Jeff: Hello?
Britta: So you're sick, huh?
Jeff: Yeah, that's what they tell me.
Britta: Cut the wit, Winger. Where are you, the Gap or Banana Republic?
Jeff: Wow, Britta, you got me all figured out.
Britta: Well, I can tell you're not in bed.
Jeff: That's right, Britta. I'm pretending to be violently ill to avoid lifting a few boxes because I'm thirteen.
Salesgirl: And who's your primary care physician, Mr. Winger?
Jeff: Uh, Dr. Schroeder. S-C-H. Um, do you want to see my insurance card?
Salesgirl: Please.
Britta: Wait, are you at a hospital?
Jeff: No, I'm at the Gap. You hear that? That's not a heart monitor. It's a machine telling me I'm low on khakis.
Salesgirl: Dr. Tarpininan, to Radiology. Dr. Tarpininan.
Britt: Crap, I'm sorry. I just assumed.
Jeff: Whatever. I don't blame you. I've lied before.It's probably karma that I'm sick. But believe me, if you had what I have, you'd rather be moving boxes.
Britta: Okay. Feel better. Sorry.
Jeff: Yeah. I'll see you guys on Monday. *cough, cough, cough.*















