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11,356 of 11,852 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Ideal Gift For Your Congressional Representatives
The reviews are so helpful. It is so difficult to be sure you are buying something over the internet that is exactley what you are searching for.
.
I am sending a bag of these to every member of Congress to show my deepest gratitude.
Published 10 months ago by DeleriouslyHappyTaxPayer

versus
41,961 of 42,627 people found the following review helpful
1.0 out of 5 stars 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...
Published 23 months ago by Christine E. Torok


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41,961 of 42,627 people found the following review helpful
1.0 out of 5 stars Just don't. Unless it's a gift for someone you hate., October 3, 2012
Verified Purchase(What's this?)
This review is from: Haribo Gummi Bears Sugar Free 5lb Bag (Grocery)
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.

AND IT WENT ON FOR HOURS.

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.

PS: When I ordered these, the warnings and disclaimers and legalese were NOT posted. I'm not a moron. Also, not sure why so many people assume I'm a man. I am a woman. We poop too. Of course, our poop sparkles and smells like a walk in a meadow of wildflowers. Thanks for all the great comments. I've been enjoying reading them and so glad that the horror show I experienced from snacking on these has at least made some people smile.
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11,356 of 11,852 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Ideal Gift For Your Congressional Representatives, October 3, 2013
This review is from: Haribo Gummi Bears Sugar Free 5lb Bag (Grocery)
The reviews are so helpful. It is so difficult to be sure you are buying something over the internet that is exactley what you are searching for.
.
I am sending a bag of these to every member of Congress to show my deepest gratitude.
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14,062 of 14,922 people found the following review helpful
1.0 out of 5 stars My Dinner With Andrea, November 21, 2013
This review is from: Haribo Gummi Bears Sugar Free 5lb Bag (Grocery)
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.
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3,016 of 3,356 people found the following review helpful
1.0 out of 5 stars Do not bring to sporting events!, January 18, 2014
This review is from: Haribo Gummi Bears Sugar Free 5lb Bag (Grocery)
The place: BMO Harris Bradley Center
The event: Bucks VS Spurs
The snack: Satan's Diarrhea Hate Bears made by Haribo

I recently took my 4 year old son to his first NBA game. He was very excited to go to the game, and I was excited because we had fantastic seats. Row C center court to be exact. I've never sat that close before. I've never had to go DOWN stairs to get to my seats. 24 stairs to get to my seats to be exact.

His favorite candy is Skittles. Mine are anything gummy. I snuck in a bag of skittles for my son, and grabbed a handful of gummy bears for myself, to be later known as Satan's Diarrhea Hate Bears, that I received for Christmas in bulk from my parents, and put them in a zip lock bag.

After the excitement of the 1st quarter has ended I take my son out to get him a bottled water and myself a beer. We return to our seats to enjoy our candy and drinks.

..............fast forward until 1 minute before half time...........

I have begun to sweat a sweat that is only meant for a man on mile 19 of a marathon. I have kicked out my legs out so straight that I am violently pushing the gentleman wearing a suit seat in front of me forward. He is not happy, I do not care. My hands are on the side of my seat not unlike that of a gymnast on a pommel horse, lifting me off my chair. My son is oblivious to what is happening next to him, after all, there is a mascot running around somewhere and he is eating candy.

