Haribo Sugarless Gummy Bears.

[Dorado]

Amazon.com Haribo Sugarless Gummy Bears.

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5,330 of 5,576 people found the following review helpful

My Dinner With Andrea

ByFarva21 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.

 

[Utah Bob #35998]

And I ain't eating anything from a company named Hairbo!

[Apache Hawk 60642]

Stay close to a bathroom !

[Ace_of_Hearts]

One should read the label before eating too many.....

 

Sugarless = laxative

[Apache Hawk 60642]

ZACTLY !