Naughty Nurses

Inside a candy-striped sanatorium where the thermometer never drops below fever-pitch, three white-clad jesters—Dent’s walrus-moustached surgeon, Kirby’s flutter-eyed nightingale, Mann’s rubber-limbed orderly—conduct a bacchanal of bedpans and busted etiquette. Patients check in with sprained dignity and leave on stretchers of hysteria; the corridors become vaudeville planks, the operating theatre a slapstick Colosseum. Gauze becomes confetti, thermometers turn into fencing foils, and the Hippocratic oath is rewritten in pie-cream hieroglyphics. When a lovesick tycoon feigns acute riches to woo Head-Nurse Kirby, the ward erupts into a domino-chain of impersonations, mistaken gurneys, and ether-bubble flirtations. Dent, convinced he’s dissecting a love malady rather than a hernia, descends the spiral of comic hubris while Mann, the human pogo-stick, bounces between sedatives and matrimony until the whole infirmary cartwheels into a pandemonium of marriage licenses and sling-shot heartbeats. The finale—a three-tier chase from X-ray room to laundry chute—collapses propriety like a bad lung, leaving only the grin of anarchic mercy behind.