This reminds me of a cross-country drive my family took when I was eight years old. I remember it well because it was during the energy crisis and my brother and I were wedged in the back of a 1977 Toyota Corolla, which had less leg room than your average airline seat. It was also the summer that my brother learned to (there's no other way to put it) fart at will. State after state passed by as my brother broke wind, cheerfully fouling the air in the car. My dad was yelling furiously at him to stop,and my mom (dear, gullible Mom) kept insisting that he couldn't help it.
About two-thirds of the way through the trip, we stopped off at an attraction called (amusingly enough, in light of what happened next) Wind Cave. We joined a tour group and descended into the bowels of the earth. At one point, to emphasize the sound that gives the cave its name, the tour guide turned off his flashlight, plunging us in total darkness. A beat -- and then the loudest, longest, fruitiest fart you ever heard. Everyone in the group broke into hysterics. The light came back on, revealing my grinning brother, livid father, and completely mortified mother. It was pretty clear to everyone that our family was responsible.
The good thing from my perspective was that after this, Mom was finally convinced that my DB could in fact help it, and he got fined every time he farted for the rest of the trip.