Totally exasperated, I pulled the truck to the side of the road, jumped out and checked my boots. “It’s got to be you, Vic,” I growled. “Get out and check your boots, too, and get them clean before you get back in.”

“…it’s not me, so it must be you.” With an accusing glare, he pointed a finger at me.

“There you go again, Vic. That flatus was weapons-grade, ” I fussed, sensing another noxious effluvium. “You are turning the air green!”

We yammered, rebuked and brabbled like schoolgirls until…