My first reaction to this was “No wonder everyone hates America” and then I thought to myself “wait, there’s got to be stoners in their control room”. Then it dawned on me that the only possible way something this ridiculous (two unrelated products existing in the same box with intent to sell like it’s no big deal) could possibly be conceived is the simple fact that this is the stoner’s dream come true.
Well played. There’s probably millions of stoners smoking a fatty right now that would love pizza and cookies at the same time.
Why do you have to be so smelly? Every time you walk past me or somehow manage to sit within a few feet of me, you smell like a cigarette. It makes me gag, and you may as well just be smoking in the house - however, it’s a good thing you don’t, because then I’d be smelly too. However, the smelliness does not stop at JUST your repulsive smoking habit: you seem to be farting every few seconds.
When you’re eating, you’re farting. When you’re talking, watching TV, on your computer, on the phone, making food, washing the dishes, and even doing laundry, you’re sure to be farting as well. Driving? Farting. In the shower? Farting. Climbing stairs? Still farting. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was silent (but you’d still stink) but really, every fart basically rattles the house off its foundation. Not only that, no matter where I am in the house, I hear you farting. I know that I’m not always unlucky enough to be in the crossfire of your ass-cannon, but that’s beside the point - it could be someone, somewhere else in this world farting, but no. It’s ALWAYS you.
The erosive powers of your ass-rumblings on an innocent bystander’s nostrils justify your purpose of having your own private bathroom, downstairs. However, that’s always a million times worse. It’s not that the walls are thin in this house, it’s that there may just as well be a goddamn earthquake when you sit down on that “throne”. Really. Do you honestly have to fart THAT much? You do it in your sleep. I’m usually awake well into the wee hours, and I’ve usually got my headphones on, when suddenly, I hear the wretched, rippling, jig-saw sound of your ass orchestrating a one-man symphony.
Please, Dad, if not for the disturbance of the entire neighbourhood, then save my poor cat that sleeps next to your feet every night. Think of my little Simon (my cat), and learn to control the ghastly emissions from your ass before we end up like millions of Jews once did.