48,155 of 49,030 people found the following review helpful
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.
12,722 of 13,354 people found the following review helpful
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.
16,269 of 17,322 people found the following review helpful
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.
4,376 of 4,872 people found the following review helpful
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"
76 of 81 people found the following review helpful
on June 13, 2015
Some may say a seventeen year old shouldn't poop their pants. Some may say a seventeen year old shouldn't poop their pants twice in the same day. Some may say you should buy Sugar Free gummy bears.
It all began when my mother returned home from her plum market grocery run. That day she returned home with a treat for me. A bag full of Sugar free gummy bears. Being the seventeen year old that I was I took down the entire bag while watching a twenty minute television show. I was happy with my decision, as well as my Mother's gift for the rest of that day.
I woke up the following morning and my stomach did not feel well. I did not take the this massive warning sign as a true foreshadowing of what was to follow. I walked down the stairs and sat down in my favorite chair to watch some television. I felt a bit of flatulance coming, as i usually did most mornings. I gently let what I thought was just air out of my sphincter but immediately following the loud, thunderous, fart was a wet swampy fraction of diarrhea. Like rain water creates mud slides in California, sugar free gummy bears catalyzed a large, swampy volume of diarrhea to spew out of my butt. I ran up to my room threw out my boxers and showered for what i thought would be the last time that day.
After two hours of sitting on the toilet i felt it was safe to go back down stairs and relax on the couch. I carefully creeped down the stair case and clenched as I sat down. Half an hour passed and I thought I was in the clear. Another pressure built up in my lower colon and I trusted my body to just let air out of butt. I released a fart that boomed though my house. During that loud baritone fart a quart of poop splatted against my cotton boxers. I grabbed the open ends of my boxers to prevent leakage and walked slowly back up to my room for a second time, hanging my head in defeat.
303 of 341 people found the following review helpful
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.
4,589 of 5,239 people found the following review helpful
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.
263 of 298 people found the following review helpful
on February 7, 2014
Unfortunately, I was unaware of these reviews before consuming satan's little death bears. After reading that these little jewels were made in Austria, I imagine a rouge Nazi chemical weapons scientist escaped to austria after the war and set up shop making unsuspecting masses suffer for their defeat.
My experience started like many others, some customer dropped off some bags of these for Christmas, after looking at them for the better part of a month I decided to eat some. The first day I had about 20-25 of them, that night i experienced some slight discomfort and crazy dreams , but I did not associate it with the demon spawn gummy bears. The next day, I had about a handful more of these delicious little devils and all hell broke loose. After several short trips to the bathroom and gas noises like I have never heard coming from my stomach before, I decided to head home, but first stop by the store to pick up some antacids.
Just as I got inside my local grocery store it hit me, I broke out in a cold sweat, my hands were clammy and the pain from my lower intestine was unreal, it felt as if Satan himself was reaching inside of me and spinning my intestines on his finger. I was around ten isles away from the back corner where the public bathroom was located when Satan's little helpers let me know I was not going to make it there. I immediately started to walk like I was trying to hold a golf ball between both knees and waddle to the back isle all the time praying I could keep my sphincter closed long enough. Those ten isles might as well been ten miles, it was not going to wait, about this time I spied another pair of doors marked employees only and pushed my way inside. I saw a small bathroom for employees and went straight to it, all the while a stock boy is trying to stop me and tell me I can't use it. I stiff arm him from my football days and say in what must have sounded like a demonic voice from hell " I'm sick, back off".
To my immediate relief I got the door shut and locked just in time for Mt. St Helen's to blow, Unfortunately ,I was not able to sit fast enough before spraying the back wall and toilet tank with a putrid black paint. At that exact moment, I did not even care, I was so relieved to have this sewage pouring out of me so violently that I could have levitated off the seat of the toilet if I wasn't holding on to the handicapped bars for dear life, I swear there are probably small dents in the stainless steel bar where my fingers were. After what seemed like an hour, I felt safe enough to stand and start the long clean up process, to my horror, I looked down to notice two mostly empty rolls of toilet paper. Are you freaking kidding me? This is a grocery store with pallets of toilet paper, right? After several minutes of trying to macgyver a solution, my only option was to ask the poor soul who had been knocking on the bathroom door for the last thirty minutes to please get me some paper. In retrospect, I should have asked for a dozen boxes of baby wipes as well.
After doing my best to clean what I could, I made my hasty retreat. I never understood how someone could spray fecal mater on a wall until now, clearly they had some of these delicious spawn from hell. I can never go back in this store as I am sure they all have some grainy picture from their video system taped to all the registers, with my picture on it, as the guy who horribly desecrated their beloved employee bathroom. Thanks Haribo, now I have to shop at the more expensive store down the street, I can never show my face in their again, I am still the guy the new employees get told about to watch for, sorta an Urban legend by now.
Read these reviews with skepticism if you must, but if I had seen them they would have saved my three days of my life. I still have some kidney pain but I am making a full recovery. I would not wish these on my worst enemy. You are warned!
643 of 737 people found the following review helpful
on January 21, 2014
Customers who bought this also bought:
4 pack of baby wipes
4,326 of 5,005 people found the following review helpful
on January 9, 2014
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.