This week, Lynette is going to realize that she has done her sons a disservice by babying them the way everybody babies Tom. As usual, Tom will have zero accountability, and Lynette will be forced to come to terms with the fact that she is a nexus of evil that ruins everything she touches. Just when you think she's going to figure it out, the voice of white male supremacy will thunder across the sky, and she'll realize that when men don't have their own backbones, it's still somehow your fault. This will be accomplished by making the Twins look like cartoonishly low-functioning cases of heretofore undiagnosed developmental disorders on par with The Other Sister.
Things the Twins have not discovered for themselves having reached the age of majority: The location of eggs. The location of the refrigerator. Sarcasm. What goes under the kitchen sink (hint, it's not "fresh fruit"), The ingredients of an omelet. Whether it's appropriate to explain to your mother the difference between a "booty call" and a "drunken hookup."
They have girls downstairs for the look of whom Lynette does not much care, whom they met at a kegger and who are starving for the kind of food only Lynette in the middle of the night can provide. Their names are, of course, Kimberly and Tiffany, and one of them is from Denver, which is why the omelet much be a Denver omelet. The boys weakly offer to make this themselves, but are so lost in the weeds that Lynette immediately jumps out of bed to make it for them, complaining all the while in her crankiest voice. Mary Alice is like, "The worst thing about having children is that they exist."
Next morning, Lynette and a mystified Tom hand the boys the classified ads: They've got one week to find jobs and an apartment, or else. There's that usual confusion of pronouns that people who have no idea what twins are like -- but a childish sentimental excitement about the idea of twins -- show: Sometimes it's one of them graduating from college, sometimes both, sometimes only one of them needs a job, sometimes both. Sometimes "I," sometimes "we," mostly an unrealistic and vaguely defined middle.
Tom's like, "But they're male children, why do they have to do anything for themselves? I'm not criticizing, I'm honestly confused. Could you scratch my arm?" Lynette compares them to baby birds who will never fly, and shows him a grim future in which they live in the basement long into the Scavos' retirement, and he finally gets how it might affect him, so he's on board.