You’re my step-son’s best friend. You asked me if you could borrow or buy my track pants so you could wear them to a 90’s themed party. You don’t want me to tell your ma.

I’m alone, or so I think so, I call your ma to tell her everything. My belly hurts. I let out some nasty farts.

For some reason my farts don’t smell. The reason is because you’ve shrunken and I’ve been smothering you with my farts and you’ve acted as a filter.