Dr. Kelso: Next contestant, Dr. Reid.
Elliot: Mr. Murdock was admitted with a COPD exacerbation; he responded well to antibiotics and bronchial dilators but he did develop a rash on his, um... private area.
Dr. Kelso: Sorry, on his what?
Elliot: His peepers.
Dr. Kelso: Excuse me?
Elliot: His schwing-schwong.
Dr. Kelso: Dr. Reid, it's bad enough you run out on a patient in the middle of a pelvic exam. But you are a doctor, and you need to be able to say simple clinical words like "penis," or "vagina," or "anal."
Elliot: "Anal" is not a dirty word, sir.
Dr. Kelso: Tell that to my wife.

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?

Dr. Cox: Fine, Newbie. Let me tell you a little story. It starts every day at 5 in the morning - which is just about the time that you're setting your hair for work - when I am awakened by a sound: Is that a cat being gutted by a fishing knife? No! That's my son. He's hungry and he's got a load in his pants so big that I'm actually considering hiring a stable boy. But, I go ahead and dig in; because I do love the lad and, well gosh, you know me, I'm a giver. And I'm off to the hospital, where my cup runneth over with both quality colleagues, such as yourself, and a proverbial clown-car full of sick people. But, what the hey, my pay is about the same as guys who break rocks with other rocks and I only have to work three or four hundred hours a week, so, so far I'm a pretty happy camper. And then I head back home where I'm greeted by the faint musk of baby vomit in a house that used to smell like, well... nothing! Nothing! Nothing! I-i-in fact it used to smell like nothing at all. And all I want to do before I restart this whole glorious cycle is, you know, maybe lay on the couch and have a beer and watch some SportsCenter and, I'm if I'm not too sweaty from the days labors, stick my hand right down my pants, but apparently that's not in Jordan's definition of "pulling your weight".

Dr. Cox: So, uh, there you are, superstar. Fix that.
J.D.: Well, that's easy. Just tell her about it. Tell her everything you feel.
Dr. Cox: Should I give her every reason to accept that I'm for real?
J.D.: First of all, no one understands relationships like Billy Joel, okay? "Uptown Girl" got me through high school. Long story for another day. Secondly, you don't want to end up like the Randolphs back there, just not saying a word to each other, do you? [off Dr. Cox's look] You wish we were more like the Randolphs, don't you?
Dr. Cox: God save me, I do. I really do!

Carla: But he's not my friend. My friends can make fun of me whenever they want.
Elliot: Really? Well, then, in that case you're a know-it-all smartypants and if you're not telling someone what to do, you're probably not talking.
Carla: Okay, I guess I can be a little bossy.
Nurse Roberts: A little? Girl, please! If you met Jesus hisself, you'd be trying to tell him where to park his donkey.

Elliot: You know, it's not my fault that dirty stuff makes me uncomfortable.
J.D.: Oh, who's fault is it?
[flashback to Mrs. Reid talking to a young Elliot as the poolboy cleans the pool:]
Lily Reid: But more important than anything, more important than never letting yourself get fat, is never let a man put his dirty how-do-you-do into your bajingo. Jorge, I need to see you in the potting shed.
[present:]
Elliot: She was always yelling at Jorge in that potting shed. But she never fired him. Even after he kidnapped her and took her to Acapulco.

[Jermaine Stewart's "We Don't Have To Take Our Clothes Off" plays loudly as the janitor dances in the corridor]
Janitor: Hey!
Turk: This is a hospital, why are you playing that song?
Janitor: Oh! You mean "We Don't Have To Take Our Clothes Off", Jermaine Stewart's classic anthem to platonic love. No reason.
Turk: Whatever it is you're trying to do, it's not working.
Janitor: 'Course not, not with you. You're, uh, what'd you say? Untouchable. Well, anyway, back to work. [dances] New friend!

Turk: Dude, I'm dying here.
J.D.: Turk, it's been like eighteen hours since you had sex.
Turk: I'm saying, this is torture!
J.D.: So why don't you just, like, "take care of yo'self"?
Turk: Man, you know I don't do that.
J.D.: You don't?
Turk: Nah, I only did that, like, twice in my life.
J.D.: Same here.
J.D.: [v.o.] If by "in my life" you mean since I got home.

Dr. Kelso: Oh, and Dr. Reid, your patient, Mrs. Burke, has developed a urinary infection. Apparently it hurts when she makes wizzie-winkles through her sea-biscuit.

J.D.: Oh, are we allowed to do this now? What about that whole, like, hands on the hips, "Carla from the block" thing she does when she's mad. When she's like "Oh, Bambi, you do not want to mess me with right now."
Doug: You do sound like that.
Carla: Careful, Doug, we are not that close yet.
J.D.: "Careful, Doug." "Doug, you better be careful, 'cause I'm Carla."