A posh restaurant.
Paul tries to convey something important to Gary. He leans in.
“I don’t like fancy schmancy sandwiches. Give me bacon, lettuce, and tomato—and I’m happy.”
A petulant waiter with spiky hair appears out of nowhere.
“What do you want?”
“I’ll have an LGBT sandwich. What about you, Gary?”
Gary furrows his brow. “I’ll have a BLT also.”
Later the waiter reappears, now from a cloud. “That’s an LGBT for the gentleman and a BLT for you.”
“You can kiss your tip adios, smart ass,” Paul remarks.
Waiter: “Freudian slips don’t pay the rent, but they’re pure gold.”