“Pregnant? But that's impossible. My patient's a man!”

“Sort of pregnant. Sort of dead. Sort of Jewish. These are impossibles.”

“Menoeceus is a great name. (Astrid)For an old man or a feminine hygiene product. Not for my son. And next time I get to name the kid and it won’t be something that sounds like meningitis. (Zarek)You keep that up and next time you’ll be the one birthing it, and don’t mess with me, bucko, I have connections in that department. A pregnant man is not an impossibility in my neighborhood. (Astrid)”

“Pardon me, but I wonder if you wouldn't mind switching seats. You see, that's my girlfriend there, and she's pregnant. And since she gets a bit ill on airplanes, I thought she might need someone to hold her hair when... well..."St. Clair holds up the courtesy barf bag and shakes it around. The paper crinkles dramatically. The man sprints off the seat as my face flames. His pregnant girlfriend?”

“That's what a shrink is for; friends and neighbors; their job is to fuck the mentally disturbed and make them pregnant with sanity.”

“You love him, don't you?""That's an impossible question to answer.""No it isn't," she argued. "It's a simple yes or no. You either love someone or you don't.""I don't know. Maybe.""Renee, maybe is not an acceptable answer. That's like saying you're a little bit pregnant and or caught a touch of breast cancer. Deep down, you know whether or not you love someone.”