But Bree knows it's something bad, so when the paramedic -- presuming them to both be adults -- almost tells her disgusting secret, she backhands the woman and then yells at Keith for buying her a hotdog or whatever. This whole shitty episode is just mad libs. It could be a hotdog or a falafel or anything. Just as long as it's the kind of thing you would totally wolf down before rollerblading around at top speed. Yum. Big old yummy hotdog -- extra chili on mine! -- before we really get our hearts going on these rollerblades. Which: Don't be embarrassed that you're having hot flashes. Be embarrassed about everything else in this scenario, but not that.
"Oh, this is just my rootin-tootin' 37-year-old boyfriend, a day laborer. I certainly hope I can keep up with him, considering I've clearly been on amphetamines since the 1970's and have the abs of a 42-year-old woman." I mean, not that these people aren't cartoons, but even the characters are just mad-libs of fake clichéd people this week.
She's not "Bree," she's every vain perimenopausal woman you've ever seen on a shitty sitcom. She's not "Gabrielle," she's every obnoxious woman who thinks she understands gay men from watching Sex & The City. She's not "Susan," she is a chipmunk on a bicycle, with a very expensive hat. "Humiliation. It's something we all try to avoid. Especially women who date younger men!"
In other words, Mary Alice, if I may, "Humiliation: It's something most women, and several gay men, probably deserve... But especially cougars! The universal punchline!"
Oh, you bet your ass there's more: "It was morning in suburbia. A time for women to attend to their husbands' needs. And while Tom Scavo's wife was setting out the sports section, and Carlos Solis' wife was removing lint from his suit, and Roy Bender's wife was cleaning his dentures, Paul Young's wife was resting, because she had already attended to her husband's needs... All night long."
It was at this moment that I thought to myself, well. This episode was clearly written by a gay man in his fifties, because only that particular Baby Boomer mix of mother complexes and lazy humor results in this kind of writing. Suburbia: Where women prepare the sports section and lint-brush their men's suits and clean their dentures. Or whatever mad-lib activity of your choosing. Maybe somebody will burn a brisket or make some dry meatloaf (Spoiler alert: Both of those things happen, in adjoining scenes) and then act all nutty when somebody mentions it.