... crashed through his garage
and sank into the Malibu surf.

How do you feel?
How do I feel?
Jesus, in the 14 years we've been married
you've asked some stupid questions...

...but, "How do I feel?"
really takes the friggin' cake.

- It was just in a hospital-type question.
- Then you're a hospital-type moron.

How do I feel?
Look at me. I feel marvelous.

I thought, maybe after dinner
we'd go dancing.

Where is that friggin' nurse?
I dropped by the farmers' market
and got you some fudge.

I'm surprised it wasn't a trampoline.
I'm in a lot of pain and I want another shot.
I'm sorry, Miss Reed, but I can't
give you another shot until 9:00.

That's two hours!
- I'm sorry, but the doctor...
- I'm in agony and you're sorry.

- Honey...
- Shut up, Willard. You listen to me.

Phone the doctor now
and tell him I need something...

...for my pain, right now,
because I'm in agony.

You better call him.
- Who are you?
- That is the Marquis de Sade.

He has nothing to say about it.
You damn well better listen
to what I'm telling you.

- I'll see what I can do.
- You'll do more than just see, missy.

You do, see?
...I feel just terrible.
I just hate being in this awful hospital.
- It'll be all right, sweetheart.
- No, it won't.

- Sure it will.
- No, it won't.

You're not making matters any better...
...just hanging around here
making me nervous.

I foolishly thought that
I might be able to help.

You want to help?
Run down to Malibu. Drop in on Felix.
See what the hell is going on.
- What, you mean now?
- No. Next month. Of course, now.

My God.
A simple little favor, you'd think
I was asking for the friggin' moon.

Do you want me to telephone you
or drop back by?