— Hey, what are you doing Frankeinstein?
— Photo journal for my photography class.
— Terrific. Could I see your camera? Hmm. Very interesting. Oh, there's film in it.
— Hey! All my pictures were in there! Dead patient with fancy shirt, dead patient without fancy shirt, me in fancy shirt being yelled at by angry family.
— How's it goin'?
— I'm a 37-year-old janitor. How d'you think it's going?
— There is nothing wrong with being a janitor.
— Really? Thank you, you've turned my life around. I'll tell my janitor wife and all our janitor kids that life is worth living. And that comes straight from our hero, Dr Whozits, Dr Nothing. No, seriously, come on. Come over to my humble house and point out things that are cheap.
Bob, now when the dark prince does finally call you home, please... Promise me that you'll donate your body to science. And I don't... mean medical science, I mean NASA. Because when those buzz-cuts have all but given up on trying to figure out... Just exactly what a black hole is, and they get one look at that space where your heart was supposed to be... well by-gum, you know they're just gonna say: «Awwww, shucks! hat's what it is!»
— You're the only man who's ever been inside of me.
— I just took out his appendix.
— You two have been on and off again more than Ross and Rachel from Friends.
— Please, I am nothing like Ross.
— No, of course not. You're Rachel, she's Ross!
We're both men. One of us more than the other. But that's OK...
The addict said he quit? Why wouldn't you tell me that? That changes everything. Just because you have a new girlfriend doesn't mean that the world has suddenly turned into a giant green M&M. The Red Sox still suck, they do. Barbie here still can't decide what to do with those annoying bangs, and addicts everywhere will still lie to get a fix. Now, you've got to wake up, sweetheart. You're gonna be late for school... You wet the bed. Why can't I have a normal child without these problems?
She's probably feeling awful so say something reassuring. You're going to hell.
Over 50 per cent of our lawsuits can be traced back to poor patient-doctor communication. To that end, if any of you still feel the need to flap your babble holes, you will be joining me in my new daily seminar on doctor-patient relations. My first invitee will be Dr Murphy, whom I overheard telling someone, «Stop bleeding, oh, God, please stop bleeding».
Write this down. If you push around a stiff, nobody'll ask you to do anything.