[Two late-twenties guys tromping along in the snow-covered suburbs of, erm, someplace or other, on their way to the Starbucks]

Patrick: [argumentatively enthused math geek] But where does the mass go? It can’t just vanish–
Tyler: [amused werewolf] Magic!
Patrick: –and then show up again hours later–
Tyler: *mystical finger wiggle* Magic!
Patrick: –it’s physically imposs–
Tyler: Mag-
Patrick: Stop it!
Tyler: *sniffs* You’re a sore loser, you know that?
Patrick: At least I’m not thumbing my nose at Lomonosov-Lavoisier.
Tyler: I’m pretty sure no one actually says that anymore.
Patrick: What? Lomonosov-Lavoisier?
Tyler: ‘Thumbing my nose’–
Patrick: Well apparently I still do.
Tyler: –Everyone’s more or less moved onto ‘Fuck Off’
Patrick: Then ‘everyone’ is an idiot.
Tyler: Interesting, you say ‘everyone’ but I’m distinctly hearing ‘Tyler’ *ducks attempted headbap with a grin*
Patrick: Why do I put up with you again?
Tyler: You love a good freak of nature as much as the next man?
Patrick: *rolls eyes* A bit more than ‘the next man’ I’d hope.
Tyler: Ah, step-brotherly love. *grin* Stage blood is thicker than water, eh?
Patrick: I still maintain my father has a really odd taste in women. *ducks ensuing snowball barrage*