on October 3, 2012
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.
on October 3, 2013
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.
on November 21, 2013
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.
on October 24, 2015
I brought two bags of these to my son's school for their Harvest party because of the new sugar free and healthy eating initiatives. All appeared well. The kids were thrilled to have something that wasn't carrot sticks or clementine pumpkins. Within a few minutes the munchkins had polished off the first bag and were tearing into the second.
We started bobbing for apples and playing haunted house bingo. Twenty minutes later the kid in the purple monster costume started growling. It turns out it wasn't his voice, but his stomach. The teacher asked my son to walk the child down to the bathroom, so I followed them into the hall. The child's zipper appeared to be stuck and could not be budged. Suddenly the floodgates opened and hot gravy began pooling around the monster's shoes.
I told my son to get help. As he turned around to head back into the classroom, he slipped in the sludge, ironically soiling his Winnie the Pooh costume. Meanwhile, two more afflicted children were on their way to the restroom and tripped over my son in their panicked pace.
As soon as Elsa smelled the putrid fumes, she began to vomit in Rapunzels hair. At this point another parent rushed into the hallway with a desperate Minion. She took one despicable look at our situation and ran back into the room.
I followed them in an effort to recruit assistance. And that is when I witnessed something that will haunt me forever. Children were screaming. The teacher was holding a storm trooper as he stood helplessly in the room's only trash can. The apple basin was filled with a rancid smelling rainbow stew of partially digested hummus, veggies, apples and bears.
Unfortunately the school does not have windows that open, and a mom was spraying autumn leaf freshener in a futile attempt to cover the stench. At that point the school secretary made the announcement that students should line up in the hallway for the pumpkin parade around the school.
As the neighboring classrooms entered the hallway, the smog hit their nose and they began to run. Several second graders slipped in the remaining smears in front of our door. More retching resulted in further contamination of our only exit.
We desparately attempted to evacuate the room before more student evacuated their pants. Two of us placed plastic shopping bags over our hands like gloves and passed children through the doorway and over the worst of the wreckage.
It was decided that the best course of action at this point was to enact an early dismissal and allow parents an opportunity to take students home. Because the disaster originated in our room, students were quarantined in the gym and not allowed to ride the bus.
Our school was closed for two days as kids were tested for a norovirus. Multiple visits to doctors confirmed the same causation. Irritable bowels from ingestion of sugar substitutes. Fortunately the children recovered quickly than I did. Forget haunted houses. I pass out every time I see a gummy bear.
on January 18, 2014
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"
on January 18, 2014
My grandmother sent me home this Thanksgiving with the usual random tubs, tins, and sandwich baggies of bizarre items. I was pleased to see a half bag of Hairbo gummy bears in the mix. Yumm! Sugar free though, but oh well.
I was typing out my capstone thesis while watching X-Files re-runs on Netflix, munching away at the bears. Pretty tasty. Not overly sweet and good fruity flavors.
Later it wasn't so much that something began in my guts, per se; rather, it was like a military grade pipe bomb detonated catastrophically deep within, effectively ground fracking the contents of my person, the entirety of which flooded towards my small, frail, and utterly unprepared, unclenched exit. Cotton Hanes and luau shorts were not rated for this wrath of Satan. The pandemonium of my sprint to the toilet may or may not have worsened the situation, but the decision to tumble into the bathtub claimed 3 broken ribs and a bloodied nose. I was eternally glad for the option to curl fetal, but after 10 minutes I grimly realized that the tub drain was NOT in the open position. My toes did keep warm, just as I like to arrange for my showers, but this was, in total absolution, not to my liking. Weeping and sobbing, I greasily kicked the drain and faucet open both. Time passed. The horrible spittoon liquid splashed in cresting waves before swirling down the pipes of the home my daughter sleeps in.
I needed to tell my mother that I loved her. My phone, still functional, was within reach, and I blubbered out prayers, piteous confessions, and promises to live as a better man. I had clearly misdialed to a wrong number, but my message was pure. I spoke for sons of all nations and across the ages, and this little girl sat as mother for every soldier, sinner, and forsaken soul. She cried with me for a time. It would be years before she has children of her own, but this was archetypal. This was bigger than all of us.
I woke up with a start. Immediately diarrhea geysered again from my anus. My phone was ringing; it was my fiancée. I trembled to answer. She was in a panic - I didn't question how she could have known my terror. Instead though, she told me that SHE had to be taken to the ER for a urinary tract infection. I needed to pick her up. I considered long and hard simply marrying a different woman. I flattened an old tarp across the driver area of my sedan and gingerly eased in. Urgently I sped through red lights, flashing and honking. None of this was for her sake. Four blocks from my destination, I realized that I was at T-minus 15 seconds to THE fireblitz of reckoning. I peeled onto a residential street and left the car running, rolling. I had the good sense to duck between houses, where I found a darkened back porch. On this porch was an open cardboard box. I don't know if that box was empty to begin with, but with no hesitation whatsoever I filled it to the flaps with what could only be called a boiling hot rotten corpse marmalade. I whimpered as I dabbed at the horrorshow where my bottom button used to be using the only paper I had on hand. A 20 dollar bill. Let this review double as an apology to that family, and please accept the gently used Andrew Jackson as yours to keep.
