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    So I Was Listening to the Radio...



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    So I Was Listening to the Radio...

    Post by genkicoll on Thu Jan 16, 2014 10:24 pm

    So I was listening to the radio on the way home, and they started talking about Haribo Sugar-free Gummy Bears.  They started reading off some customer testimonials on Amazon that had me driving with tears in my eyes.  Not quite rolling down my cheeks, but close!

    When I got home I had to look it up and see for myself... and it's all true!

    Here's what I heard (and found when I looked it up!)

    Haribo Gummy Candy, Sugarless Gummy Bears, 5-Pound Bag <-- link to Amazon.com's purchase page

    First of all, listed under Important Information about the product:

    Safety Warning
    Consumption of some sugar-free candies may cause stomach discomfort and/or a laxative effect.  Individual tolerance will vary.  If this is the first time you’ve tried these candies, we recommend beginning with one-fourth of a serving size or less. Made with Lycasin, a sugar alcohol. As with other sugar alcohols, people sensitive to this substance may experience upset stomachs.

    and now, a couple of the testimonials:

    C. Torok wrote:Just don't. Unless it's a gift for someone you hate.

    Oh man...words cannot express what happened to me after eating these. The Gummi Bear "Cleanse". If you are someone that can tolerate the sugar substitute, enjoy. If you are like the dozens of people that tried my order, RUN!

    First of all, for taste I would rate these a 5. So good. Soft, true-to-taste fruit flavors like the sugar variety...I was a happy camper.

    BUT (or should I say BUTT), not long after eating about 20 of these all hell broke loose. I had a gastrointestinal experience like nothing I've ever imagined. Cramps, sweating, bloating beyond my worst nightmare. I've had food poisoning from some bad shellfish and that was almost like a skip in the park compared to what was going on inside me.

    Then came the, uh, flatulence. Heavens to Murgatroyd, the sounds, like trumpets calling the demons back to Hell...the stench, like 1,000 rotten corpses vomited. I couldn't stand to stay in one room for fear of succumbing to my own odors.

    But wait; there's more. What came out of me felt like someone tried to funnel Niagara Falls through a coffee straw. I swear my sphincters were screaming. It felt like my delicate starfish was a gaping maw projectile vomiting a torrential flood of toxic waste. 100% liquid. Flammable liquid. NAPALM. It was actually a bit humorous (for a nanosecond)as it was just beyond anything I could imagine possible.


    I felt violated when it was over, which I think might have been sometime in the early morning of the next day. There was stuff coming out of me that I ate at my wedding in 2005.

    I had FIVE POUNDS of these innocent-looking delicious-tasting HELLBEARS so I told a friend about what happened to me, thinking it HAD to be some type of sensitivity I had to the sugar substitute, and in spite of my warnings and graphic descriptions, she decided to take her chances and take them off my hands.

    Silly woman. All of the same for her, and a phone call from her while on the toilet (because you kinda end up living in the bathroom for a spell) telling me she really wished she would have listened. I think she was crying.

    Her sister was skeptical and suspected that we were exaggerating. She took them to work, since there was still 99% of a 5 pound bag left. She works for a construction company, where there are builders, roofers, house painters, landscapers, etc. Lots of people who generally have limited access to toilets on a given day. I can't imagine where all of those poor men (and women) pooped that day. I keep envisioning men on roofs, crossing their legs and trying to decide if they can make it down the ladder, or if they should just jump.

    If you order these, best of luck to you. And please, don't post a video review during the aftershocks.

    Michael Beattie wrote:If someone has done you wrong it is the perfect gift.

    Pop a few suckers in your mouth and let the fun begin!! If you want to renovate your home by removing a few walls this is the candy for you. Eat 10 and aim your butt on the wall you want gone, Remove pants and wait 5 minutes. I promise you the wall will be blown down to the studs. Eat 10 more and the studs will be gone too.

    For clogged sinks forget calling the plumber!! Consume some and sit in the sink. PRESTO clog will be gone!! No plunger needed.

    If your partner refuses to buy new furniture give him a few and lock the bathroom door. He will be at Rooms To Go in a matter of seconds.

    Also works well for power-washing jobs and cleaning gutters.

    To the world you may be one person;
    but to one person you may be the world.