I realize that at some point in the very near to immediate future I am going to have to allow this lava from Satan to forcefully expel itself from my innards. I also realize that I have to walk up 24 stairs just to get to level ground in hopes to make it to the bathroom. I’ll just have to sit here stiff as a board for a few moments waiting for the pain to subside. About 30 seconds later there is a slight calm in the storm of the violent hurricane that is going on in my lower intestine. I muster the courage to gently relax every muscle in my lower half and stand up. My son stands up next to me and we start to ascend up the stairs. I take a very careful and calculated step up the first stair. Then a very loud horn sounds. Halftime. Great. It’s going to be crowded. The horn also seems to have awaken the Satan's Diarrhea Hate Bears that are having a mosh pit in my stomach. It literally felt like an avalanche went down my stomach and I again have to tighten every muscle and stand straight up and focus all my energy on my poor sphincter to tighten up and perform like it has never performed before. Taking another step would be the worst idea possible, the flood gates would open. Don’t worry, Daddy has a plan. I some how mumble the question, “want to play a game?” to my son, he of course says “yes”. My idea is to hop on both feet allllll the way up the stairs, using the center railing to propel me up each stair. My son is always up for a good hopping game, so he complies and joins in on the “fun”. Some old lady 4 steps up thinks its cute that we are doing this, obviously she wasn’t looking at the panic on my face. 3 rows behind her a man about the same age as me, who must have had similar situations, notices the fear/panic/desperation on my face understands the danger that I along with my pants and anyone within a 5 yard radius spray zone are in. He just mouths the words “good luck man” to me and I press on. Half way up and there is no leakage, but my legs are getting tired and my sphincter has never endured this amount of pressure for this long of time. 16 steps/hops later…….4 steps to go…….My son trips and falls on the stairs, I have two options: keep going knowing he will catch up or bend down to pick him up relieving my sphincter of all the pressure and commotion while ruining the day of roughly the 50 people that are now watching a grown man hop up stairs while sweating profusely next to a 4 year old boy.

Luckily he gets right back up and we make it to the top of the stairs. Good, the hard part was over. Or so I thought. I managed to waddle like a penguin, or someone who is about to poop their pants in 2.5 seconds, to the men's room only to find that every stall is being used. EVERY STALL. It's halftime, of course everyone has to poop at that moment. I don't know if I can wait any longer, do I go ahead and fulfil the dream of every high school boy and poop in the urinal? What kind of an example would that set for my son? On the other hand, what kind of an example would it be for his father to fill his pants with a substance that probably will be unrecognizable to man. Suddenly a stall door opens, and I think I manage to actually levitate over to the stall. I my son follows me in, luckily it was the handicap stall so there was room for him to be out of the way. I get my pants off and start to sit. I know what taking a giant poo feels like. I also know what vomiting feels like. I can now successfully say that I know what it is like to vomit out my butt. I wasn't pooping, those Satan's Diarrhea Hate Bears did something to my insides that made my sphincter vomit our the madness.

I am now conscious of my surroundings. Other than the war that the bottom half of my body is currently having with this porcelain chair, it is quiet as a pin drop in the bathroom. The other men in there can sense that something isn't right, no one has heard anyone ever poop vomit before.

I can sense that the worst part is over. But its not stopping, nor can I physically stop it at this point, I am leaking..it's horrible. I call out "does anyone have a diaper?" hoping that some gentleman was changing a baby. Nothing. No one said a word. I know people are in there, I can see the toes of shoes pointed in my direction under the stall.. "DOES ANYONE HAVE A DIAPER!?!" I am screaming, my son is now crying, he thinks he is witnessing the death of his father. I can't even assure him that I will make it.

Not a word was said, but a diaper was thrown over the stall. I catch it, line my underwear with it, put my pants back on, and walk out of that bathroom like a champ. We go straight to our seats, grab out coats and go home. As we are walking out, the gentleman that wished me good luck earlier simply put his fist out, and I happily bumped it.

My son asks me, "Daddy, why are we leaving early?"
"Well son, I need to change my diaper"
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4,092 of 4,651 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Westboro Baptist Church After Dinner Fondants, January 9, 2014
This review is from: Haribo Gummi Bears Sugar Free 5lb Bag (Grocery)
I bought one order for the Westboro Baptist Church as a donation because we all know how much God hates irregularity.
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248 of 280 people found the following review helpful
1.0 out of 5 stars Please tell me, March 4, 2014
This review is from: Haribo Gummi Bears Sugar Free 5lb Bag (Grocery)
when does the s***ting stop. I can't take it anymore. I'm sorry for anything bad I've ever done in my life.
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3,783 of 4,353 people found the following review helpful
1.0 out of 5 stars This is your Captain speaking: Do not eat the red Gummy Bear. You'll be sorry., January 9, 2014
This review is from: Haribo Gummi Bears Sugar Free 5lb Bag (Grocery)
Before a company goes public, the highest level executives embark on a multi-city tour with their investment bankers to drum up support for the upcoming IPO. This trip is called a roadshow and since the group will typically visit dozens of cities on a tight schedule, a private jet is the preferred means of transportation. During a roadshow, it's not unusual to visit two or three cities in a single day so work starts at the crack of dawn. That doesn't mean the group goes to bed early. Every night, the bankers treat their clients to a wild nights, complete with complimentary Gummy Bears and coffee. No matter how hard the group parties the night before, the private jet will lift them off to their next destination very early the next morning.

