When I was in the Marine Corps in World War II, stationed at Pearl Harbor Marine Base, a very shitty thing happened one day in our barracks. My best friend, Roscoe from El Paso, was a champion farter. He would take great pride in walking to the center of our squad room, lifting a leg, and letting 'er rip. With the high ceilings and concrete walls and floors, the reverberation seemed to roll on like thunder. He kept this up day after day, always walking away with a smug smile on his face for such a glorious accomplishment.
One day his luck ran out. He lifted his leg as usual and prepared to honor us with one of his gaseous treats. Suddenly his smile turned to horror: he had filled his skivvy drawers.
I'll never forget his spraddled-legged walk to his locker to get a clean pair of underwear. Then he started down the hall to the head to clean up. He held one hand firmly under his anus to keep the poop from sliding out of his trouser leg.
When he got to the showers, he decided to just remove his shorts and toss them into the commode. His aim wasn't all that good, though, and the whole mess bounced off the rim and fell to the floor. A huge turd rolled across the room and stopped just in front of a fellow sitting on the throne.
The startled guy looked at the brown monster and then to Roscoe and back again several times. After the Marine regained his composure he asked, "Does this belong to you?"
Roscoe smiled sheepishly and retrieved his missile and properly disposed of it.
To the best of my knowledge, that was the last time he put on a farting exhibition for us.