To Gulf War veteran, Corporal Erin O'Marra

PTSD? Never heard of it. Sounds like something a lawyer would make up. You sure that's what the doc said you had? I'm not buying it. Listen, you ladies can't just burn your bras and ask to fight on the front lines and then want to talk about it for hours on end every time your captain's head gets blown off right in front of you. That's war, girly. It ain't pretty, but it'll put hair on your chest.

—A "well-documented and pervasive psychological disorder?" Is that what they're calling your time of month these days? Look, just because some guy gets handsy in the mess hall doesn't mean you can start cryin' about it, lookin' for sympathy. Our boys haven't seen a red-blooded American gal for months. Let's cut them some slack, okay? I know that you're missing your lipsticks and your blushes and your mascarpones, but you need to suck it up, wipe some eye-black under those baby blues, then get back out there and kick some Charlie ass!

To professed hypochondriac and germaphobe, Bart Hutchinson:

Bart, glad you could make it this week. Quite a…ahh…AHHHCHOOOO! Goodness, that was a pipe cleaner. Where the hell is my handkerchief? Oh well, put'er there, pal!

C'mon, you call that a handshake? My granddaughter's got a firmer grip than you! More calluses, too.

—No, I don't have any Purell®. What the hell is that? Anyway, I was just saying that it's been quite awhile since we've seen each other. Come on, sit down. How's everything been?

—Oh yeah, look out for the garbage can there. Forgot to empty it this month. I think it's keeping the roaches from wandering around the rest of the office though, so I might leave it. Anyway, you look good — except for that funky vein thing on your leg…HA, I'm just yankin' ya, buddy. Seriously though, what's with the weird dry patch on your neck there? You get poison ivy or something? Psoriasis maybe? You might wanna have that looked at. Could be cancer too, though I'm sure it's nothing. Drink? It's a little past the expiration date, but those things are just for tricking you into buying a new gallon of milk just because the old one's got a few chunks in it. Damn lawyers, ruin everything. Hey, Bart, where you goin'? We're just getting started!

To frazzled stay-at-home mom, Stacy Riebling:

I don't get it. All you have to do is stay home with the kids. Maybe I should speak with your husband?

To clinically depressed accountant, Phil Legat:

Listen Phil, I hear what you're saying, and I'm trying to sympathize, but you gotta cut the sissy crap, okay? You’re a grown-ass man who's becoming a world-class hemorrhoid on my not-so-tiny heiny. All this nambypamby talk about feelings is making my wrists limp. Here’s what you’re gonna do: tomorrow, you’re gonna wake up, you’re gonna eat four raw eggs for breakfast, then you’re gonna cut down the largest tree you can find. No, not with a herring, you swishy bastard — with a goddamn axe! And you’re not gonna wear safety goggles either. You get a splinter in your eye, take it out with your fingers. After that, you're gonna go home, watch some porn — Jesus, Phil, on the internet! Where do you think? — and if you can find a midget on short notice (HA!), give him a swift kick in the ass. Don’t ask me why, son! Sometimes, a midget just needs to be kicked. When you wake up the next day, you’re not gonna be depressed anymore. In fact, you’re gonna feel fan-fucking-tastic. So fantastic that you’re gonna go buy that midget a beer and apologize, ‘cause only little girls kick midgets, and we’ve just established that you’re no longer a little girl, you fucking fairy. Now get out of here before the queer starts rubbing off!