re: Quite possibly the strongest Amazon review in history

leggings are not a right, they are for the few privileged

Y’all remember the baw who ate a whole bag of a Haribo gummy bears crossing the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge..

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love Gummi Bears. They are God’s sweet nectar. What I did not know is that, like all things that are good in this world, they have an equally evil counterpart, the Haribo Sugar-Free Gummy Bears. While I understand that balance is necessary in a morally mixed world, I had no idea how much horror evil could cause, especially one with such a happy, smiling bear-like face. Now, I know.

This evil counterpart is clearly one of Lucifer’s sycophants, cleverly disguised in a childlike, gelatinous form. It all started with a trip I was taking with my 6-year old son, to the beach. We were headed to the beach at Gulf Shores, from Texas on I-10. This is extremely important (and was extremely unfortunate). I drive two-seater pickup so he had to sit in the front with me on a kids seat that raises him up about 4 inches.

Anyhow, we’re in Louisiana when we come up to signs for the Atchafalaya Bridge where I force him to pee at a local gas station. it was beyond nasty, it looked like desperate truck drivers, homeless locals and swamp rats had desecrated and abandoned the place just long enough to create a smell that would make even cockroaches throw up in their mouths a little. My son fights me but I know that we’re about to cross one of the longest bridges in the world and there’s no place to stop. Back on the road, he says, “I’m hungry daddy” and, being the cool dad, I pull out that sweet-faced poison. I immediately start shoveling them into my mouth without looking, assuming these are my regular friends. My son has one and grimaces. He must have noticed the lack of real sugar in his favorite snack. It's a hint I should have taken.

Make all the jokes you want about hindsight. I’m not laughing. The first sign came at about 5 miles onto the bridge when I felt a seemingly small bout of flatulence coming on. This is a bit embarrasing but As fathers are wont to do, I played one of my favorite father-son games I affectionately call, “pull my finger.” It’s a surefire winner with the boy every time. At this point, I’ve eaten my way through what I now estimate to be about a pound of the malevolent little creatures and they’re about to show their true faces. I feel a few bubbles but disregard them. The pressure is building and the time for the game is now or never. I say the magic words “pull my finger.” Looking back, they seemed to come from my lips in ultra-slow motion, like a Robin Williams imitation.

As I replay it, I try to stop myself but I can’t. My right finger is already extended and the knowing smile on his face is already there. He knows (or thinks he knows) what’s coming. So he pulls on my finger and opens the door to hell. The timing and irony could not have been more perfect as I release a long fluttering sound and smell that quickly fills the cab. “Daddy, that was gross. Is that the swamp or you?” He asks innocently. I glance into his watering eyes and realize he is serious. It hits my nose too and have to slam on the brakes to make sure I don’t hit the cars in front of me. I can no longer see them due to my own pungent stench, which has caused me to go momentarily blind.

Meanwhile, the farting has amazingly and inexplicably continued. It’s getting worse and he begs me to stop but I can’t. I try to tuck my cheeks under and in but nothing helps. Then, the sound turns from farting to gurgling. I pull my hand away from the attempted tuck and my hands are moist. I feel my pants filling with a soggy warmth that seems to come from nowhere. My bowels have become the bowels of hell and nothing will abate them. I have no control of my bodily functions. The air-smell becomes the solid smell and I suddenly wish for the smell of the fart, because it smells like spring-fresh roses and clean linen compared to what now fills the cab.

My son is in full cry mode now. The only thing that raises his terror level to red is the fact that my intense brown leakage has filled my jeans and has overflowed onto the seat, edging its way toward him. He cringes away and I can only look on helpless as it edges its way toward him like that only 50’s Blob movie. I’m still driving as I leak but I have to stick a leftover napkin in my nostrils so my eyes won’t water and I can see.

Fortunately, he’s raised up by his kid’s seat. Then I see sweet relief up ahead. The Atchafalaya Welcome Center. I jump out and run like one of those wind-up toy soldiers that have no knees and just bobble back and forth from toe to toe. Suddenly, all of those penguin comparisons you guys made in these reviews make perfect sense. I’m guessing that the back side of my jeans look something like an unwrapped Mr. Goodbar, but this is no time for pretense. I can feel the spray flickering from my socks as the chocolate pudding (or should I say puddling) - makes its way from the bottom of my jeans. I think I see the bathroom and run toward it in my toy soldier bounce, cheeks clinched, one arm covering my nose and face, the other attempting to squeeze my cheeks even further together, all the while thinking , “Why won’t it STOP!?” Then I stop, because I see the worst sign ever. CLOSED. The whole place is closed for some kind of maintenance. Can’t they see that I NEED MAINTENANCE? I bang on the door and realize there’s no getting in. I see my son, who I virtually forgot, watching me from a smell-safe distance.

I grab some local newspaper from a nearby stand and try to wipe myself off, making it worse. I grab the whole stack and walk toward the truck as I feel the cauldron start to bubble again. I wipe off the truck as best as possible and lay down newspaper, like a humiliated puppy. My son has no choice but to sit, carefully perched criss-cross applesauce (please, no applesauce jokes. This is my life, here) on his kids’ seat so that he doesn’t touch the crime scene. We start to head back the way we came. I start to feel it coming on again and try to take a food inventory. “How could it still be coming out? There’s wasn’t that much food. The only thing in sight 10 miles and 2 blowouts later is that nasty gas station.

I have no choice. I stop the car and go, tell my son to wait outside. This won’t be pretty. At this point, he’s numb, the snot from crying has thankfully clogged his nose. I go into the hellish ruins of a bathroom and yank my pants down. Another blowout happens before I reach the pot, spraying the wall like a blood splatter episode of Dexter. The one noticeable difference is that, buried in that spray are slightly chewed, smiling, jello-from-hell gummy bears.

You can laugh but it was as if they physically crawled their way through my digestive system to escape my anal cavity after wreaking the havoc that only they could cause. I will never eat gummy bears again. And make no mistake- they are evil.

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Sorry brah. Haribo sugar free gummy bear reviews. End of discussion.

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Three wolf moon T-shirt is classic

Where's the 55 gallon drum of lube one? Those were always good