Just for a minute, pretend you're an investment banker traveling with some very important clients on one of these roadshows. Now imagine that you spent the previous night "dropping Yogi" way beyond your limit only to be startled out of bed by a piercing 6:30 am wake up call. In an attempt to get your head and body feeling remotely human again, you scarf down some more warm Gummy Bears and at least two glasses of coffee at the hotel's breakfast buffet before jumping on the shuttle to the private airport. Within a few minutes of arriving at the airport, your entire group is seated and the plane begins to taxi down the runway. At this point you might feel a bit of relief as the morning's blur subsides. All you have to do is sit back and relax for the one hour flight to the next city.

There's just one problem. In your rush to get out of the hotel, down to breakfast and onto the plane you forgot to do one very crucial thing. Go to the bathroom. And I'm not talking about peeing. You have a stomach full of last nights multi-colored death bears and coffee churning around your lower intestine at 30,000 feet. But that's not the worst part. True horror sets in when you realize you're not on a spacious 20 person G5 with couches, beds, lay-z boys and a fully tucked away private bathroom. No, on this day you are traveling on a six-person puddle jumper sitting shoulder to shoulder with your clients and co-workers. But wait, somehow the story gets even worse…

Just over halfway through the flight, all the coffee in my stomach feels like it's percolating its way down into my lower intestine. I hunker down and try and focus on other things. What feels like an hour, but probably isn't more than twenty minutes, passes. We then enter what turns out to be pretty violent turbulence. With each bounce, I have to fight my body, trying not to poop my pants. "Thirty minutes to landing, maybe forty five" I try and tell myself, each jostle a gamble I can't afford to lose. I signal to [the flight attendant] and she heads toward me.

"Excuse me, where is the bathroom, because I don't see a door?" I ask while still devoting considerable energy to fighting off what starts to feel like someone shook a seltzer bottle and shoved it up my butt. She looks at me, bemused, and says, "Well, we don't really have one per se." She continues, "Technically, we have one, but it's really just for emergencies. Don't worry, we're landing shortly anyway."

"I'm pretty sure this qualifies as an emergency," I manage to mutter through my grimace. I can see the fear in her face as she points nervously to the back seat. The turbulence outside is matched only by the cyclone that is ravaging my bowels. She points to the back of the plane and says, "There. The toilet is there." For a brief instant, relief passes over my face. She continues, "If you pull away the leather cushion from that seat, it's under there. There's a small privacy screen that pulls up around it, but that's it." At this point, I was committed. She had just lit the dynamite and the mine shaft was set to blow.

I turn to look where she is pointing and I get the urge to cry. I do cry, but my face is so tightly clenched it makes no difference. The "toilet" seat is occupied by the CFO, i.e. our freaking client. Our freaking female freaking client!

Up to this point, nobody has observed my struggle or my exchange with the flight attendant. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." That's all I can say as I limp toward her like Quasimodo impersonating a penguin, and begin my explanation. Of course, as soon as my competitors see me talking to the CFO, they all perk up to find out what the hell I'm doing.

Given my jovial nature and fun-loving attitude thus far on the roadshow, almost everybody thinks I'm joking. She, however, knows right away that I am anything but and jumps up, moving quickly to where I had been sitting. I now had to remove the seat top – no easy task when you can barely stand upright, are getting tossed around like a hoodrat at a block party, and are fighting against a gastrointestinal Mt. Vesuvius.

