Fiber One Bars: Gastrointestinal Health Gone Horribly Wrong
I want to talk to you about the most insidious product ever made by man. It’s called a Fiber One Bar. It’s a product that comes in several flavors, all of which are totally delicious, and it’s actually healthy too. OR AT LEAST THAT’S WHAT THEY TELL YOU. It turns out that “healthy” can be relative. Which is why I'm now going to tell you a little story, after which you can let me know if you think this sounds "healthy" or not:
Some time back—I needed distance from this story before I could tell it—I found some delicious candy bars in a box my dear wife handed me to take to work during one of my destined-to-fail dietary phases. I only glanced briefly at the product packaging, the picture really, and saw that it was some sort of honey-glazed oaty thing with drizzles of caramel on top. Now, I happen to be the world’s singularly biggest caramel fan. So, since I would probably eat dog shit if it had enough caramel on it, it should come as no shock to you that I was more than happy to indulge in a couple of oaty honey caramel candy bar things. So I did. I ate two of them. They were fantastic. Props to General Mills for making something so delicious.
However, they will burn in hell for what they did to my body.
First off, how about a warning on that crap? How about a big red sign that says, “DUDE, DON’T EAT TWO OF THESE THINGS OR YOU WILL FUCKING EXPLODE!!!!” And I really think they need all four of those exclamation points and the profanity. I’m serious. That is a natural disaster waiting to happen. You know how scientists say that the caldera bubbling up under the Midwest of the U.S. is going to blow up and kill millions of people, maybe even billions? Well so will eating two Fiber One Bars, especially if your normal fiber intake is like – 400% of the recommended daily amount and has been for, say, ever.
So here’s what happened. Me, caramel loving dumbass that I am, ate my two Fiber One bars happily and then, a short while later, headed off to a class. (For those of you who don’t know me, I take graduate classes at night.) So, off I went, ready to dazzle my peers with my insights and philosophical whatever gleaned from whatever it was we had read that week. Yeah. Off I went.
Turns out there was a test that evening. A long one, one of those blue book tests that’s all essay answers. You know, the kind where everyone in the entire room is absolutely silent, heads down, writing away in unison, the only sound the muffled scrape of graphite on paper lightly amplified by a wooden desk. You can hear every sniffle anyone makes. Every gasp or irritated guffaw upon discovery of a mistake or a question for which some student has no clue. And you can damn sure hear every last goddamn rumble of my fat ass passing 6,000 PSI of methane through the twists and turns of my gastrointestinal tract. I didn’t know what the hell that was, but those bubbles were rocketing through my tubes faster than all that shit blowing out of BP’s ruptured oil well in the Gulf ever did. The big difference was, I had to keep the cap on, if you know what I mean. I couldn’t let anything get out. Apparently I had more respect for the environmental concerns of my peers than BP does for the Louisiana coastline, if you get what I’m saying. Not to mention my dignity. So no, uh, nothing could escape. And, since I was in the middle of a test and couldn’t leave or it would look like I was going out to check my notes or something, and since my rotundity gives my abdomen the acoustical qualities of a cello, everyone in that damn class heard everything. RUMBLE RUMBLE RUMBLE, went the bubbles, rattling around the corners of my gut tracts like bobsledders on the brink of losing it at every turn. RUMBLE RUMBLE RUMBLE they went again after hitting the clenched, shall we say, back door valve, and then running back up the track. That gas pack was like a horde of evil fat kids shooting sleds down a hill at breakneck speeds, only to run back up and go again. Over and over in a macabre gastrointestinal nightmare. It was awful. And every f-ing face in that room was looking right at me.
How could I hide it? How do you hide the sound of a thousand elephants tap-dancing on a giant wooden stage? It’s not like I could look around at the people next to me and give them one of those wide-eyed “Dude, what the hell did you have for lunch?” expressions as if it was them making all that noise. You know, one of those moves that would throw the rest of the room off my trail. I couldn’t. Trust me, I tried, and nobody was buying it.
So I looked back at my blue book and tried to fathom what I would say to the question, tried to just suck it up and finish my test. I was an ace student, never missed anything, discipline my strength. 4.0 GPA. The master. Focus.
I had nothing. Couldn’t think of a thing. I felt like this was my first day in the class and I’d never read any of the books. All I could think of was the sensation of the methane kids jamming up at the top of the hill, getting ready to rocket through my pipes again, screaming all the way, drawing attention to my bloated shame. I think I drew pictures on the pages for a while. Pictures of hot air balloons and cannons going off. I wanted to bury my head in my desk, just slam my face right through the top. It would have felt good.
The teacher finally looked up at me, she being only a few feet away, and said, “Are you okay?”
Well, that brought some snickers from across the room. Two douchebags in slacker cloth and piercings just couldn’t hold it in. So they snickered. And not the candy bar kind. The laughter kind. The kind that turns two laughing douchebags into four. And then eight, and so on.
Ho ho, hah hah, Shadesbreath has gas and is probably going to die.
I got an A-minus on that test. The only A-minus I’d ever gotten. An F-ing A-minus. Did you know that if you drop the “mi” from A-minus you just have A-nus. There’s a shocking coincidence don’t you think?
So anyway, I guess my point is, never, ever, no matter how healthy you think you want to be, or no matter how much you love caramel, NEVER eat two Fiber One Bars unless you want to die… of shame.
If I were a caldera, I would have blown myself up just to take out those two douchebags.
Needless to say, I did not die. I wanted to, but I did not. I did wish, as I slipped into bed that night, for some sort of restitution from my wife, the one who tried to kill me with those oaty bars. I’m not proud of it, but I confess to having nodded off to sleep with visions of the gastronomic blast that would send her flying across the room to crash into the doors of the cabinets opposite her side of the bed, flung there violently by the mighty release of the pressure she had caused. I could imagine her sort of slumpy, lying in the heap of wrecked wood and shattered glass, shaking the splinters from her hair and blinking a sleepy, “What the F---?” at me. To which I could mumble, “I feel much healthier. Thanks for thinking of me today," between snores. That would teach her.
However, if you do happen to be in the market for a fiber bar, I can tell you with absolute and total authority that Fiber One Bars work famously. Have one.
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