What if...

A scenario for you: You invite someone over for dinner, serve them a meal you've spent all day preparing, of which they consume three gusty helpings. Sometime between the main course and dessert, however, your guest begins complaining of gastric discomfort, and begins belching to relieve it. Several belches a minute. Not swallowed discreet belches, either, but open-mouthed windy ones. Fine. You're friends and adults, not to mention males, who of course are predisposed in your undifferentiated masses to find irresistible humour in stomach-gases. OK. The guest starts to wince in a less-than-humourous manner, and adjourns to the bathroom. Some twenty minutes later, your guest emerges; you suggest, in your hospitable way, that he lie down, and your own bed being the only bed in the house, you suggest he do so there. An hour passes. The clock strikes midnight; your guest shows no signs of rising. Your partner, unconcerned with these developments, proceeds to watch a documentary on the ear-bleeding musical stylings of Bob Dylan. You are relegated to the kitchen where you have spent the entire day anyway. Hot acid fury drips down your brain...