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    Re: So I Was Listening to the Radio...

    Post by jessmom01 on Fri Jan 17, 2014 4:25 pm

    Belly laugh


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    Re: So I Was Listening to the Radio...

    Post by genkicoll on Fri Jan 17, 2014 5:53 pm

    I pulled this topic up for my co-worker to read, then showed her the Amazon.com page for the gummy product to prove that I hadn't made this up.  She went on to read some more of the testimonials, and judging from the laughing, moans, and giggles coming from her, I'm guessing this one's pretty funny!  I haven't read it yet, but will do so as soon as I post this:

    Farva21 wrote:My Dinner With Andrea

    I'm pretty sure Andrea (I'll call her) agreed to have dinner at my apartment only because I always spoke to her using nothing but my two-years-of-high-school German. Her English was perfect. Probably better than mine. But the fact that I could only ask her directions to the Autobahn or inquire about the health of her non-existent Tante Amelia, seemed to make me appealing to her in a sweet and non-threatening way.
    My intentions, however, were considerably less child-like. Which is why the shopping that night was done at one of those upscale groceries with an international flair. Moules Marinieres is as much of a panty-peeler as anything I can cook, and isn't that hard to pull off. But still, I was busy tracking the recipe in my head when I found myself in the sweets aisle. And that, to my great chagrin, is why I didn't immediately notice the difference between Haribo Normal Gummi Bears (which are designed for human enjoyment) and Haribo Sugarless Gummi Bears (which are designed for use in maximum security prisons as a way to punish uncooperative inmates).
    I shan't make that mistake again. (notice you can't spell SHAN'T without SHAT.)
    Prior to Andrea's arrival, I sat in my living room, creating a playlist of make-out music and nervously binging on the Gummi Bears I had placed in a decorative bowl because I am fancy.
    The doorbell rang, and within minutes we were standing in the kitchen, drinking beers and both of us probably worrying that we were about to exhaust my ability to communicate in her native tongue. But soon that would be the least of my worries. In the middle of trying to ask Andrea if she likes to dance to young people's music, I felt a flutter in my midsection, accompanied by a guttural pronouncement so loud it threatened to drown out my own voice.
    Maybe it was because I was mentally refreshing my language lessons, but it suddenly struck me how much pre-diarrheal grumblings sound like German words.
    "ENTSCHULDIGUNG!" was the next thing uttered by my rapidly clenching stomach. Appropriately, Andrea looked up in response.
    "Sind Sie Kaffee machen?" she asked.
    Am I making coffee?
    I thought I must have mistranslated her at first, then finally I realized that yes, the loud, ominous gurgling coming from my gut could easily be mistaken for the percolating of some bachelor's crappy coffeemaker.
    It's remarkable how quickly one knows that one is about to have a traumatic pottymaking experience. Maybe that's the body's way of buying you the precious seconds you need. I was already calculating the number of steps to the bathroom, speculating on whether I would have time to lift the lid to the toilet, when my own voice cried out loudly in my head.
    She's going to hear EVERYTHING!
    Thanks to an acoustical idiosyncrasy in my building, the hallway outside the bathroom works as an amplifier pointed straight at my living room-slash-kitchen. So that somehow even the gentlest tinkle sounds like I'm pouring lemonade out of a bucket.
    With only half an idea of what I was doing, I grabbed Andrea's hand and pulled her roughly down onto my sofa. I must have looked like a madman as I booted up my iTunes playlist, plugged in the gigantic new headphones I had just bought to keep me looking young and hip, and clamped them down over her ears. (the sweat forming on my brow and upper lip couldn't have helped.) In response to her nervous expression, I kept shouting "You'll love this! You'll love this!"
    I spun her around so that she was looking out the window. My "plan" was that she'd be so distracted by the modest 4th floor view, that it would allow me to pull my pants off while I sprinted down the hall, silently singing the praises of the noise-reducing quality of my new headphones. (this story will be reprinted in its entirety as a 5 star review on the Sony Beats Audio Amazon page.)
    As I slammed the bathroom door shut, already half naked, it occurred to me that I had not been shouting "You'll love this!" at Andrea. I don't even know how to say that in German. In my desperation I had been saying "Ich Leibe Dich!" Repeatedly professing my love for her in a shaky and frantic voice. But maybe that was a good thing, because as I threw myself at the toilet, I figured the best I could hope for is that she would be so creeped-out that she would sneak out of the apartment, blissfully unaware of the carnage taking place in the next room.
    What can I say about the ensuing white-knuckle bowel movement that hasn't been expressed in other reviews on this page? I'm pretty sure I haven't seen the adjective "Kafkaesque" used anywhere else.
    By the end of Act One of this private little torture-porn movie, I was confessing to every unsolved crime in history. Praying I would stumble upon the one that would satisfy my invisible captors.
    Quickly I realized that I had more than Andrea's sense of sound to worry about. Were she to get even the faintest whiff of the weapons-grade sluice that my anus was angrily shouting into the porcelain, I would have to change my name and move to another city.
    And so I flushed. And flushed. And flushed and flushed.
    And then I flushed and nothing happened.
    I have never looked down into a broken toilet with more horror in my entire life. And I once stopped up George Clooney's crapper! (a true story for another time.)
    I reached for the plunger, but my hand froze and my heart seized when I saw it on the floor, broken in two and covered in what looked like teeth marks. Apparently I had used the wooden handle to keep from biting my tongue off and had chewed clean through it. When did that happen? It seems my mind had already started the process of repressing this entire event.
    Amid the feverish, fruitless dance I did across my tiny bathroom floor, it dawned on me that it had been more than a minute since my last soul-wrenching anal tantrum. Dear Lord, is it over? I asked, quite possibly aloud.
    I may have been light-headed and delusional, but I began to imagine a non-ignominious resolution to this ordeal. I just needed to get her the hell out of here. If Andrea hadn't fled the building, vomiting in terror, then I supposed I could pull up my trousers and make a cavalier exit. As long as I could get her off premises and as far away from this post-apocalyptic commode as humanly possible. Assuming that the Diarrhistas had retreated to the hills temporarily, maybe I could even whisk Andrea away to a candlelight dinner at Bernardo's. How impulsive!
    My first few steps back toward the living room were tentative. And not just because my sphincter felt raw and tattered. It was a slow approach to the Moment of Truth, especially when I saw her figure still planted on my sofa. I knew any look on Andrea's face other than her mouth agape would constitute a miraculous victory. And when she smiled at me, the wash of relief that engulfed me was more glorious than any throes of ecstasy I might have wished for at the beginning of the night.
    And then I saw it.
    The decorative bowl sitting in her lap. Down to just the last few sugarless Gummi bears.
    "Du hast Haribo!" she said to me. Accompanied by a satisfied smile. A big, beaming Hansel and Gretel smile, that slightly turned down in one corner at the sound we both suddenly heard. A low rumble from deep within her GI tract that sounded like Gefahrrrrr.
    The German word for Danger.
    Her eyes shot past mine and refocused on the bathroom door just down the hall behind me.

