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I found this at http://www.commonvoice.com/readthread.asp?cid=5711
Fred from Portland writes:
9/12/2006 9:41:24 PM
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 bla-a-atting tones of a fleet of diesel semis throwing on the "jake brakes" on a long downhill stretch, with the odd bassoon glissando thrown in to provide color, and flutey, schoolgirl-ish "skirt-lifter" flourishes blupping periodically from 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.
Fred from Portland writes:
9/12/2006 9:41:24 PM
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 bla-a-atting tones of a fleet of diesel semis throwing on the "jake brakes" on a long downhill stretch, with the odd bassoon glissando thrown in to provide color, and flutey, schoolgirl-ish "skirt-lifter" flourishes blupping periodically from 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.
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