(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: Set a course for the bathroom.
M: Do you need to use the bathroom?
H: It’s in a nebula.
M: You should get up and go to the bathroom.
H: I have to scan the nebula first!
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: Gimme your lunch money.
H: (farts loudly)
M: Still not giving it to you.
H: Fine then.
M: (in a low-pitched voice) Happy birthday, Grandma.
M: Whatcha doin’ ?
H: I climbed the mountain of pain to poop in a toilet filled with blood.
M: That’s…graphic. Ew.
H: (farts loudly) Nooooooooooooooooo…
M: (trying really hard not to laugh out loud)
[A few seconds pass and the fan blows it up into his face]
H: Augh! Nnggha! (starts thrashing around in his blanket)
M: (starts laughing uncontrollably)
H: Are you crying? Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. No crying. (pats my shoulder)
H: (long, drawn-out fart) Ohhh, wave of pain! … Army soap?