    To the world you may be one person;
    but to one person you may be the world.


    Posts : 7439
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    Re: So I Was Listening to the Radio...

    Post by genkicoll on Fri Jan 17, 2014 6:08 pm

    Well, not what I was hoping for (above) but then I continued to read on the Amazon page and came across this:

    GummyPoo wrote:This ruined my life

    As a paramedic it is often difficult to not only eat at work, but to eat relatively healthy. I developed a sweet tooth one day and if theres one thing I love, its gummy snacks.

    “Oh look! Sugar free gummy bears! I haven’t had gummy bears since I was in middle school!” I exclaimed to my partner. And the fact that they were sugar free practically made them healthy, right?

    I downed quite a few of them on the way to the next call and had finished the bag by the early August afternoon.

    In the oppressive southern heat, we were dispatched to an unconscious person. As we traversed the city streets I began to get cold chills and cramps despite the triple digit temperatures. My abdomen was obviously bloated and the noises…oh god, the noises.

    We arrived on scene and quickly loaded the critical patient into the ambulance. I grabbed a firefighter to ride with me in case the patient crashed before we got to the emergency room. In the back, the pressure was building against my dirty rosebud. I had to release something and thought that if I could just let some air out, I might not have to change my pants.

    I leaned to the side, putting pressure on one cheek to try to sneak it out without being noticed. I was able to get it off without soiling myself, but the smell…oh my gawd.

