(Scene: bathroom. 7am. Quagmire is in the shower, and is overcome by nausea because she is on a terrible medicine that makes her sick all the time.)
Mr. Quagmire: [enters bathroom, sits on toilet. Farts loudly.]
Quagmire: [vomits] [waits for water to wash vomit away, sits down in tub to wash her hair]
Mr. Quagmire: Are you okay?
Quagmire: I mean, I’m not gonna die. Probably.
Mr. Quagmire: Hey. I love you, you know.
Quagmire: My greatest fantasy was always that shortly after puking, a man would tell me he loves me while he poops on a toilet.
Mr. Quagmire: [sticks head through shower curtain, kisses Quagmire’s forehead] I only had to pee, so stick that one back in the memory bank for another time.
(Scene: phone call the next day, after seeing the doctor who prescribed this terrible medicine in the first place)
Quagmire: Hey, so [doctor] prescribed something different since I am probably never going to adjust to the bad stuff.
Mr. Quagmire: that’s awesome!
Quagmire: it isn’t covered by insurance and would cost $5000 if I bought it for this month. I’m thinking I will just continue being sick.
Mr. Quagmire: ... [shocked silence] I will try not to laugh at you anymore when you get sick.