In the center, we see our hero get the call he’s dreaded all day: what do you mean this phone is made of licorice? What do you mean I’m not a real doctor? I spent an hour this morning drawing glasses on my face! I had to use an old Thomas Dolby record for reference!
The various vignettes surrounding this picture tell us what we might expect. Left to right, clockwise:
Hand me the stabbing tool, Nurse – I’ve screwed this one up, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let her die slow.
Dr. Bobbs hopes this will bring his date around, because this is starting to get hairy, man
Dr. Bobbs, hopped up on pharmaceutical-grade narcotics, races a car around a scale model of modern city
Dr. Bobbs relieves the patient of his winning lottery ticket, which was creating pressure on his, uh, lower lumbar-type area
Dr. Bobbs plots the day when he can arrange an accident for that bitch Gilda; she caught him once shooting up in his office and thinks she can hold it over his head and make him come up with the good stuff for the rest of eternity. Well, her time will come
Dr. Bobbs performs a fist-assisted star-ectomy
Dr. Bobbs confronts the sad fact that pap smears weren’t as sexy as they sounded in medical school
Dr. Bobbs swears this is the last time. He just needs a little boost, that’s all. After this he’s tapering off. Swear to GOD.