If you were God, you could do some awesome things. I'm sure you'd be endlessly amused.

Like, you'd know who was going to fart at which precise moments. And you'd know what the farts would sound like. And you'd have perfect pitch, of course, so you'd know what notes the farts would sing.

So, armed with this knowledge, you could, at the appropriate moment, listen to the simultaneous farts of several people sounding out a beautiful chord. Like, maybe Earl in an Idaho potato patch farts a C at the gnat poised between his buttocks, while Buck on a barstool in south central Bangladesh blats an E-flat, fluttering the leather cushion like a horse gusting air through impatient lips, while Nora in a Dublin bawdy house poots a G while climaxing with a moustachioed Mexican. A tight, percussive C-minor chord thus chimes its charms in God's immaculate ears! What gorgeous music!

And if you're God you can probably time travel, too, so you could choose a series of fart chords, skip around from moment to moment, and hear a choir of farts blat out whatever tune strikes your fancy. Maybe it's a hymn, maybe it's rock 'n' fuckin' roll. You're God, so it's your call.

What a life! God rules.