[Virtus]

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.

http://www.amazon.com/Haribo-Gummy-Candy...ewpoints=1

[Handsome Creepy Eel]

Another review Wrote:

Be sure to also buy a tub of Oxyclean with this to get the blood and diarrhea stains out of your underwear, clothes, furniture, pets, loved ones, ceiling fans.

[commiejoe]

Hhahahaha, the reviews.

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Haribo Gummy Candy, Sugarless Gummy Bears, 5-Pound 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.

[Handsome Creepy Eel]

This one is my favorite

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5,793 of 6,065 people found the following review helpful
1.0 out of 5 stars My Dinner With Andrea, 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.

[commiejoe]

I got a bag on order, will use as door gifts to ONS's.
I think I'll put another bag on that order.

[Suits]

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Being on low carb diet I bought these so I could have my candy and eat it to, guilt free. They taste totally awesome and you really cannot eat just one or even the suggested serving. I have an iron stomach and thought it can't be that bad despite the warning.
I ate several handfuls so probably about 100 of these things at one time. I wasn't prepared for what was to come. I had later gone on my morning walk. I felt bloating in my stomach and thought nothing of it until I started to fart!! I'm not talking about little poots. I'm talking THUNDER FARTS from the pits of hell!! I couldn't take but 10 steps on my walk before another violent explosion of gas erupted from my colon!! These were so loud the other joggers I know had to hear them. It was non stop and the churning going on inside my gut was beyond anything I experienced. I thought for sure some evil demon spawn was fixin to bust through my stomach!!! I was laughing so hard form the constant extremely loud and explosive gas explosions. You know the old saying.. "It's All S***s and Giggles Until Somebody Giggles and S***s!!! That was next!! The explosive gas let loose and to an explosive shart!!! 1 mile from home on my walk and it was a long 1 mile back and I had a mess!! Fortunately for compression shorts it didn't run down my legs!! Now I had to hold the gas for fear of blowing my entire intestines out into my shorts!! I made it home and what happened then was like something out of Dante's Inferno!!! My butt became an upside down volcano!! Best to stock up on toilet paper and toilet bowl cleaner as you will totally spray the bowl and back of the seat!! I would no sooner get done and have to go again. When you get the urge to "go" you best be in proximity of toilet!!! I spent hours on the toilet. I sure had a colon cleanse and full boxy detox of the likes unimaginable as I couldn't believe that much was inside me!!! and all and what that came out of me!!! Then when I got up to flush I noticed rainbow colored splatter inside the bowl. The gummi bears started coming out just as they went down.. Chewed and not even digested!!! I did wind up eating and finishing the bag although at much lower amounts. I had an awful lot of fun if you know what I mean. I knew just how many to eat and not have an "accident". If you get embarrassed by flatulence these are not for you. If you really want to play a joke on friend, although they may not be your friend after you give them these!! It's well worth the laugh. I give this a 5 star for the taste.. AWESOME and also 5 stars for the experience which I'm still laughing about.

