Yo, Timon, Moto Moto in the house. Wantin' ta ask, little man: has Pumbaa's stink from his fartin' gotten more livable with time, or is that smell still potent as evah, knockin' out elephant cold wit' jus' a whiff? I mean, I know as a hippo I have a bit o' stank, but I KNOW I don't stank as bad as him.
Timon looked up at the large hippo. Seemed like one of Zang’s friends. He had that vibe.
“Moto Moto?” “Nice to meet ya.”
“Pumbaa’s stink is a part of life.” “HA! I wouldn’t have him any other way.” Making a big deal out of stink was for the weak. It didn’t mean Timon couldn’t poke fun at it sometimes, but Pumbaa had went through an entire life of being outcasted for his smell. Timon, a friend that could look past that was exactly what Pumbaa needed in his life.
“Besides, before we had Simba, Pumbaa was captain carnivore protection. Every animal in the Savannah gives him a pretty wide berth BECAUSE OF THAT STINK. Even the hungry ones.”
