(My morning alarm goes off. Once again, it’s a soothing piano tune over a babbling brook and birdsong.)
H: (angrily grumbling) Turn it off! It sounds like Miss Piggy farting on a xylophone. In a bad way.
M: There’s a good way…?
H: I’ll have you know.
M: … … have me know what?
H: I’ll ffff… fart in your car. Like giving birth to hate. Surprise.
H: What’s that smell? What are you doing?
M: Putting on some lotion.
H: That’s silly.
M: I do what I want.
H: But that’s silly.
M: Putting on lotion?
H: No, doing what you want.
M: … Do you like the smell?
H: No, it smells like elves burning.
[5 minutes later]
H: Why do you smell like that? It’s like a moose in a Christmas factory.
H: It’s like a candle shit itself!