Stomach: I am the Digestive Inquisition! My chief demand is Carbs! Carbs and Grease. Two! My two chief demands are Carbs and Grease! And Salt! My THREE... I'll come in again.
Stomach: I demand french fries. Heavily salted. And um... gravy! Yes! Perfect! Oh, and cheese. Must have cheese. Absolutely.
Me: So you're basically demanding poutine. At whatever-the-hell-time-it-is on a Sunday morning.
Stomach: Mmmm. Yes. Fetch me some.
Me: We're in Texas, you retard.
Stomach: Don't care. Want it. Obey me.
Me: I'm not going to just "pop over to Canada" for you. What are you, pregnant? Christ!
Stomach: You do realize that I'm currently packing enough acid to make both "The Fly" and "Alien" look like a dainty belch on the gastronomic distress scale? *RARR SEETHE GLORP*
Me: O_O meep.
Stomach: Good. Now fetch me IHOP, wench. *snaps fingers*
Me: ...where did you get fingers?
Stomach: I ate one of the neighbors while you were asleep. C'mon, chop chop!