Later that night, as I sat swaddled in blankets atop a hotwater bottle, sipping warm broth, the little girl from the bathtub incident called my phone back. Her concern for a stranger warmed my heart. I promised to send her a birthday gift. Yesterday I used Amazon Prime to send a gift purchase just for her. A 5lb. bag of Haribo Gummy Bears - REGULAR!!!
on June 1, 2014
My adventure, like many of the others here began with my disbelief that these incredibly descriptive reviews were true. I am here to tell you that I was wrong. It came as delivered. So here's my story...
Likening myself to someone who his genetically superior to others, I ate 100 of these little colon wrenching gummies. As a side note: I recommend anyone attempting this to not start at 11pm at night. I did and sorely regret it.
After taking 100 of them, I got into some basketball shorts, set some water bottles in the bathroom (to stay hydrated) as well as my ipad and settled down on the couch. My girlfriend watched me in utter disbelief as she rolled her eyes at my stupidity, while reading some of the more colorful reviews.
45 minutes into it, I was disappointed. Not even so much as a grumble in my stomach. Thinking I had in fact triumphed over these havoc wreaking little demons, I took 30 more. In hindsight, I definitely jumped the gun on that one.
Then, a little gas began and the gurgling commenced. The first trip to the bathroom wasn't so bad. After having a normal bowel movement I was thinking the rumbling was from the fish I had for dinner (also a mistake). I laughed at what must have been my superior genetic composition conquering these weak little candies.
Not wanting to be outdone, those little b@stards turned up the heat. The second trip was NOT pleasant. The feeling was a combination between warm bathwater and volcanic lava being forcefully ejected from my rear. I was no longer laughing.
For the rest of the night, I was making countless trips to the bathroom with the same results. I didn't even want to play the flight simulator app on my ipad (I always play it while on the john) it hurt so bad.
But the gummies weren't done with me. After anything with color had passed through my bowels, they began dumping what I could only assume was water through my rear just to spite me for not believing they were now in control of everything in my stomach. Genetically superior, I think not.
After spending all night running (not walking by any means) to the bathroom I was more than exhausted. I wanted to sleep, thinking that after the 8th round of gummy hell, I was done. Wrong again, Johnny. The second wave of increasingly painful attacks began.
I was beginning to get accustomed to the gaseous, explosive passings that these gummies were causing, but my rear wasn't. It wanted to throw in the towel at round 10 and it sent me a VERY clear and VERY painful message. It wanted no more in my painful experiment. Unfortunately, the gummies did not relent.
After 17 rounds of this gummy created havoc, I can only thing that my ravaged body had some sort of internal, natural disaster. Most likely a wildfire, if I had to guess. Speaking of natural disasters, the toilet which took the brunt of the gummy hell-storm appeared to be violated in indescribable ways.
on April 27, 2014
These bears are bad. Very, very bad. I doubted the authenticity of the majority of these reviews so I took it upon myself as a man of science, fueled by curiosity to see for myself how bad these things really were.
It's been 15 agonizing hours since the first gummy bear entered my body and I'm typing this from a toilet.
It all began when I saw an internet article that pointed me to these reviews, how I rue that day. I laughed for at least an hour at the ridiculous stories, sure they were entertaining, but these so-called "hell-bears" as so many reviewers refer to them as couldn't live up to the hype. So, I naturally did what any curious, doubtful person with a lot of free time on their hands would do, I ordered a 5 lb bag.
After deriding these sugar free gummy bears to everyone I knew and pointing them to the funny reviews that had no substance I was incredibly excited when I arrived home from the gym and the box was there in front of me, nearly a week before the anticipated arrival date. In retrospect, I realize I should have never taunted the hell bears to arrive so soon, for I was ill prepared.
I tore open the package at 6 pm and sat down to enjoy some incredibly delicious gummy bears and watch Netflix. I ate with abandon for 30 minutes straight, even going as far as to fill my mouth with a handle as the timer went off. I figured 30 minutes of eating would be good enough to produce an effect, being a 6'4" 270 lb strongman competitor I wanted to be sure I ate enough as to leave no doubt. I estimate I consumed around a pound of the bears during that sitting and it was pure bliss, at the time.
