Oscar: Have you seen my other pair of pants?
Lucille: Lupe washed them, and they sprouted. I threw them out.
Oscar: Oh, that puts a lot of pressure on this pair.
Lindsay: I think this one’s good. Looks like it would’ve put up a fight.
Lucille: I put up one to get it.
Lindsay: Hey, as long as it gets Frank Wrench to bid on me.
Lucille: It won’t.
Michael: Hey, Mom, I need to borrow your country club card. There’s a... friend I have that has lunch there often I’d like to run into.
Lucille: Sounds like you’re asking for a favor.
Michael: And I know what that’s going to cost me. I’m willing to bid on you.
Lucille: I’ll give you the money. Start at five grand. If there are other bidders, back off gracefully. Shout out, “I get her 364 days a year for free” or something.
Michael: You’re not going to hear that phrase.
Narrator: Soon, Tobias came across a flier that promised to improve both his masculine self-image and his financial standing.
Narrator: Meanwhile, Michael went to have his accidental encounter with Sally, but had forgotten about the club’s dress code for lunch.
Michael: Excuse me.
Maitre D': We have a dress code for lunch.
Michael: I can’t wear this. I look like I’m 16.
Sally Sitwell: Michael?
Michael: Oh, no.
Stan Sitwell: Hello, Michael.
Michael: Stan. Hello, Sally.
Sally Sitwell: Hi. So, are you meeting someone here for lunch?
Michael: No, I-I was going to, then they canceled, so I’m going to take off.
Sally Sitwell: No, just join us, please?
Narrator: Michael knew he couldn’t say no, but he also knew he couldn’t flirt in front of her father.
Michael: Let’s do it.
Narrator: And at another table, G.O.B. was being taken out to lunch.
Lucille 2: Read me the appetizers again.
G.O.B.: “Fried cheese... with club sauce.”
Lucille 2: Oh...
G.O.B.: “Popcorn shrimp... with club sauce.”
Lucille 2: (Moans.)
G.O.B.: “Chicken fingers...”
Lucille 2: Oh, stop it, you’re making me dizzy.
G.O.B.: “...with spicy club sauce.”
Lucille 2: No, I mean stop it!
Stan Sitwell: Why don’t you join us?
G.O.B.: Oh, no, I’m just helping her eat.
Stan Sitwell: Oh, if you’d prefer privacy...
G.O.B.: What? No. I didn’t even want to have lunch with her in the first place. I just... I would... I just... (Clearing throat.)