I manage to peel back the leather seat top to find a rather luxurious looking commode, with a nice cherry or walnut frame. It had obviously never been used, ever. Why this moment of clarity came to me, I do not know. Perhaps it was the realization that I was going to take this toilet's virginity with a fury and savagery that was an abomination to its delicate craftsmanship and quality. I imagined some poor Italian carpenter weeping over the violently soiled remains of his once beautiful creation. The lament lasted only a second as I was quickly back to concentrating on the tiny muscle that stood between me and molten hot lava.

I reach down and pull up the privacy screens, with only seconds to spare before I erupt. It's an alka-seltzer bomb, nothing but air and liquid spraying out in all directions – a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. The pressure is now reversed. I feel like I'm going to have a stroke, I push so hard to end the relief, the tormented sublime relief.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." My apologies do nothing to drown out the heinous noises that seem to carry on and reverberate throughout the small cabin indefinitely. If that's not bad enough, I have one more major problem. The privacy screen stops right around shoulder level. I am sitting there, a disembodied head, in the back of the plane, on a bucking bronco for a toilet, all while looking my colleagues, competitors, and clients directly in the eyes. "Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!" briefly comes to mind.

I literally could reach out with my left hand and rest it on the shoulder of the person adjacent to me. It was virtually impossible for him, or any of the others, and by others I mean high profile business partners and clients, to avert their eyes. They squirm and try not to look, inclined to do their best to carry on and pretend as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, that they weren't sharing a stall with some guy dropping his intestines out. Releasing smelly, sweaty, shame at 100 feet per second.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry" is all the ashamed disembodied head can say…over and over again. Not that it mattered.
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336 of 383 people found the following review helpful
3.0 out of 5 stars A Quick Review, January 27, 2014
This review is from: Haribo Gummi Bears Sugar Free 5lb Bag (Grocery)
First off, I need to preface this review by saying that Haribo Sugar Free Gummies are delicious, and that many of the Haribo products remain a dear childhood memory. For that reason alone I have not reached out to the Better Business Bureau. My psychiatrist told me from now on to stay positive, lest I have another horrible flashback of the events that occurred two months ago. That being said, this product both saved my life, as well as put it in unnecessary jeopardy.

I had ordered a 5-pound bag on Amazon as sort of an impulsive buy, but never really got around to eating them until a buddy and me headed out for a wreck dive in the Caribbean. Being the overweight glutton that I am, I chose not to share with my long time friend, the dive master, or the other people on board the boat. I snacked on about 20 or 30 (my memory is a bit foggy), but enough to tide me over for the trip. I suited up, routinely walked off the railings, and began my 25m (75 foot) descent.

It was around 30 feet that my stomach gave a peculiar lurch, and I really didn't think much of it. We continued our leisurely path to the bottom, the water's hue fading to a darker blue while our air bubbles playfully danced to the sunny surface.

A horrible, gut-wrenching blast of feces and gas escaped me around 55-feet. I chuckled to myself, checking my dive watch and then looking back at my friend and a few inexperienced divers a little above me. Between us was a cloud of brown. A little embarrassed, I still smiled at the humor of the situation, even though it was going to be disgusting when I got back on the boat. I had no idea what was to come.

By the time we reached the bottom, I had given off two more clouds, but something was nightmarishly different. It could have been the crushing pressure of the depth, or, from what I've read from other posts, a similar rejection of the gummies, either way I had lost control of my sphincter muscles and did not stop loosing my bowels. I started to panic and grow dizzy, but hand signaling to my friend or the dive team was impossible- I was completely surrounded by the hazy brown cumulonimbus excrement extended who knows how far out. I did not know which way was up.

My diving suit felt like it was filled not with water, but with rich warm feces that combatted the November- cold waters of a deep-sea dive. Through the chunks, I had trouble viewing my dive computer, and had no idea how much oxygen was left in my tank. My shaking hands lost the flashlight, and I could only grunt in fear and shame. How long was I down there for? 10 minutes? An hour? I lost track of time, felt detached from humanity. I damned those treacherous snacks, and in my panic inflated my BC too much, rising to the surface at a dangerous rate.

