Sounds like the dreaded shartnado! :eek:
Previous posters have already pointed out that this is false, so what are you trying to say? That you will still fart freely because you trust the judgement of your 12-year old brother over anecdotes on a message board?
I interviewed at U of Minnesota for a faculty job in 2004. They were lovely and wined and dined me thoroughly.
The uber-nice search committee chair drove me to the airport and insisted on parking and coming in with me so we could dine together one last time. Well, I had been so thoroughly fed over the last two days my tummy was acting up and I was having excruciating intestinal pains and poo sweat. He wouldn’t let me turn down a last meal, so we’re off to the terminal’s TGI Friday’s.
My plan was to get seated, order, then make a quick bathroom dash. In the meantime, I made an executive decision to open up my safety valve and sneak out some fart air. We know what happened next . . .
I buttclench waddled to the bathroom and did the best I could to clean up. I was suited-up and some poo had soaked into my wool dress pants. The panties were totalled and I did the best I could to clean up with toilet paper. 30 minutes later I was back at the table and must have been quite the sight: not everything had been evacuated and I was almost doubled over in pain and sweating like a junkie in withdrawal. I pretended to eat then, praise god, finally was rid of nice guy and escaped to the potty for a long session.
I didn’t have any clothes in my carry on and had to wear defiled scratchy wool pants sans underwear and wafted a shit cloud whenever I moved. I was never so grateful to have a plane row to myself, I had a clear path to the potty for frequent volcanic eruptions and there weren’t unfortunate seatmates gagging in my dead-rat-rotten-carrion miasma. Eight hours later, the longest eight hours ever experienced by humankind, I landed in San Diego and went straight to bed for two days. I suspect it was food poisoning.
Footnote: I was offered the job, but took another.
Another Norovirus survivor.
Relatives from Connecticut with little kids brought it to our Georgia Thanksgiving 3 years ago. By Friday 2/3 of our 60-something member family were in a bad way all over town and in area hotels. I had to stay at my mother’s house for the weekend because I couldn’t even make the 1 hour drive to my house. She and I were sick as ditch dogs.
The nano-second you feel anything coming down the pipe, it is NOT air, so do not make the mistake of THAT assumption. Lots of time was spent that weekend on the potty playing round after round of spider solitaire and trying to scrub everything down with Lysol wipes.
But my main trauma from the experience was a witnessed shart.
My mother was standing in the kitchen in her gown and robe and sneezed. She had apparently already decided panties were too much of an impediment to her potty time. Yep. She splatted right on the kitchen floor at the coffee station. I just looked at her and said, “I’m not cleaning that up!”
I could have gone my whole life without seeing that shit. Literally.
This had me cryin’ with laughter! I would have been on a mission to find some yoga pants for sale somewhere, at any price, in that airport!
I’m sorry, I don’t mean to threadshit (eh he he he) but damn I’d like to see this thread title disappear. 
I was in the bathroom for so long I didn’t have time to shop, I had to run-waddle to my gate (it was my plan to shop but volcanic activity and all . . .)
Oh yah. Food poisoning was the cause the first time and I had no choice. Luckily, I had just arrived home and no one else was there. But, in reality, I should have driven myself to the E.R. Scary experience.
It’s happened since a few times, due to Grave’s disease. But never on that scale again, thank goodness.