The monk dips two fingers in the beaker, sticks them in his mouth, and smacks his lips thoughtfully. I have to wonder whether he received an adequate job description before signing on at the monastery. Pangborn explains to Kellerman what the monk is up to, saying that the Rinpoche is diabetic. Kellerman mutters for her to have the glucose level checked by means other than taste testing. Fishlips and Donge appear in the doorway, Fishlips sternly reminding them that food is not allowed in the room. Kellerman informs her that it's urine. Fishlips and Donge watch in horror as the monk samples the pee once more. A seasoned gourmand, he proclaims the glucose level to be a little high. From the Rinpoche's bedside, a nurse confirms it. Wow, I'm amazed. The way I'm "amazed" when I'm forced to watch an eight-year-old perform coin tricks at his birthday party.

Donge and Fishlips ask to have a word with Pangborn and Kellerman in the hallway. Donge promptly informs her that the HMO will not be paying for the Rinpoche's surgery. She counters that the monks are on a group plan. Ah, but the Rinpoche isn't part of their group. Pangborn says that Medicare will cover it then, since the Rinpoche is over sixty-five. Donge rolls his eyes at the sea of ignorance that threatens to overwhelm him, and counters that the Rinpoche is not a U.S. citizen, so tough nuts for him on the whole Medicare thing. Kellerman rolls his eyes in disgust. Fishlips points out that the Rinpoche can have the surgery when he returns to Bhutan, or they can ship him over to the county hospital for it. Pangborn considers the options for an eighth of a second before stating that Mission will cover the cost. Fishlips's eyes nearly drop out of her head. Pangborn claims that the hospital could use the good karma. Business decisions like that one should put the board of directors right at ease. Surprisingly, Fishlips beams, not at all disturbed by the unpractical reasoning. Predictably, Donge's panties bunch themselves into a large and glorious knot.

Cut to Kellerman in the scrub room. "Let's do it, guys," he enthuses. He waits for his hat to appear. A newbie indicates the Easy-Bake. Que Paso exclaims, "No, no, no, no, no!" and throws open the tiny steel door. Flames leap out. Kellerman and I roll our eyes, silently praying for patience. Kellerman watches impassively as they assault his lucky hat with a fire extinguisher and present him with the charred remains. "Whoops," says Wendy Whiner, ducking slightly and awaiting the explosion. Kellerman forces his voice to remain calm and assures them that it's okay. "Major bad karma," Que Paso helpfully points out. Gee, I wonder if the surgery will go well?