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In the 32 years I have existed on this planet I have never once thought to myself that I may want to read up on any type of sugar-free candy prior to consuming. I have also never found any candy that should by law, be required to come with a warning label that is at LEAST 10 times larger then it's bag!
I purchased this rainbow colored bag of Damn bears at a local grocery store while on my lunch break. Nothing could possibly lead me to believe that this purchase would ever have any lasting impact on my life aside from maybe a few minutes of delicious enjoyment that could possibly lead to me purchasing these again. Now I must admit the bags were on clearance but since it was just after the holiday season I assumed the lowered price a due to overstock. As they tell you NEVER ASSUME!
Seeing as I am a patrol officer I am required to not only be inside my vehicle for 90% of my shift, but I am expected to be 100% aware of my surroundings throughout my drive. I also choose my snacks based on cleanliness and convenience seeing as I share my vehicle with another officer and have little time to consume a proper meal.
I am a firm believer that if divine intervention were a real thing, that upon the rustle of the bag's plastic as I began to open them , a bolt of lighting would have shot through the windshield or at least the open passenger's side window; stopping me before I opened the bag and consumed even one bear. Honestly I'd later that day come to realize that I'd of gladly given up an entire limb to have avoided eaten them.
None the less the bag was opened, a delightfully fruity aroma filled the car. As I began to eat them I was popping them in one at a time and their deliciousness increased the delivery to roughly four at a time. Before I had even made it out of the store's parking lot I had eaten a quarter of the bag.
I begin my afternoon rounds which consists of ereal gate communities that have maximum speed limits of 20mph and have as of yet ever required more then me talking to the residents and once I helped captured a dog who was evading its owner. Slowly I drive though my first two communities. All the while enjoying the gummi bears. Once I got to the last of the gates I realized that half the bag was gone and decided that I should stop. Even considered that my children would enjoy them upon my return home. I begin to punch in the four digit code to open the gate... "4, 7"..... suddenly my stomach makes a noise that could only be described as an elephant with a trumpet playing into a megaphone..... then a shift of my insides that hit harder then anything I'd ever felt even during the two times I had GIVEN BIRTH.... WHEN SOMETHING WAS LITERALLY SHIFTING INSIDE OF ME!
I did not punch in the last two digits. All I could do.... all that my instincts and training had taught me to do.... I threw on my lights and sirens and put my car in reverse as I was already beginning to accelerate with my foot. I swear I nearly exceeded 30mph in reverse just to make it to the main road immediately. I had 2.7miles to make it to the nearest public restroom. Lights and sirens on I traveled at 80mph as I heaved through traffic and pulled into that ENMARK Station nearby. When I went running from my car and into the station I took no notice of the fully packed pumping area or the 15 or so people inside. I was too busy trying to squeeze my butt cheeks together and still maintain running.
Fast forward through what I will call the S***-POCALYPSE and a good 40minutes of my life I will never forget, I am faced with walking through the crowd of people that had collected due to my very fast and dramatic entrance. Apparently the assumption was there was a criminal type in the bathroom who I was arresting. Since I went in and came out alone I could not justify that rumor. I instead stated everything was ok with the words "false alarm" and didn't think of how cruelly ridiculous that must of sounded till I was back in my patrol car and saw that I had missed 3 calls and it was now 10minutes after my shifts end.
Another fast forward I immediately went home and searched the internet for some means of communication that I could find to contact and seriously scream at the makers of these hellish bears. That took me three hours due to several other bathroom trips. And upon searching was brought to AMAZON where I began to read all the other horrible stories these bears have caused for others.
I made it my solemn oath to never again buy clearance candy until I thoroughly investigated it on the internet. And to only then purchase it from Amazon after I had read all other reviews carefully.
I learned a valuable life lesson that day.... and my coworker did as well the next day since he ate the leftover bag of bears I had accidentally left in the patrol car after my shift.

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I was looking for a low calorie 'grazing' snack when I originally bought this product. Tastes fine. After my first enjoyment, I experienced something less enjoyable. That might have been something else I ate that day, so some time later, full of wariness and scientific curiosity, I ate some just before leaving work.

1 hour, 30 minutes later, after retrieving the children from school, we arrive back at home.

During this time, the gummi bears, hereafter referred to as The Fuel, were being carefully processed in the fuel system of Space Ship Me. I can only assume that The Fuel is a highly advanced binary propellant because it is non-reactive and benign in storage and even during initial ingestion. But as with all binary propellants, when mixed with the complementary other half of the pairing, the results are highly energetic.

Turning my parental duties over the the capable hands of the Roku and widescreen TV, I proceeded upstairs apace, shedding unnecessary accoutrements as I could tell this cowboy was about to Go Rodeo.

Entering the Launch Facility (a.k.a. real estate agents refer to it as the 'master bath') I approached the Launch Pad itself, a fine furnishing manufactured by American Standard. As it was handy to the direct path of travel, and to further the cause of Science!, I stepped onto the bathroom scale and made note of my weight. I then configured the Launch Pad into the second receiving mode and positioned Space Ship Me atop the launch aperture.

