You know, when I was in college, and working at a wholesale hardware distributor, there was an ancient gentleman there, Albert Phinney--by then in his early 80s--who had been with the company since the 1920s.
There were a lot of old farts like that, working there. The company was loyal to its employees, and kept them on as long as the employees wished, giving them easier jobs.
Anyway, ancient gentleman apparently had the Bostonian Drunkard ailment, the constant involuntary release of intestinal gases. Other employees talked about how he had a whole orchestra up there, most noticeable when he was striding up or down a ramp, letting loose with trumpets, basses, oboes, drums, cellos, clarinets, tubas, blasts of fanfare.
Of course, I couldn't hear any of that, but I used to watch his body language as he moved along; it was obvious this guy was producing more gas than than a well down in Texas.
(As for any detection of odor, the warehouses were large and spacious and airy, and well ventilated by the constant winds of Nebraska.)
