Stegman's had it. He's, like, the "us" of fake TV doctors in a haunted hospital. He takes his leave of Begley's office and clomps past another doctor, haunted by the duel specters of shortness and baldness. He tries to stop Stegman by offering to show him the sleep lab, but Stegman mutters nothing and just keeps walking. Good call. Because you know what's playing on the monitors in the sleep lab right now? THIS SCENE. Short Doctor turns to Begley, and the two of them exchange their patented secret thumb-shake. Begley excuses Doc Hollywood's diva behavior, and Short Doctor foreshadows something about someone whose name I can't understand hiring a lawyer. Klingerman? Med mal? That must mean "medical malpractice" in, like, Esperanto, or some language twins teach each other where you only say the first syllable of every word. Like, if I said, "This show sucks," you wouldn't understand it because it would be couched in that clever code. Begley volleys that he would have told Stegman about the med mal, but he "thought his mood was foul enough as it was." Then they pause and spontaneously burst out laughing, because the joke is secretly on us right now.
A broken little girl moodily bounces a blue ball down a haunted hospital hallway. Okay, the spooky, mood-setting moments are not working, especially when they're offset fourteen seconds later by a Danish-eating dog with a vaguely Prussian accent. Little bouncing girl walks past the stoic Native man, and this time he is handling a mop and pushing it down the otherwise empty hallway. The camera pans Lynch-ily to a Room 719, which the sign tells us belongs to a "Mona Klingerman." Amazingly, that is the name shared by every single one of my grandmother's bridge partners. Uncanny. The attending physician on the sign has been crossed out, and "Stegman" has been replaced by "Clooney." Oh, you wish this were the doctor show with Clooney. ["So does that doctor show." -- Sars] But those days were a long, long time ago. Inside the room, a little girl of about seven watches vintage cartoons, and the screen is filled with the image of a bald man doing cartoonish things. The girl rocks back and forth and regards the television with dark, sunken eyes, as a nurse tries to give the girl medicine. The cartoons unfurl in bleached, '70s color tones. The attending director, Dr. Tarantino, files for med mal.
The Guy Who Hit The Guy Who Isn't Stephen King is racing toward the hospital in the back of an ambulance. Hey, if someone doesn't turn on the van's radio and give us something red-like, dragon-y, and tattoo-ish to sing along to, I might forget what show I'm watching. A medic leaps to his feet to attend to a flat-lining pulse, yells, "Clear!" and puts those iron things on the chest of a man whose chest I've spent way too much time with this week already. They regain a pulse. The dude's eyes open with a start, and he notes the presence of a somewhat angry anteater in the back of the ambulance. His pulse goes out again. Oh, fine. I also really like "Stacy's Mom." I know it must be wrong