All hatches closed!
Exhaust fans to full power!
Sitzfleisch sealed to Launch Pad support ring! (It's a German double entendre, look it up.)
Fuel flow starting, easing open sphincter, commence count down!
10!
9!
8!
Whoops, 1!

Thrust built rapidly to the 100% rating of the nozzle. The exhaust thundered against the parabolic shape of the Launch Pad and reverberated back upwards, buffetting the structure of Space Ship Me.

I swear, if I had thought ahead to equip the Launch Pad with the kind of camera available for the Discerning Customer with Refined Tastes from a Discrete Retailer, you might have seen shock diamonds.

I know some other customers have thought that they might have needed seat belts, but from my dispassionate observation point, I could objectively see that I had not yet achieved Lift-Off. That happened on the Saturn V launches as well: they had to sit on the pad for a while at full thrust until just enough fuel has burned off to make the thrust exceed weight.

It's a long way to orbit, and I was in a hurry to get to the ISS, so the only thing to do was to go to 125% on the nozzle.

That's where things started to go wrong. Thrust increased, to be sure, hammering the porcelain, but the exhaust flow became turbulent. It was also becoming asymmetric. The signal came from below, "The engines cannae take any moor, Cap'n!" (I have no idea why my arse has a Scottish accent.)

Fuel flow dropped off and the nozzle output dropped to merely 10%, with some damage to the combustion chamber.

But luckily, sitting quietly for about five minutes, The Fuel had regenerated enough pressure that I could make another attempt.

After about thirty minutes and several attempts, I had not achieved lift off, and Thank God, because I realized belatedly that I hadn't a plan for how to get through the ceiling and roof.

But the scale revealed that I had lost seven (7) pounds.

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As an older gentleman, I've seen my friends get married and some of my friends get divorced. My folks have been married for over 30 years so I wanted a marriage to last like that. As the cheesy saying goes, I want my first marriage to be my only marriage. So I spent a lifetime looking for the perfect girl for me. The right amount of funny, dirty, adventurous, couragous and loving. And I had found her. She was pretty, smart, funny and in a word, amazing. After courting her for over a year I finally gained the courage I needed to ask her to marry me.

But I couldn't propose in any old pedestrian fashion, oh no...this was an occasion to stand on ceremony. So I went out and rented a tux, and the pants were a little tight but not overly so. They were the kind of pants with the goofy button on the inside of the left waistband as well as a button on the rightside outer waistband. And wanting to be proper I buttoned both, a mistake I would soon regret. As I sat there going over what I would say tonight by the lake I sat down fully dressed in my tux and snacked nervously on gummy bears.

I finally plotted out what I would say, what cues I would look for as openings to segue into the proposal. I rehearsed what I would say for about 20 minutes while casually snacking on the soft bears trying to placate my nerves. Finally it was settled, I had calmed my nerves and decided it was time. Getting in my car I noticed that my stomach had begun making noises, as I stopped the engine and leaned down I heard it decree "LET ME SING YOU THE SONG OF MY PEOPLE FFFFFFRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT" OH....OH GOD! GOD....GOD NO!

A moment of relief as I was glad the sound happened now instead of during the proposal. I continue to drive, and my stomach continues to battle my eardrums and the fabric of the expensive tuxedo I was wearing I drove faster to the destination. As I pulled up I saw my future wife sitting by the lake waiting for me. I park and start walking, finally thankful for the relief my bowels have provided to me. The smell, oh sweet baby jesus, could be used for removing barnacles from nuclear submarines. As I rehearsed what I would say I thought about my car and how a complete and unforgiving fire would be the only way to clense the car.

I walk up to my soon-to-be fiance and kiss her on the cheek. I couldn't tell if it was the relief of the smell my bowels were kicking out but she seemed to smell extra nice today. We sat on the bench looking onto the lake and talked for a few minutes, then the conversation steered towards future plans and I took that opportunity to make my move. I reached in my pocket and pulled out the ring, got on my knees and looked her in the eyes. She was stunning. I cracked open the case, looked in her eyes and opened my mouth except the sound came out the wrong end of my body.

