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.

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".

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?