J.D.: [v.o.] Around here we all make fun of each other. Except for Carla. No one makes fun of Carla.
Delivery Man: Got a gross of bedpans here, and where should I pick up my medal?
Carla: For what?
Delivery Man: For reading your chicken-scratch handwriting. Who is with me? [silence]
Carla: Listen, I run back and forth for eighteen hours a day between patients who might die and patients who will die, and if I find time to write an order for bedpans, I write it fast. So you will forgive me if I don't feel like being judged by some guy in his thirties who still wears shorts to work! Now, go ahead and say the only three words I want to hear coming out of your mouth.
Delivery Man: Sign here, please?