Scrubs – Series Quotes [Season 5]

Don't you know I dole out compliments, at most, once a year? And like a squirrel, you must gather up these acorns of kind words to sustain you for the upcoming cold, sarcastic months.

There are actually many things in life that I've yet to figure out, like why men wear cell phones on their belt when they could so easily fit them in their pocket, millimeters away. Or why, and I'm not complaining, women wear tube tops even though every ten seconds it makes them to do this: «Get back in there!» But, of all of my endless queries, the one thing I damn sure will figure out, and soon, is how you keep coming up with all these fancy-pants answers. It is, for all intents and purposes, like they're falling from the sky.

— Where do we meet up in heaven?
— At the milk shake pool on the lesbian cloud.

— Look, I feel like I can give you a list of things that are sucky about being pregnant. For starters, I'm now horny as I've ever been and my husband is repulsed by me.
— Listen, if you really need it that badly, I will suck it up and shut my eyes so tight and then do you.
— Thank you for the sacrifice.
— It's because I love you.

OK, either the heat in my office is broken or I drifted off and fantasized about Rudy Giuliani again.

— At least you've stopped crying.
— No, not really. My body can't produce tears anymore. I've intentionally dehydrated myself. It's a risky move, I know, but Dr. Jarvis here said it'll be all right.
— There's nobody standing behind you.
— I'm going to need an IV.

God knew my people would go through some struggles, so He gave us a lifetime supply of cool to compensate.

Too much talking, too much talking, too much talking, too much talking.

— I don't see why you can't be there for the major events in Jack's life.
— I'd love to see him turn three.
— The major events, Paige: His graduation, his wedding, his divorce and his funeral. The big four.

Keith, you're late, which doesn't surprise me because you're a bad person.

They say that, in life, all good things must come to an end. Sometimes it comes quietly. Sometimes, not so quietly. And suddenly, you realize you've taken something as far as it can go.

— I am gonna let Big Bob here give the first excuse.
— Blah, blah, blah. I'm not doing it.
— I'm caught on his collar!

— Who the hell ate my scone?
— That would be me. It was delicious. My compliments to the little lady.
— I made those.
— I know.

— I hate to do it, but I'm giving you back the pencil. That's right. The pencil you gave me on my third day of work. You handed it off to me like a tiny yellow baton, like you were trying to say to me, «J. D., you are the new me. You, J. D., are my mentee. You... are my son».
— What pencil?

As I lie in bed each morning and ask myself why I should put both my feet on the floor, there are precious few reasons that I've ever come up with. The chance to escape Jordan's morning breath, sure. Scotch. It's too early to drink it, yes, but it is never too early to think about. And, of course, the everpresent possibility that I might finally happen upon Hugh Jackman and give him the present I've been holding for him. Bam!

I've predicted a couple things: The kitchen fire of '97, the kitchen fire of '98, the arson conviction of Luis the cook, and the termination of the hospital's "Convicts-to-Cooks" program.