Dr. F-something

"We're going to put you in a wheel-barrow and leave you under that awning.  That way you can keep an eye on my new Mercedes."

Dr. F-something is a skinny Indian dude who always looks like he's midway through a 112 hour shift.  He never has anything good to say.

"You see, we're running dangerously close to hitting forty percent occupancy."

"Is my bed on fire?" I ask, plaintively.

"What are you doing with that hacksaw?  You're planning on cutting off one of my limbs, aren't you?  As long as I get some morphine, I guess it's okay," I say.

Dr. F-something flips through my chart.  He says, "How long have you been taking omeprazole?"

He stops flipping and stares directly into my eyes.  Judging from the look on his face I'm obviously having a pulmonary embolism.  I thought it would hurt more.  He stares for a couple seconds more, then says, "The bed fire can be extinguished with a pinch of baking soda."

"I read that on the internet," he adds.

Just then Dr. McQueen runs in.  He is on a butterfly hunt.  The rare creature lands on my nose and Dr. McQueen's net drops over my head.

"This will look great in my den next to the turtle," he says.

Dr. F-something and I intently watch McQueen reach into the net (and the end of my nose), grab the butterfly by the legs, and run out as quickly as he ran in.

"I need your arms for my Halloween costume.  It'll be hilarious.  And your legs go to a friend of mine, Dr. Strangelove."