One day, my favorite female rapper decided to achieve her lifelong dream of playing a doctor on TV. So she rented a locker at medical school and put her belongings in there.
Then she attended her first class, and the lesson was “How to Undress Your Patient.” The professor held up a syringe and asked if anybody would like to receive a free injection that will put one into a state of deepest sleep. My favorite female rapper volunteered eagerly and learned the lesson, and she taught the class how to handle accusations of malpractice after performing a counter-molestation.
The professor had fainted and was now unconscious, thus my favorite female rapper was the new physician; so she removed a rib from the slumbering professor, and cleaned up all the clues and evidence.
Then, on the morrow, when the clock said “11 a.m.” she was scared that she had overslept. So she grabbed all her textbooks and put on her lab smock and raced to class looking very well-prepared. She was now bespectacled.
At this point, it was revealed that yesterday’s operation had been entirely successful, and the professor’s heart transplant was pumping up his rump. The major networks therefore all green-lit the series, and the show went on for hundreds of classic episodes.
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