Dr. Kelso: 1985 was gonna be my year. Reaganomics was in full swing, Enid's implants hadn't exploded yet. And best of all, they made me Chief of Medicine, so I was the king, right? Wrongo. I realized fast that in order to keep this whole place going, I had to make one unpopular decision after another, regardless of who hated me for it. And that was a lonely realization, son. And here comes my biggest fan.
Dr. Cox: Bob, there is finally a diagnosis on Mr. McCray. He has Acute Intermittent Porphyria. Now, his insurance company wants him discharged immediately, I'd like to fudge the paperwork a little bit, keep him around longer and teach him how to manage his disease.
Dr. Kelso: No.
Dr. Cox: I realize that your heart is made up mostly of muffin bits, the souls of little babies, and the denture grip you swallow every time you suck your teeth to get out the muffin bits and baby souls stuck in there, but what do you care? You're not even going to be around anymore!
Dr. Kelso: Dammit, I'm still Chief! Now, if you wanna fudge the paperwork, I want a promise from you that you will publish a paper on the case. Deal?
Dr. Cox: Uh, deal.
Dr. Kelso: He'll never publish a paper on that case. He knows just how to play me. Sure, he likes to pretend that I win more than he does, but he walks away victorious more often than not.