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from: The answer, my friend, is
14 Sep 2006
I discovered a site advertising a new maltitol-free chocolate bar. It explained the hazards of maltitol (some of you may remember it's cousin, mannitol, used to "step on" certain Andean marching powders, and also well-known as a LAXATIVE) Once it got down to the nitty gritty of how that shit affects the digestive system, it suddenly dawned on me that I had a previously unexplained encounter with just those symptoms. I wrote this in the "comments" section of their fine company's website: /////////////////////////////////////////Hoo Boy! That explains it! I bought some great low-carb chocolate from Trader J's and noted that the whole bar supposedly contained 2 net carbs. Naturally, my wife and I daintily took one little piece each and congratulated ourselves on our restraint, and nibbled a tiny bit off a corner while making little bunnylike nose-squinchy giggles and shrugs at our naughtiness. The next thing I knew the chocolate bar was gone in a brownish blur, there were pieces of wrapper in our teeth and strewn about the floor and our faces and furniture were smeared with grubby chocolatey finger-smudges. Ah, how we giggled yet again at our own weakness and utter humanity, and promised to make the next one last a little longer than 1.3 seconds. Skip to three hours later. The rock-shivering cacaphony reverberating in our living room can best be described as sounding like an orchestral tuba section warming up, a dirigible rupturing and the earthy blatting roar of a fleet of diesel semis throwing on their "jake brakes" on a long downhill stretch, with the odd bassoon glissando thrown in to provide color and high-pitched flutelike flourishes blupping periodically from my beneath my soulmate. I have never had gas so bad in my life. Not even close, and in my family "pull my finger" is considered a cooing utterance of affection, followed by the inevitable sound of a watermelon breaking in half. The cramps alone were excruciating, much less the sore stomach muscles from simultaneously moaning in pain and laughing (which caused an odd "putt-putt" style nether-zephyr to emerge in staccato trumpet-blasts from our hindquarters, eliciting further torture to our already weakened respiratory systems). We were on all fours, barking from both ends. Not a pretty sight. Or smell. You'll just have to imagine that, for words can only fail to deliver an account of such a horrendous assault on the olfactory organs, save to those who work in sewage treatment facilities or overcrowded South American prisons. If you need a prompt for a realistic simulation to catalog in your own mental flatulence-file, hold a teenager's wet sneaker up to one nostril and a freshly-opened bag of pork rinds to the other in a kitchen where cabbage is being overcooked. Then you might BEGIN to suggest a vague guess as to the essence. Until I read this review and understood the magical hurricane-producing properties of maltitol on the digestive system, I had no idea why we had spontaneously erupted like a wind section in a John Cage score. We thought we had somehow insulted the Aztec gods of the bean harvest or something. Now that we know, we will avoid the detestable sugar-fraud in favor of something kinder to our poor abused starfish and easier on our laundry bill. My hope with this missive is to warn an unwary public to beware, lest they unwittingly are subject to a NASA-style catastrophe involving "blowing an O-ring."
ANTI POPEYE X FAN CLUB
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