Category: Season 3
Stop addressing me as Dr. Cox” in front of your patients. When they find out my actual name, they tend to page me with questions when they realize just exactly how inept you really are. Oh, and as an added safety measure, from now on, I’ll only be responding to “Doc,” “Doctor,” “Ceasar,” or “The Big Cheese;” and noooo, I’m not joking. Not now – not ever.”
Look, Gwyneth, you’re old enough now to hear this from me: Every time I go out of my way to help you children, I get nothing but trouble. Now this is the first five-minute window I’ve had in the last week to be with my son. And I’m just not gonna have you pirouetting around in here while my heart is breaking inside.
Carla, you’re forcing me to say something that I prayed I’d never have to say again to another woman: Please, please, please, put down the cup of urine.
Oh! Barbie, I–I actually see your point. You should, in fact, go on your little date, because I have some busy work that’s gonna take me over into the vicinity of Mr. Hudson’s room, so I’ll just pop my head in there and tell him that he’s going to die. But, if you have a moment between dinner and giving it away for free, if you could pick up the phone and call Mr. Hudson’s wife and kids and tell them about, you know, the dying…?
Gosh, I hate to interrupt this one-gal pep-rally, there, Barbie, but I give this guy two weeks — three if you are just terrific in the sack.
Big who cares! Not about Jack rolling over for the first time, but definitely about your reaction to my son rolling over for the first time. Point being that I missed it because I was here. You might want to get a pen out and write this down, because here comes the inside scoop: The hospital comes first. Always.
Hey, studly! Now, when you were out rooting through the dumpster, you didn’t stumble across your own testicles, did’ja?
Wedding talk! Ohh, how lovely! — Listen, Hilton sisters: Mr. Quinn in 206 still has a severely shattered clavicle and he needs a surgical consult now. And, seeing as he’s your patient, and you’re a surgeon, gosh, I was hoping that if you two hens have an extra moment between choosing centerpieces and deciding just exactly how you’re gonna attach that veil onto Baldy’s head, well, it would just be super-de-duper if you could peek in in there and give him the old lookie-loo; wouldn’t it?
I mean, come on, Jordan, you haven’t let me make one decision about our son. Which is why, by the way, you’ll be doing the answering when he asks why daddy’s wee-wee doesn’t have a turtleneck on it like his.
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I’m gonna go ahead and put this in a language that you can understand: You had better see my son now, or I’m gonna kick your ass.