Tom, looking dapper in his cabana wear, gold chain and copious amounts of chest hair, is flirting with a lobster, as you do. Or, at least, as Tom does. Trina teases him about it and the door opens to show some delivery guys bringing in crates of clams. When Tom pries off the lid and Trina gets a whiff, she can barely keep from projectile vomiting. Damn; I’ve been been there, and it sucks. Tom wonders when she got so squeamish, but he’s too preoccupied with his party prep to see the writing on the wall. She excuses herself to go toss her cookies.
