Dr. Cox: Look at that, a message from Jordan.
J.D: How is it going?
Dr. Cox: Just great.
(Dr. Cox throws his pager down the hall)
Guy down the hall: Hey, watch it!
J.D: Dr. Cox, we have know each other for over two years. Let me in okay... Help me, help you, help me, help you, help me, help you...
Dr. Cox: Stop it!
J.D :Help me, help you.
Dr. Cox: Fine, Newbie! Let me-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? Nooo! 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, if I'm not too sweaty from the day's labours, stick my hand right down my pants, buuut apparently that's not in Jordan's definition of "pulling your weight". So, uh, there you are, superstar. Fix that.