"When this beeper goes off, that means someone died. That's what we're waiting for: For some poor son of a bitch, who didn't use a helmet or a seat belt, to die. We're waiting for a doctor to ask a family who, moments earlier, lost someone they loved to let them harvest their organs. And then we're waiting to see who gets them. That's what we do: We wait for tragedy and then cross our fingers that it's us they wake up at two in the morning with the good news."
Jeez! That was amazing. Looks like somebody read some Ishiguro over the break. Or more likely, knowing the gross old queen that this show is, never heard of it until Queerty told him Andrew Garfield was nummy. Still, everything that rises. If you see what I'm saying.
And so but just to prove how wildly out-of-kilter Susan's bullshit is, Dick even tries to level with her as a person: "Susan. I know your intentions are good, but you don't have to distract me, or entertain me, or comfort me." And you know what that bitch says? Do you know what happens when she scrapes her skeleton claws along the bottom of the barrel where she keeps her bullshit and this is what she comes out with, after that musical little speech of his? I bet you fucking do. I bet you know it already:
"...I wasn't trying to comfort you."
Oh, well then. I can see how you're justified. You absolute trashbox. Let me give a hug, come over here with your hard, sharp bones wrapped in tight, thin skin, let me put my arms around you, never ever let you go. Not until you've breathed your last, and I move up one more spot on the donor list. Oh, I'll comfort you all right. All ya had to do was ask.
Bree goes zooming over into the life of Amber James, immediately noticing the child she clearly had out of wedlock with Keith, and then talks her out of telling Keith about it. But "Would you like me to?" she asks, and when grateful Amber goes, "You would do that?" there is a thrilling WASPy ugliness in Bree's response that ratchets this entire story up even more notches of awful: "I think I have to!" You know, since it's now my huge problem and you can't be trusted to administrate your own life, and God knows I love telling my boyfriend what to eat and what to wear and not to pee in the yard, I think I definitely will be needing to hold his mulatto bastard over his head. If just for a little while.