Incorporeal-Corporeal Incorporated

So I enjoy an extremely hypothetical theory that the whole form and function of what makes me me is run like an impersonal, high-level business; thousands of workers, hundreds of middle-managers, unknown zillions of support staff repairing copiers and refilling water coolers. Myriad branch offices, housed in towering office buildings of many different realms; Memory, Reasoning, Skills & Talents, etc. There are many departments and divisions within each, and they don't network with each other very well. They're all just trying to get through the day; hoping no one catches them looking at pictures of cats, or asks them why the copier still isn't working. They all got where they are today on the Peter Principle (no, okay, for realsies) and have no real idea what they're doing.

This fanciful theory has been evidenced to me countless times; in fact, "incidents" from my tiny legion of bumblers happen almost every day. The latest snafu has been at the Psychosomatics Office, a liaison between the Divisions of Physical- and Emotional-Distress; the Chief has been going through a rough patch with the wife, and somewhere between abusing his prescription muscle relaxers and the sleepless nights on the couch, his ability to make executive decisions became a curse instead of a blessing. Little experiential aides keep popping their heads 'round the door with unwanted minutiae, and in all his rage and the fatigue, there's only one call he feels ready to make:

Meanwhile...

I appreciate that you've got stuff going on, man. But, nausea for everything? Is that absolutely necessary? Get back to me.