Stage Direction: Three friends are watching the Chicago Blackhawks game in the corner of a bar at a Northside watering hole

Layne: God bless America! Who in the hell ripped ass in here?

John: Totally not me. I'd tell you.

Layne: True. He'd tell the whole bar. Feck, how could you just just rip like that? We're breathing here!

Feck: It's not me. I know I'm leaning like this against the bar with my ass sticking out like I'm blasting one out there, but you know I just don't like to sit down. It's my AD/HD.

Layne: Well someone fucking unloaded in here, and it wasn't me.

All three suddenly become engrossed with the happenings of the TV as Blackhawks go on a two on one break . . .

All Three: Goooooooal! Yeah!

John: Yeah! This series is over. We got this.

Feck: Totally, but . . . what's that . . . Jesus! It stinks like the worst butt ever in here!

Layne: Okay, that time it was me. I admit it.

Feck: Yes, I knew it! Yuck! And that last one was you because it smelled precisely like this one.

Layne: Well, that's because we're all eating the same pizza - thus the same product.

Feck: No, dumb ass, it's got nothing to do with the fuel going in - it all smells like the same stinky anus: yours!

John: This is a disgusting conversation. Can we just plug our noses, close our mouths, and sit quietly like this for the next 34 seconds, which is roughly how long it took Layne's last fart to subside?