AnimeUltima.TV Forums - General Chat Thread

Quote:

Originally Posted by Godless (Post 1651526)

*Stomping on Sugar free gummi bears*

GET THAT SHIT OUTTA HERE! :mad:

Sugar free candy is an abomination

"artificial sweetner" that means chemicals not sugar i don't trust it's gonna be better for my health

They actually use laxatives as an artificical sweetener
A ton of reviews

3,107 of 3,539 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
By Mike Armes - See all my reviews
This review is from: Haribo Gummy Candy, Sugarless Gummy Bears, 5-Pound 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.
Help other customers find the most helpful reviews
Was this review helpful to you? Yes No
Report abuse | Permalink
Comment Comments (87)

1,116 of 1,269 people found the following review helpful
1.0 out of 5 stars This ruined my life, January 16, 2014
By GummyPoo - See all my reviews
This review is from: Haribo Gummy Candy, Sugarless Gummy Bears, 5-Pound 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.
Help other customers find the most helpful reviews
Was this review helpful to you? Yes No
Report abuse | Permalink
Comment Comments (33)

421 of 477 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars I don't get the bad reviews ..., January 18, 2014
By Marie Valente "BloodyFuneral" (Portland, Oregon) - See all my reviews
(REAL NAME)
This review is from: Haribo Gummy Candy, Sugarless Gummy Bears, 5-Pound Bag (Grocery)
Seriously, people. I don't understand all those bad reviews. I just bought a 5# bag for my ex. My ex LOVES gummy bears.
Help other customers find the most helpful reviews
Was this review helpful to you? Yes No
Report abuse | Permalink
Comment Comments (5)

1,074 of 1,229 people found the following review helpful
3.0 out of 5 stars I am so sorry Mrs. (teacher's name), January 9, 2014
By Crystal Ewig - See all my reviews
This review is from: Haribo Gummy Candy, Sugarless Gummy Bears, 5-Pound Bag (Grocery)
Same story as all of the above only here is MY ending.
.....and I was never asked to send snacks to my daughter's class again.
Help other customers find the most helpful reviews
Was this review helpful to you? Yes No
Report abuse | Permalink
Comment Comments (7)