The Rose Bowl? The red roadster pulls onto the field of the biggest football stadium ever allocated for one sporting event a year, so I guess it's not all that whorish that they have to rent it out for things like this and weddings and Bar Mitzvahs and stuff. Jesse explains, "We're in a 100,000-person capacity stadium, and it's just Jessica and I [sic]." It's a good thing I have to ding him for the fact-checking reality that the Rose Bowl only seats 90,000 -- maybe a few more if they're not all wearing turtlenecks that have the circumference of Pluto in order to fit around his gross beefy neck -- so that I don't have to explore the many vagaries of grammar that mar his every spoken sentence.
They carry a picnic basket and a blanket to the middle of the field, and sip champagne (it's The Bachelor, where ladies always drink free), while Jesse tells Jessica why she's so damn fabulous: "You've really brought it through college if you're only twenty-one and you've got two years left of law school. That says a lot about your drive." Her drive to complete her law degree through the mail. From an unaccredited law shanty. In South America. She replies with casual immodesty, "If I do something, I don't drag my feet. I do it full-force." That creates a segue for Jesse to suggest that they "toss the pigskin," adding, "it's time for a lesson." Yeah. Maybe Jessica's got some tips she can give him so he can find a way to run for more than nine yards next season and play in front of lives crowds bigger than the one they're currently entertaining. Jesse gives Jessica actual tips for the game, telling her where to put her feet and how to step. Someone just taught me how to do that with darts, and you know what I learned is the hard part of darts? Nothing. There is absolutely nothing hard about darts. Any sport that gets easier as I get drunker is good enough for me. It's like bowling. It's like bowling for the weak.
"I don't think of Jesse as an NFL quarterback," Jessica tells us. Also in agreement: the NFL.
Back at the house, another large Date Box -- this one far more ornate, so let's call it a Victorian-era child's coffin -- arrives. Trish runs outside, knowing she has the same chance of being its recipient as other fictional villains throughout narrative lore, such as robber barons who would tie damsels in distress to railroad tracks and mustachioed gentlemen who tell a gingham-dressed country girl, no matter how many times she tells him that she simply doesn't have the money, that she still must pay the rent. Anyway, it's for Mandy Jaye. She pops open the box to reveal a white skipper's hat. They're going to a Gilligan's Island-themed costume party? I get to be Mary Ann! Someone in the room who I think might be Suzie screams, "You're going on a sailboat or something!" Maybe the Tyra Mail or whatever will have some further information: "It's time for a first-class adventure on the deep sea." The girls all scream again because that sentence smells like money.