I sat there for an hour and a half awaiting the proposed inevitable, praying that the stories were true because then it would be funnier than before. Alas, 8 pm rolled around and I had only went to the bathroom once and dropped a very normal stool. I was outraged, after all of these reviews I had tried it for myself and found out that I had been right all along, they were lies! Then, like a well timed retort, my stomach began to growl. It went on for thirty minutes and I hit the bathroom, spewing the remnants of the bears from my sphincter in a very violent fashion. This was the moment in had been waiting for! These bears did the trick, they work, the stories are true!
Fast forward to 9 am the next morning and I'm typing this review from a toilet. I didn't sleep, oh I tried, but to no avail. I quit trying to stay hydrated hours ago, everything I drink comes out the other end violently and ceases to stop. I am pooping nothing but water with bits of hell bears in them. I had to cancel my plans last night and stay right next to a toilet, I haven't eaten anything in hours and I've lost 10 pounds. I just want this to be over. I am sorry I ever doubted anything, all of these ridiculous reviews are completely plausible, this is worse than food poisoning. Looking back on the awesome taste and texture of the bears, the experience of eating them that was so good at the time was simply a sick, sadistic taunt. These things are evil, pure evil. Please stay away, these aren't funny or cute, they're from the depths of Hell itself. Please, don't make the same mistake I did, take my word for it and spare yourself the agony that only these hell-bears can produce.
And if you do make the same mistake I did, may God have mercy on your soul.
on March 22, 2014
I've been through childbirth. I've been through an inflamed gallbladder. I've thrown gallstones that became lodged in tiny ducts causing searing pain and requiring an ambulance transport. I live with IBD. I've been awake for an endoscopy. each of the experiences made me think "this is the worst pain I'll ever endure".
during a long low-carb stint, I discovered sugar free gummy bears... score! I LOVE gummy bears, and they were practically carb free! I ripped the bag open and consumed the small bag... the whole. entire. bag... on the drive home. an hour later I was sweating, had stomach cramps, and felt gassy. no big deal, I thought. I must have eaten too fast. It'll pass. I have IBD, this is nothing.
you know Chewbacca? you know his distinct gurgly rumbly vocalizations? I couldnt believe these noises were coming from the center of my gut. I put my hands on my stomach and literally felt myself inflate with each sound. I looked in the mirror and to my horror, I looked a good 8 months pregnant. the desire to ass-vomit hadn't hit yet, so I was assuming a good fart would relieve the pressure. but I couldn't push, my bowels were so inflated I couldn't contract the muscles to push out a fart. now I started to worry, so I hopped online to see if there was anything I could do. that's when I found the millions... yes MILLIONS... of forums and message boards warning people of the GI upset caused by those delicious gelatinous bombs of death. I immediately downed 2 doses of Immodium, anticipating the storm. I had to tie my hair up, as it was becoming soaked in sweat. I sat down to watch some TV, hoping the Immodium would get ahead of the gummy bear attack. and when I say I sat down, I actually mean I laid down gently on my side, as sitting straight up was absolutely out of the question. halfway through an episode of Seinfeld, a good laugh triggered what can only be described as World War III... in my stomach.
I made a mad dash for the bathroom, and got my sweatpants (I had to change out of my jeans thanks to the bloating) down literally a millisecond before the fiery hot lava exploded from my poor unsuspecting colon. with each burst from my insides I emitted a cry far more desperate than the ones made during childbirth, saying "stop, please, stop" out loud over and over again to a god that just wasn't listening. after about 10 minutes, I realized if I sat on the seat any longer I'd likely prolapse my colon through my now-loosened anus, so I flushed. then I flushed again. then I wiped. then I wiped with wet toilet paper. then I patted it dry. then I flushed again. I washed my hands and face, replaced the eyeliner I'd cried off, and went to sit back down on the couch. It was over.
WRONG YET AGAIN.
the second my butt hit the couch, I felt the fire in my colon flare up, and knew something was trying to squeak out. I waddled back to the bathroom, clenching my cheeks together as tight as I could and still walk, and landed on the toilet seat just in time for round #2. by now my poor hole was on FIRE, and I knew I couldn't wipe it again. I wet some toilet paper and patted the poor thing, then put some Vaseline on there. it burned. it stung, it was crying with me. so I decided to take a shower. I got to the upstairs bathroom and turned the shower on... then sat on that toilet for yet ANOTHER purge. how much was IN there??? I finally managed to get in the shower, and curled up on the floor of it to cry. this went on the rest of that day, all through that night, and well into the evening of the following day.
Thank you, Haribo. your gummy bear cleanse produced the quickest 9lbs I'd ever lost. I haven't eaten a gummy bear since. not even the regular sugar ones. every time I see a bag of gummy bears in a store, I hear a grumble in my stomach and feel my sphincter tighten involuntarily. it has even turned me off of Russell Stover sugar free chocolate candy. I don't think I'll ever eat sugar free anything ever again
on January 9, 2014
I bought one order for the Westboro Baptist Church as a donation because we all know how much God hates irregularity.