"...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.
I know you care about Bob and Lee and their 30-year-old gay baby, so let's talk about that a little. First things first: How will the room be decorated? Late '80s Gay Fantasia on Sweet Valley Themes, of course, all Pepto Pink and mosquito-net four-posters. And how do the gays feel about that? Super gay, you see: "The only thing that's missing is baby unicorns!" says one of them and that's when we fast-forward so motherfucking hard we gotta backtrack moment-by-moment, because How dare you.
Okay, so Renee who hates children secretly doesn't hate children, because she wanted to have kids one time and whatever. They suggest she adopt, and she wet-eyed runs away, so I guess she gave a baby up for adoption at some point, and let me just edge out onto that limb a bit more and suggest that since Tom's giant penis has been spraying the entire eastern seaboard with great jets and flumes and spouts and tempests of hot white semen for at least the last two decades -- and already has one illegitimate daughter we've forgotten about, in addition to the fifty vermin that have given Lynette's life its burdensome, soul-killing meaning -- don't you just know what they're going to perpetrate on us now. Don't you just. Or maybe Lynette and Bree can start a mulatto bastard daycare center and take them on day trips... To places, of course, where they don't run the risk of being seen by the other ladies. What with it being 1962 and all.