Let the record show that you have not lived until you've traveled to Oklahoma, 10 hours going and 10 hours coming, trapped in a 2016 GMC Acadia (crimson red, with dark cashmere leather seats), with Farmer H and The Pony. Only slightly more unpleasant would be traveling from Illinois to California with Clark Griswold, taking the tribe cross-country in the Family Truckster (for a few miles with deceased Aunt Edna strapped to the roof) to visit Wally World.
The methane expelled by my two travel companions would no doubt have powered the family A-Cad for at least a quarter of the trip, had we only possessed the technology to convert from our gasoline engine. They did not even make a pretense of blaming each other. "Nope! That was mine!" Almost as if an award (possibly a LEG LAMP) would be bestowed upon the biggest stinker at the end of the trip.
On the way back, barely three hours into the drive, we stopped for sustenance for both ourselves and A-Cad, at a truckstop McDonalds. Two double cheeseburger meals were split among the three of us, choosing to consume our meal on the road rather than eat up precious time sitting in the "restaurant." I find it hard to type that word in regards to McDonalds.
Looking back, I saw that The Pony had put his fries between his legs. ON MY DARK CASHMERE LEATHER SEAT! No siree, Bob! That was not happening on MY watch!
"Pony! At least put something down to catch the salt and greasy crumbs that fall out of the fry box! Here. Pony. Um...put this napkin between you legs. Heh, heh. I never thought I'd be saying THAT to you."
The Pony complied, with a snort. He strapped on the ol' feedbag and was finished with his meal before Farmer H and I had even cracked open a cheeseburger each. Of course, I had to wait until Farmer H was fed, him trying to argue with the Garmin over the route, and drive with one eye, and feed himself with one hand. At least I propped up his fries with a napkin already underneath, and unwrapped his cheeseburger so that half was still encased in the paper. No ketchup drips on MY dark cashmere interior!
I was in between picking up Farmer H's fry box and preparing his burger when I glanced back at The Pony. He had a guilty look on his face, and he was peering between his legs.
"What! Did you spill fries on my leather seat?"
"Why are you looking down? Are ya poopin'?"
Farmer H must insert himself into any interaction he overhears. To show his superiority. His control of the situation. To make sure everyone knows he's the king of the castle. The arbiter of the Acadia. Even if it means taking his eye off the road, to turn and give Mrs. Hillbilly Mom the stinkeye.
"You are SO rude and crude!"
Said the Fart King.