Food Poisoning

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.

SI: Sir?

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.

Everybody: Tequila.

B: Well, sorry chaps. I shall endeavor to avoid this in the future. Good night, and good luck.