Lurched forth like an angry proclaimation of "FUS-RO-DAH!" my anus released an angry growl that was undoubtedly inhuman. I ran to the nearest bathroom which was unfortunately a port-a-johnny, slammed and locked the door and fumbed my pants button. I fumbled the first button like a teenager fumbling with his first bra but finally it relented and I tried pushing the pants down but the refused. I looked and....DAMNIT! There was a second button on the inside, I tugged and yanked on that button fully willing to pay the repair bill but it refused to cooperate. I was finally able to get the second button off, down went my trousers and boxers and I sat down and sweet relief.

I could have sworn that someone was outside the potty, but after the first wave all I heard outside was silence. The subsequent explosion could only be explained as 50 guys given Syrup of Ipecac and then having their mouths funneled to my butthole. After what seemed like 20 minutes of my intestinal assault on this port a john, I stand up.....DAMNIT, my shirt got stuck under my butt and now looked like one of those rorschach tests.

Defeated I take off the cummerbund, then my shirt and then wipe every inch of the top layer of skin off my backside. I button up my pants, one button this time, and walk out in my wifebeater shirt with my dress shirt, tie and cummerbund in hand and look for my bride. She was nowhere to be found and the ring was in the box still on the bench. Somehow between trying not to crap my pants and getting to the port-a-john I lost my phone on the ground, it sat glaring up at me with a text from her saying "I'm sorry, you're not right for me". I grab the phone, grab the ring and walk back to my car.

The bears were delicious, but as a side note....is there any cute women interested in a slightly portly guy from Iowa who isn't crazy? Would be helpful if she was a size 8 ring.

[Suits]

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There is no reason I can think of that a person would need five pounds of these tasty and colorful yet vindictive little parasites. A few of them ....okay, I understand - but if you fill a sandwich bag with these things expecting a tasty treat for a family hike, the only thing you need to think about is stopping every 5 minutes on the trail so each family member can hide behind a tree like a horse thief in expensive yuppie "outdoor" clothing.

There you are - taking in all of mother nature's majesty; standing like a king, leading your family fearlessly through the perils of dangers unknown. Then it hits. A pain that can only be described as feeling like the entire book of Revelation has been unleashed in your stomach; and it consists of a rainbow of angry, soup-like quadrupeds marching forth to find the fastest way from the shackles of your bowels. You stop, and there is line of cold sweat washing over your forehead like a foreboding breeze of worse things to come. Staying strong for the sake of your family, you act as if nothing has given you reason to doubt the strength of your sphincter - so you bring the cheeks in tighter, and walk just fast enough that you can get in front of them at a safe distance to relieve some pressure. In the absolute clear, you little a little smoke bomb go - but...wait a minute, you felt the bay door open, but it never closed. Holding back a scream, you run your hand down the back of your North Face pants to check for moisture and determine that you were lucky this time, but in a couple of minutes it would be Black Friday at the checkout stand and there would be a flash mob pushing that door down. Damn, there's nothing but low lying brush and vine maple here - you'll have to soldier on and find a more discreet location to free your system of this evil, and find it fast. At this point, the utter pinnacle of fear, you remember that there was another car pulling in up at the trailhead when you set out on your hike - other people are here and it will take every single ounce of resourcefulness in your body to conceal the inevitable when it hits.

You see a grove of healthy cedar trees up ahead and you fly like a phoenix to the only thing that can close this terrifying chapter of your life. The trees conceal your condition from the view of others, but they fail tremendously to stop the sound of what can only be described as drowning a toddler in a mud puddle. Upon completion of this task, 30 minutes later, you emerge from the trees wishing you had a mirror to see how much of you remained. You turn and look back at your family that has, in the time it took you to find peace, doubled over and every one of them is curled into fecal position. Dropping to your knees you scream to the heavens and curse these dastardly gummi bears.