It's like I put a quarter in the scumball machine.

No, I will not hide you from the cops who have come to investigate your lousy ass for leaving the scene of an accident in which you hit a pedestrian while cracked off your noodle.

No, that minor forearm injury will not qualify you for disability.

No, you may not leave the critical care unit to smoke one with your buddies.

Yes, I do intend to start this IV on you. You can threaten to hit me all you want; it's still going in.

Yes, we enforce visiting rules. No, conjugal visits are not an option.

Get your child out of the CCU. Now. I have already explained this to you twice. You cannot smuggle a toddler in under your coat and not get found out.

You do indeed have gonorrhea. Sorry. Now roll over and take this shot.

And you do indeed have syphillis. All the shouting in the world won't change that; besides, it's annoying the Clampetts on the other side of the curtain.

You may not see your "clients" in my unit.

Telling me that you'll sue me if I do one thing you don't like is not the way to build a therapeutic relationship. Neither is having your lawyer call me to demand details of your care. There is such a thing as confidentiality.

Yes, I am a fat bitch. Pointing that out neither hurts my fee-fees nor makes me more inclined to be cheerful.

Thank God for little grannies who come in with their unfailingly polite, helpful family ranged around them. Grandma can hold court from her bed as long as she likes, and you guys can stay as long as you like, bandanas and weird droopy-ass pants and all. You may be scary looking, but you're obviously good to her. You're also very nice to me. Thanks for the chicken pot pie.