When I was twelve I performed a fart experiment. I wanted to capture an undiluted fart in a jar and see if after a month it still smelled. I ate some hotdogs and pizza, then had a lot of ice cream. These were all foods known to induce flatulence in me. Then I waited. I could feel my stomach rumbling as the noxious gasses inside me brewed. I filled a bathtub full of water, got my jar with a tightly fitting lid, took off my clothes and got in. I put the jar under water so it would fill, then held it inverted over my crotch. As the gas left my sphincter it rose up and displaced the water in the jar. After two or three, I had a jar filled with flatus. I gingerly placed the cap on the jar and tightened it. Now came the waiting. I put the gas-filled jar under my bed and waited the thirty days. I resisted the temptation to open it prematurely. Finally the day arrived. I got home from school and went right to my room. I closed the door. I opened the jar, stuck my nose in, and took a big whiff. The remnants of my intestinal emission was just as pungent as the flatulence I was issuing the day I began my project. The gas, for all intents and purposes, had remained unchanged. I would postulate that a fart in a jar could conceivable last for an eternity.