    The fireman wrinkled his nose as I wiped the sweat from my face.

    “Does she have a GI bleed? A necrotic bowel?” he asked.

    As soon as we hit the ER doors I was off like a Kenyan on methamphetamine for the bathroom. I tried to use a hallway bathroom, but it was occupied. My only other option was the bathroom right outside the nurses station. I mean, it was RIGHT outside the nurses station. The door was a mere five feet from their desks. All those pretty, young, nurses. With no other option, I ran back, trying to keep my cheeks clinched. Little staccato bursts of sulfuric farts punctuated each yard as I raced for the finish line hoping that I could keep my chocolate starfish clenched tight enough to stem the tide.

    I ripped the door open and somehow managed to drop my pants without undoing my belt. What erupted sounded like a steamroller driving through a bubble wrap factory. I knew it was audible from the nurses station and I had nearly knocked a pretty blonde out of her chair during my mad dash. As the sense of relief from the pressure washed over me, so did the smell. It smelled like someone took a bag of dirty diapers, filled it with rotting body parts, and let it sit in the sun for two weeks.

    I sat there, petrified, but also doubled over with the sort of cramps that make one pray for death.

    “Tonya? What is that SMELL?!” came a voice from outside the door. I knew there was no escaping with my dignity intact. I sent a text to my partner from the bathroom telling her I was sick and to let me know when she was ready to leave. When she replied I dashed from the bathroom back to the ambulance.

    “I gotta go home. I’m sick.” I told her. We started back for the station and were a few miles away when we witnessed a car wreck. The kind of car wreck where you KNOW someone is injured and its hard to sneak past it when you’re in an enormous truck that says, “AMBULANCE”.

    We had more units responding and if I could just keep from sharting I’d be ok. I stepped out of the truck cramping and sweaty and knew I was in over my head. My partner walked to one car and I climbed into the back of the ambulance. I looked around, desperate for relief. I spotted the biohazard trashcan. Hmm…

    I locked the doors and squatted over the can. It was small and I knew I couldn’t put my weight on it without breaking it. Fleetingly I considered the wisdom of this decision but by then the floodgates on my rusty sheriffs badge had opened and I sprayed pure fecal evil into the can.

    Now let me say that ambulances and all the parts and equipment on them, are built by the lowest bidder…this includes the locks on the doors. Attempting to retrieve a piece of equipment, my partner tried the door. Thinking the lock was just stuck she pulled on the handle hard. The mechanism broke and we locked eyes as I unleashed another volley of pure, concentrated gummy death that sounded like two events happening at once: the sound of wet denim ripping, and like trying to burp with a mouthful of pudding. Luckily she did not see my sausage and man berries as I was cupping them in one hand to keep them from being sprayed with poo mist.

    “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sick…SHUT THE DOOR!” I screamed. The door slammed and I managed to find an extra sheet which I cut up and wiped with. Now the next question: what was I supposed to do about the red plastic trashcan full of steaming excrement that had the consistency of watered down pancake batter? I triple bagged it and placed it outside in a spare compartment.

    We blissfully made it back and I was able to make it home, stopping only twice more to defile public restrooms. My partner never worked with me again and the nurses at the ER still haven’t forgiven me for their bathroom.

    Thanks, Haribo.

    Oh my gosh... Belly laugh  I could not breathe, tears were rolling down my face, and my gut still hurts from the laughter!  Maybe I just needed a good laugh... No... It's probably just that funny Snicker

    To the world you may be one person;
    but to one person you may be the world.


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    Re: So I Was Listening to the Radio...

    Post by luvtoread on Fri Jan 17, 2014 7:39 pm

    Belly laugh


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    Re: So I Was Listening to the Radio...

    Post by RenaissanceMom on Fri Jan 17, 2014 10:07 pm

    Um, funny but a little too disgustingly graphic for me.  faints  Some people like really getting into their descriptions, don't they.


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    Re: So I Was Listening to the Radio...

    Post by genkicoll on Fri Jan 17, 2014 11:31 pm

    Yeah, I hear ya Big smile  Bathroom humor is not for everyone.  It's really not funny when it happens, but the way they write the stories is so entertaining! Snicker

    To the world you may be one person;
    but to one person you may be the world.

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