Stomach: What's that, Skin? He's in the shower? Sounds good. Whadaya say, Balls? He's using a lot of soap? Nice!
Balls: I know!
Stomach: What the hell? A beer? A freezing-ass beer in the shower? Whatever it's just one, but really?
Stomach: Margaritas and nachos? Are you making this a theme day or something? Bladder, heads up. Looks like we're in a friggin' Mexican restaurant on margarita night.
Bladder: 10-4, good buddy.
Stomach: What the HELL am I supposed to do with all these beans, guy? You think I've got a machine down here turning re-fried beans into stardust? Those grumbles are me saying to chill out! And Colon, don't you get any ideas.
Colon: I'm fine. Shut up.
Stomach: Wow, I'm struggling. I'm begging for a nice nap, but from what Nose tells me we're in a dive bar. I just hope I don
JAGER SHOT! JAGER SHOT! Alert! Alert! Set condition one and seal all emergency hatches! Looks like he's getting shitfaced, everyone!
Stomach: Bladder, you're doing great. We're working together like gears in a Swiss watch. I set em' up, you knock em' down. I passed off most of the heavy lifting to Intestines. Colon is keeping up his end of the deal. We're cool. I just hope
JAGER SHOT! JAGER SHOT! Damn that one really shook
we can't keep taking hits like this!
Eyes: Everyone, are you seeing all these babes? These girls look awesome!
Stomach: Shake it off, you three! That's the third pitcher talking and you know it! Hold it together! He's switching to whiskey!
Stomach: We're at condition red, I can barely hold this together. There's booze getting into everything! Looks like Brain is starting to shut some things down. Sorry, Penis.
Stomach: Oh god, I'm a wreck. Eyes said he's riding shotgun to get drunk food now
he's sitting on the Hindenburg and doesn't even know it.
Tongue: Head's up, Stomach! It's not pretty! He eating some kind of f*cked up diner burger with a fried egg on it!
Stomach: I'm going to lose it!
Bladder: Me too!
Colon: Me three!