my life, my pace

HOUSE: Need a lawyer.
VOGLER: Who’d you kill?
HOUSE: Nobody and it’s not even lunch.

I’m a doctor. I’m not a lapdog for the feds. I don’t play fetch.

Jail. You’d like that. No more naughty school girl. Conjugal visit—that’s her new fantasy.

Check for everything. The feds are paying. We’re gonna turn a profit on this one, boys.

He’s important to you. Got it. So no placebos for him. We’ll use the real medicine.

We’re a bit of a specialized hospital. We generally only deal with patients when they’re actually sick.

The neurologist thinks it’s his brain and wants to open up his head. Frankly, I’m shocked. And you get to use the big drill in daddy’s big red toolbox.

CHASE: Because the brother doesn’t want you to?
HOUSE: Or because he had an unexplained coma. Which sounds better?

But unless I’ve been named as the fourth part of the axis of evil, invaded and occupied, this is still not a democracy.

Old enough to drink, old enough to do something really stupid and make yourself a baby,

You get home one night. Your wife hits you with a baseball bat. Likely causes: The fact that you haven’t thanked her for dinner in eight years or the receipt for furry handcuffs that she found in your pants?

CHASE: Okay, and, uh why is her test better than mine.
HOUSE: Because she’s cuter, though it’s close.

But in the humor me department, get me a biopsy while you’re at it.

Those idiots. How many times do I have to send them to sensitivity training?

FOREMAN: Oh right. Your diabolic plan to convince the evil genius he’s in the clear so he’ll let his guard down and make a fatal mistake.
HOUSE: Well, it’s clearly not going to work now.
CHASE: What evil genius?
HOUSE: If we knew that, we wouldn’t need a diabolic plan, would we?

Keep him on the pig for a few more hours, take him off the candy and he’ll be fine. But the pig won’t be. Oh no.

CLINIC PATIENT: He’s not too smart.
HOUSE: Genetics is a powerful force.

That would be quite the trick: he slapped me so hard his brother turned straight.

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