Dr. Cameron: Twelve-year-olds don't have sex.Dr. Gregory House: Their mistake.
This is gonna mean months of sleepless nights wondering if I could've done something differently. Maybe it's not that I'm sick of House... it's that I'm sick of being scared out of my mind to go to work every day.
I need to turn Wilson from a terminal idiot to an interminable pain in the ass.
Dr. Gregory House: Sweet ride. I asked for the one with a sissy bar and a banana seat, but Santa gave me this instead. Guess that's what I get for being naughty.Dr. Julie Whitner: You must be Dr. House.Dr. Gregory House: Yeah. So, looks like there's been some sort of mix-up at the parking office.Dr. Julie Whitner: They had to move me closer to the door.Dr. Gregory House: Had to? You don't look like the type to pull a weapon.Dr. Julie Whitner: Wheelchair.Dr. Gregory House: Cane. I think you should do the honorable thing, let me have my space back.Dr. Julie Whitner: Oh well, uh... since you asked so nicely, wheelchair.Dr. Gregory House: Cane! Walking long distances makes my leg hurt.Dr. Julie Whitner: And it's easy for me?Dr. Gregory House: Of course not. Pushing that little lever? The muscles must burn. I'm sure the last 10 yards are pure torture.Dr. Julie Whitner: Crossing the parking lot is dangerous. Cars can't see me.Dr. Gregory House: You ever hit a patch of black ice with a cane?Dr. Julie Whitner: No, gosh, on account of the fact that I can't walk. Maybe you should ask the parking office for some crampons.Dr. Gregory House: This is about who can most easily cross the parking lot. You're the winner.Dr. Julie Whitner: Oh, and the prize is apparently a parking space.