I remember reaching the surface. Blowing the whistle, and seeing the concerned faces of those on board the diving boat. Flashes of light from both the noon sun and the medical flashlight. Blackness. My buddy's distressed and humorless face. Blackness again. I only became fully conscious in the decompression chamber when I heard the familiar voices of my parents and brother, as well as the distant sound of saliva dripping from my mouth.

At the beginning of this story, I mentioned that Haribo might have played a role in saving my life. Weeks after my harrowing ascent, and after shutting myself off from the world, I attempted to lead a normal life again with those close to me. I decided to get in touch with my diving friend who bore witness to that fateful day. At the time, I could not meet his eyes, but he told me everything that he saw- the first brown insult that emanated from my body and passed around him like a ghost, me looking back and smiling, and the increasing radius of my own liquefied excrement; what I did not notice was the 13-foot hammerhead circling me. The rest of the team had seen it making its way towards me, but I was then enshrouded in the cloud, unable to see them signaling the danger yards ahead of me. When the shark had reached the cloud, it had "shuddered" and seemed to throw up the contents of its stomach before making a hasty retreat. My friend's haunted face showed that he too could use some therapy after what happened that day. We are still friends, but do not talk as much as we used to. I lost 85 pounds and break out in sweat when I pass the candy isle at Publix. I am what you would call "a survivor".
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293 of 334 people found the following review helpful
1.0 out of 5 stars End Times, January 27, 2014
This review is from: Haribo Gummi Bears Sugar Free 5lb Bag (Grocery)
So yes, it's true. . Everything people have said. When people say "believe the reviews", I'm telling you to believe the people that say to believe the reviews.

I wasn't surprised that the hell-bears caused me to have massive diarrhea, everyone warned me. I wanted to see if I could just eat them slowly and build up a tolerance to them. My plan was to eat 1 bear now, then tomorrow do 2 bears, then the next day 3 bears, and so on adding one bear each day in an attempt to build up my tolerance slowly without having to spend the day in the bathroom. Day 10 came which means it was the day to eat 10 bears, I chose my colors carefully, it was difficult to limit myself, so I was excited to be able to eat 10, because they taste great and I've had no reaction thus far.

What I didn't know is that the bears are not stupid. The first 9 days' worth of bears got in there and realized they didn't have the bear-power that was needed to launch an effective assault. So they waited, waited for reinforcement. I feel now like they are very patient bears and would have waited until the bitter end for backup. Well, day 10 brought them a healthy batch of 10 new recruits, which means that since day 1 I now have 55 bears in my stomach, which I guess is sufficient for them to finally launch the attack. The attack started with a few pop shots to the gut, not big deal. I figured tomorrow I'll go back to 5 bears and slow down my approach to immunity. My new goal meant very little to the bears that were already committed to the mass scale invasion that so many others have spoken about.

What others fail to mention is that after 15 minutes on the toilet your legs fall asleep and about 5 minutes after that, cramping settles in. So now you are faced with unbearable leg cramps, but you know standing up is going to paint the wall brown. So I had no choice, I have to get up. Shoes off, pants off. I lean forward while starting a barrel roll off the side of the toilet, I continue this roll right into the bathtub, where I spend the next 6 hours of my life crying and occasionally turning on the cold water to wash away the blood, sweat, tears, and bear guts. My wife checked on me once. I told her to just leave me with at least 1 method of suicide available and abandon the house until I call her. To her credit she stayed around. Finally, after regaining consciousness I was able to stand up and plunge the drilling mud down the tub drain. I just went ahead and took a shower being careful around the "hole" as it felt like I spent the night in a prison shower.

Thanks to Haribo I have a better understanding of what the meaning of life is, and how to approach success in the face of adversity. I would not say that I'm a better man, but I am better prepared for life's little games.
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1,833 of 2,114 people found the following review helpful
1.0 out of 5 stars This ruined my life, January 16, 2014
This review is from: Haribo Gummi Bears Sugar Free 5lb Bag (Grocery)
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.
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