Pat: Okay, who are you?

Dr. Geraldo Sanchez: Who are you?

Pat: I asked you first.

Dr. S: I'm Harry Jammer.

Pat: And I'm Rex Sinner. Hee.

Dr. S: Now that we've got our porn names, we're all set.

Pat: Tell me about it.

Dr. S: I will.

Pat: So, what do we do now? We have our porn names, so we do porn?

Dr. S: Well...

Pat: Because I have to tell you that I'm not that wild about doing porn. Porn is weird. And I'd have to disregard my many years of professional acting lessons.

Dr. S: And people would probably frown on their therapist appearing in adult movies, right?

Pat: Probably. I wouldn't necessarily care, but I'd be in the porn too, so my vote doesn't count.

Dr. S: What about phone sex?

Pat: What about phone sex? I've told you before, dude, we're not going to have phone sex.

Dr. S: Not with you, genius. What if we start our own phone sex line?

Pat: We'd have to advertise on late night TV. You know, with the scantily clad women moaning, 'Pick up the phone.' Heh.

Dr. S: We certainly have the startup capital.

Pat: How does phone sex work, exactly?

Dr. S: You call the number and give them your credit card, then you talk to a nice --

Pat: I know how the process works, jackass, but I don't understand exactly how it, um, gets the job done.

Dr. S: Well, it's a proven fact that sex is, like, 90% mental. So the anonymous voice on the other end of the phone provides the mental stimulation and you let your brain do the rest.

Pat: It's like the ultimate one-night stand. Anonymous, random sex with half the mess and none of the bullshit. There's definitely money to be made here.

Dr. S: I'll call my broker.

Pat: And I guess I'll just wait to hear back from you.

Dr. S: Okay.

Pat: In the meantime, I've been thinking a lot lately about a BLT on white bread with extra mayo. And a pickle on the side.

Dr. Sanchez: Really.

Pat: Yes.

Dr. S: I've been thinking about how great it feels to go home and collapse on the couch after a long day at work.

Pat: Yeah. Nothing beats sitting.

Dr. S: Except maybe laying.

Pat: Or possibly sleeping.

Dr. S: Sleeping, eh? Having a good time, are we?

Pat: Sleeping alone, jackass. I have to say, you're not being very professional right now.

Dr. S: That's okay. I'm off the clock.

Pat: Whatever. Is this part of that thing where you're not supposed to bring your work home with you?

Dr. S: Aren't we proud of me?

Pat: You and everyone else who's ever decided that their job was so depressing that they wanted to take a week off and get on a plane to the Virgin Islands to rescue their best friend's vacationing brain. How's the beach, anyway?

Dr. S: Will you be mad if there's sand in your brain?

Pat: Sand? I told you that under no circumstances were you to open the jar.

Dr. S: It's a nude beach! I got distracted.

Pat: You took my brain to a nude beach? You're corrupting my brain! What the hell is wrong with you?

Dr. S: Hey, your brain didn't exactly put up a fight. It's very democratic here on vacation. We took a vote, and it was unanimous that we go to the nude beach.

Pat: Some brains have all the fun.

Dr. S: You should come with us next time.

Pat: I might have if I had even considered the possibility of my brain and my best friend running off together. You're not doing anything untoward, are you?

Dr. S: Well, we did watch the new Pyramid.

Pat: Hmm. The one with Donny Osmond? Why?

Dr. S: There's not a whole lot on during the day, in case you haven't noticed.

Pat: That's why you should sleep during the day and pimp my brain around the Virgin Islands at night.

Dr. S: This is why you need to be here.

Pat: Don't tempt me.

Dr. S: So you're enjoying your two-week break from school?

Pat: If by 'enjoying' you mean 'working during,' then yes, I am enjoying my two-week break from school.

Dr. S: Sucks for you.

Pat: It could be worse. At least I have Dr. Joy on the radio whilst I work.

Dr. S: I've been replaced?

Pat: Hey, it was bound to happen. Besides, Dr. Joy and me go way back, all the way to fifth grade when my parents told me never to listen to her.

Dr. S: Oops.

Pat: Too bad she turned out to be insightful and delightfully entertaining.

Dr. S: Have you been drinking?

Pat: Why would you even say that? You know I don't drink. Or smoke. I'm actually sort of oddly proud of that.

Dr. S: You'd be a scary drunk.

Pat: I know.

Dr. S: I cringe to think about what alcohol would do to you.

Pat: Well, I always use my sugar addiction as a reference point. There was that time at the Moline Village Inn when I ate all those sugar packets and then got up on the table and made a toast.

Dr. S: So the real question is whether you'd be a mean drunk or a fucking hilarious drunk.

Pat: Yeah.

Dr. S: And we have to wait how long to find out?

Pat: Well, I'll be 21 in five years, but even then, I'll probably be one of those boring people who actually drink responsibly.

Dr. S: I see.

Pat: Not one of those hypocrites who gets all 'blah blah blah drink responsibly' on the public service announcements but ultimately forgets the promise they made to the general public and ends up reliving their indiscretions in the pages of certain tawdry publications at the local supermarket checkout line.

Dr. S: Thanks for clearing that up.

Pat: Any time. Hey, Dr. S?

Dr. S: Yeah.

Pat: This is going to sound dumb. Really. But I don't forsee a way around it.

Dr. S: Shoot.

Pat: Can I...talk to my brain?

Dr. S: What?

Pat: I said, "Can I talk to my brain?"

Dr. S: Oh.

Pat: Yes.

Dr. S: Never thought you'd put those six words together in a sentence, did you?

Pat: No, to be perfectly honest.

Dr. S: Well, congratulations on facing your fear and asking the tough questions.

Pat: Well, can I?

Dr. S: No.

Pat: Are you refusing to let me talk to my own brain?

Dr. S: That's what it sounds like to me.

Pat: Well, fuck that. I demand that you put my brain on the phone right now.

Dr. S: I don't think so.

Pat: Dr. Geraldo Lee Sanchez, I demand to speak to my brain.

Dr. S: Ah...no.

Pat: Well, are you at least preserving it well?

Dr. S: You mean other than the sand?

Pat: Yeah, other than the sand.

Dr. S: I guess. I've never carried around a human brain in a jar before.

Pat: Well, whatever. Just tell my brain I'm thinking fondly of it, okay?

Dr. S: Sure. So, how about the Yankees?

Pat: Shut up, Dr. Sanchez.

Dr. S: Sucks to be the Yankees.

Pat: Maybe the Yankees just decided someone else needed a shot at the series this year.

Dr. S: You lie.

Pat: What?

Dr. S: You lie like a rug.

Pat: Whatever. Why are we talking about this? You know I hate baseball.

Dr. S: Exactly.

Pat: Dammit!

Dr. S: What are you doing?

Pat: What the hell? What do you think I'm doing? I'm sitting here talking to you.

Dr. S: Okay then, what are you supposed to be doing?

Pat: I guess technically I'm working. Why? What are you doing?

Dr. S: Sipping a mai-tai and chillin' with your brain.

Pat: Uh-oh. Work just walked in the door. Have a drink for me, will you?

Dr. S: Whatever.

Pat: Give my brain my love.

Dr. S: Right.

Pat: And please bring it back in one piece.

Dr. S: No guarantees.

Pat: That's comforting.

Dr. S: It's what I do.

Pat: Well, hanging up on people is what I do, so...later.

Dr. S: Later, Rex.

Pat: Shut up, Harry. Heh.