"M-Mom?" you stammer, "Y-you don't think the gasbags're contagious, do you?"
"I... I don't know," your mother says quietly, "I did pretty much swallow their farts straight from the source... If it is contagious, I think we're about to find ou-OOT!" An angry gurgling erupted from her stomach, causing her to double over with pain. Another mammoth belch blasted from her lips, smelling strongly of her wine as everything from the neck down was starting to bloat with a combination of fat and intestinal gasses. You quickly got off the couch as her body began to swell with fat, her clothing stretched tight and threatening to rip to shreds at any given moment. Her arms and fingers bloated up into jiggling sausages that could just reach her mouth. Her breasts bloated into basketballs that rested upon her spherical boulder of a gut, a sweating red gut stretched taut like a drum. Her legs and butt fattened up into stumpy tree trunks as her bloated feet burst from her shoes. All the while her body swelled with fat and took up all of the couch space, more rancid wine scented burps escaped from her throat uninhibited no matter how much she tried to keep them contained. By the time she was done blowing up, she looked like a jiggling balloon of a woman who might weigh somewhere around 500 pounds.
"Holy shit," you gasped, "Are you okay?"
"Aside from the bloating," she answered, "I'm a little bit okay... All of this pressure... really hurts though... Honey, you don't mind if Mommy relieves herself of this gas, do you? Cuz... I don't think I... physically... can... hold it...!" With almost no effort on her part, she suddenly started uncontrollably releasing a veritable foghorn of a fart into the couch. The air in the room started to turn a brownish green as the horrendous gas forced its way out of her gigantic rear end, soaking the room in a powerful stench consisting of spoiled eggs and milk, hot garbage in a septic tank, skunk spray, and grapes fermenting in mold. It was enough to make you want to puke, but your mother was relishing in the relief she was feeling in spite of herself. By the time she finally ran out of farts, the foggy miasma had started peeling the paint on the walls.
"WHOOF! That's much *BUUURP!* better," your mother belched with relief, "I still feel gassy and bloated, but not as much anymore. Honey? Are you okay? You look like death. I'm sorry about *BELCH!* all this. I think I physically lost the ability to hold it in, so every fart I have is going to catch me by surprise forever."
"It's... it's okay," you say, trying your hardest not to breath in your suddenly morbidly obese and sweaty mother's uncontrollable gas, "I'm just gonna go call an ambulance... probably for both of us..."