Category: Put Downs

They hate you, Bob. They hate you from the bottom of your hooves to the top of your pitchfork. They hate you, dear God, they hate you good.

Congratulations! Your Dimaggio-like streak for saying nothing even remotely interesting is still alive and well!

Oh, come on — what the hell, Newbie. This gentleman is suffering from an inflamed gallbladder, and you actually have him eating a grilled-cheese sandwich. Hhhere’s an idea: why don’t we just have him wash the whole thing down with a big ol’ mug of vodka.

Mr. Bober, back there, is one of our frequent flyers; he’s been with us every six months for the last two years, and I’ve grown rather fond of him. So if you could somehow manage to not kill him, well then – oh, gee — that would just be ducky.

Despite the fact that when you wake up tomorrow morning you will be a resident, you’ll still be the same excitable little girl that you are right now; the only difference will be that some sorry new intern will probably mistake you for somebody who actually knows something.

Oh! Yawn.

Bob, I deeply dislike you. Honestly, it keeps me up at night.

Hey, Bob. As far as the whole intro thing goes, I’ve actually gone ahead and given it a lot of thought, but I’m afraid I’m gonna very politely have to tell you to blow it out your ass.

The fact of the matter is, I kinda make it a rule never to get in bed with people that I have nothing but contempt for.

Listen up, there, Molly Menopause, I need you to quiet the hell down, you’re scaring everyone in the hospital. I mean, my God – they’re delivering a baby upstairs, and the poor kid’s using the umbilical cord to crawl the hell back in.