing matter, people," he scolded loudly. "Obesity, unhealthy diets, and a sedentary lifestyle are three of the biggest drains on our nation's health care. Do your research! And for Gucci's sake, we live in farm country—would it kill you to eat your vegetables?"

Extremely irritated, Kurt huffed with annoyance and turned back to the counter. Michael was standing stock still, holding his Diet Coke and Brittany's Happy Meal. Smiling grimly, Kurt snatched them away and stalked out the door.

Ten seconds later, he was back. Grabbing a straw and some extra napkins, he slammed a small bottle on the counter in front of Michael. "Rinse twice a day with this, and consider making an appointment with a dermatologist if your skin doesn't clear up in the next few weeks," he advised. "Accutane can work wonders."

And with that, he was gone.


A/N: So, this chapter. Not meant to target people of any shape or size, make any unfair assumptions, or criticize any lifestyle choices. I'm just a schmuck with a computer.