Never eat a cinnamon bun at a movie theater... I don't know what I was thinking and I suppose I've brought this on myself. It's like one degree less stupid than eating a tuna salad sandwich out of a vending machine.
The following transcript was taken from Regan’s body starting at about 4am…
Stomach (S): What is it Lt. Small?
Small Intestines (SI): I’m sorry sir, but we’re not going to be able to accept your next shipment.
S: What?! Are you kidding?
SI: No, sir.
S: Did you try to digest it? Did you use-
SI: Sir, we’ve tried everything.
S: Well, that don’t make a lick of sense. *goes to printout* All she had to eat was a nice well cooked steak-
SI: Oh yes, we were looking forward to that-
S: And some potatoes… a Chi latte and a… oh.
S: *sigh* Yes, Lt. Small I think I see the problem here. A cinnamapretzel.
SI: Excuse me sir, but what the hell is that?
S: *picks up the red phone* I don’t know but I’m calling the Brain.
SI: At this hour? Aren’t we in sleep mode?
S: Not for long, Small. Hello, Brain? Come in, Brain.
Brain (B): Bloody hell, Stomach, what the devil are you thinking waking me at… gracious me, 4 am?
S: Sir, what exactly is a cinnamapretzel?
B: Oh, um… Well it’s rather a mix of a cinnamon bun and a soft pretzel. Why do you ask?
S: The small intestines isn’t having any of it, sir.
B: Oh dear. Can’t this wait? I’m not going to be able to perform satisfactory if we have her up at this hour.
S: Sir, I suggest you get this body into the bathroom so we can evacuate this cinnamawhatzit ASAP
B: Oh bother. You don’t understand how much she hates to evacuate food. Hey do you think?
Womb: Ain’t nobody in here, sir.
B: Rats. How did this happen? *picks up red phone* Eyes. Come in, Eyes. Explain the cinnamapretzel.
Eyes (E): Sir? It looked good. The illustration had gooey icing and rings of yummy cinnamon goodness.
B: Hold on, Eyes. Mouth? Respond to that please, Mouth.
Mouth (M): I knew that would be trouble, sir. Tasted kind of slimy on the outside and that icing came out of a little plastic cup that was room temperature.
S: Brain, what kind of mess did you get us into?
B: Shut up, Stomach. Do you have any idea how much information I have to process?
S: Well, process this. I’m hitting the “Purge” button.
Colon (C): Whoa, guys. Let’s just calm down now. No one wants that. I’m not scheduled for work until about 10 am, if you purge that will knock my whole schedule off.
S: Sorry, Colon. It’s a Brain failure. I’ll try to expel as much as I can from here.
B: How bad is it going to be, Stomach?
S: I’m alerting the toenails, sir.
B: Well, let’s get this over with, then. Man, this baby used to be able to process anything.
S: Think it has to do with the upcoming birthday?
B: No, she’s never been right ever since college.
B: Well, sorry chaps. I shall endeavor to avoid this in the future. Good night, and good luck.