“Mr. Smith yelled at the doctor,What have you done to my boy?He's not flesh and blood,he's aluminum alloy!"The doctor said gently,What I'm going to saywill sound pretty wild.But you're not the father of this strange looking child.You see, there still is some questionabout the child's gender,but we think that its fatheris a microwave blender.”

“Robot BoyMr. an Mrs. Smith had a wonderful life.They were a normal, happy husband and wife.One day they got news that made Mr. Smith glad.Mrs. Smith would would be a momwhich would make him the dad!But something was wrong with their bundle of joy.It wasn't human at all,it was a robot boy!He wasn't warm and cuddlyand he didn't have skin.Instead there was a cold, thin layer of tin.There were wires and tubes sticking out of his head.He just lay there and stared,not living or dead.The only time he seemed alive at allwas with a long extension cordplugged into the wall.Mr. Smith yelled at the doctor,"What have you done to my boy?He's not flesh and blood,he's aluminum alloy!"The doctor said gently,"What I'm going to saywill sound pretty wild.But you're not the father of this strange looking child.You see, there still is some questionabout the child's gender,but we think that its fatheris a microwave blender."The Smith's lives were now filledwith misery and strife.Mrs. Smith hated her husband,and he hated his wife.He never forgave her unholy alliance:a sexual encounterwith a kitchen appliance.And Robot Boygrew to be a young man.Though he was often mistakenfor a garbage can.”

“Rose: My mum's here.The Doctor: Oh, that's just what I need! Don't you dare make this place domestic!Mickey Smith: You ruined my life, Doctor. [the Doctor turns and looks at him, irritated] They thought she was dead, I was a murder suspect because of you!The Doctor: [looks at Rose] See what I mean? Domestic!Mickey: I bet you don't even remember my name!The Doctor: Ricky.Mickey: It's Mickey!The Doctor: No, it's Ricky.Mickey: I think I know my own name!The Doctor: You think you know your own name? How stupid are you?”

“He [the Doctor] groaned. 'Why does it always have to be me?''Mr Rory is ill. You're the next best thing,' I [Maria] said simply.'Thank you,' he muttered. He didn't sound very pleased at all at that.”

“It’s okay. I’m—”“Fine?” Joseph chimed in. “Obviously not. You need to be checked out by a doctor.” “I am a doctor.” I rolled my eyes at him, but that didn’t deter him from his train of thought. “Not that kind of doctor.”“What is ‘that kind of doctor’ going to say when they see my shimmering pink blood, Joseph?” I changed my voice to mimic one of a concerned doctor. “I’m sorry ma’am, you appear to be suffering from a mild case of Pretty Pretty Princess syndrome. Have you ingested any magical woodland faeries recently?”

“I'm going to Boston to see my doctor. He's a very sick man.”