The Sugar-Free Saga

Originally Written on Sunday, June 21, 2009 at 3:13 AM

There are a select few who know my secret addiction. It's difficult to tell you because it's actually really appalling, but here it goes. Whenever I see boxes of sugar free Mentos, I cannot help but widen my eyes, babble incoherently, and become overly consumeristic by contributing to the Italian and Dutch economies.

It all started in my junior year in the best study hall of my life: third period in Mr. Ruch's room with Steve McCarthy and Jason Cox. At that time, I had noticed that Steve was carrying around Mentos he got from his place of employment. I thought that was a neato idea, so I went to MY place of employment and bought two boxes of sugar free Mentos. The next day, in study hall, I ate one mint and eventually became so addicted to them that I chugged the whole box. Now, from what I remember about that day, I set the empty box down on my desk after chugging the Mentos and began watching South Park on my iPod. From one seat back, Jason Cox pointed out a small notice on the southwest corner of the cyan receptacle: EXCESSIVE CONSUMPTION MAY PRODUCE LAXATIVE EFFECTS. We had a laugh with various tomfooleristic comments such as, "You're in deep shit!" and continued on with the day. Two periods later, I was in gym class. I was standing in the gym waiting for class to begin when I felt a slight rumbling, the kind of rumbling that would wake up light sleepers of San Francisco near Chinatown. The kind of rumbling that Old Man Richter wouldn't really give notice to. You get the point. So, while nobody was paying attention, I removed the noxious gas from my system as inconspicuously as possible. To be brief, I wound up with a sizable wad of Betty Crocker Triple Fudge Brownie Mix in my boxer shorts. Fortunately, I was socially invisible in this class which made my getaway a breeze. After telling my teacher I had an emergency in my pants, I proceeded to the locker room for a fifteen minute session of consequence. I felt like a triple Dutch chocolate soft-serve ice cream machine. About two weeks after that, my place of employment and pretty much every store I go to stopped selling sugar free Mentos.

Cut to about a week later when I was whisked away to Florida for a surprise graduation celebration vacation sensation. My family and I went to a place called the Publix Food Market for supplies and snacks. And lo and behold, I found sugar free Mentos at the candy sector of lane 5 and purchased a box for old times' sake. On our way to the resort, I made the mistake of informing my parents and brother that my candies were actually over-the-counter laxatives. They told me to eat them sparingly; but naturally, I chugged the whole damn box. Immediately, I began ripping the nastiest, stealthiest farts imaginable. And I didn't know this, but sugar free Mentos control your flatulence by making them as smelly as smelly goes. It's like giving your gastrointestinal reflex valve a power boost plus unlimited chemical grenades in a video game I probably don't play. After gassing the shuttle van from the airport, I perturbed my family by gassing our hotel room so violently that I was eventually quarantined to the balcony. When it was time for dinner at around 8:20 PM, we were waiting outside for our name to be called when I felt one more sick fart brewing in my colon. I let it go, but didn't know when to stop because three seconds later, I filled my shorts. After notifying my family of my future whereabouts, I waddled to the bathroom and became a soft-serve chocolate ice cream machine again for about ten minutes.

A few weeks later, it was time for my first vacation of the summer with friends. I went on a three-day trip with my good pals Phil and Stefan (along with Phil's mom) to Long Beach Island, Six Flags Great Adventure in Jackson, New Jersey, and Camelbeach Waterpark in Tannersville, Pennsylvania. We immediately high-tailed it over to LBI and spent a decent chunk of the day swimming, digging holes in the sand, and burying the author of this writing. It was a prodigious time, but we eventually got tired and headed over to a town in Jersey called Mount Laurel, which was completely ridden with hotels, restaurants, and miniature golf courses. Twas a veritable tourist's paradise! Once checked into our hotel, we swam in the pool, captured many a photograph of friends showboating in midair above the aquatic hole, and enjoyed each other's company. Eventually, my friends and I were starting to get hungry. To satisfy our increasingly ravenous hunger, we used Phil's GPS to find a grocery store a few miles from our hotel. Once there, we selected the usual teenage foodstuffs. Ice cream, Sun Chips, popcorn, and soda. But nothing could have prepared me for what was waiting for me next to the register nearest to the front door: Sugar-Free Mentos.

Ohhhhhhhhh boy.

I couldn't resist. I immediately purchased 6 boxes to go with the many other goodies and went back to the hotel. Upon arrival, I chugged an entire box at the urging of Phil (who just loves it when I go through extreme digestive pain). From there, it was quite normal at first. We ate popcorn and ice cream whilst watching Get Smart on the flat screen, which was a good time. Then, we decided to gather everyone together and play Apples to Apples. This game went on for about an hour and all throughout gameplay, I began to feel my stomach warbling. And Phil knew exactly what was going on. So, at around minute 59 in the hour of gameplay, Phil started to coax out my impending painful shit with a barrage of fake flatulence. It was exactly like telling someone a tale of waterfalls and hurricanes when they have to hold in a monster piss. Eventually, I couldn't take it. I rushed into the nearest loo and contaminated the poor hotel toilet for a solid 20-30 minutes. Surprisingly, this dump was nowhere near the magnitude of prior results. I figured it was only the first wave and the worst was yet to come. Just once, I wish I could be wrong. But, like the luckiest weatherman in the world, my prognostications just kept finding their way into reality.

After the initial explosion, I started to feel better. Still gassy, but not in any form of debilitating stomach pain. So, like a normal Joe, I brushed my teeth, gargled Listerine, and hopped into bed. Stefan won the rock-paper-scissors tournament, so he got to have the other bed to himself while I shared bed deux with Phil. Of course, my gassiness made itself known throughout the night. Fart after fart after fart kept Phil and I laughing and awake. My incessant pooting must have been like laughing gas for me and my best friend, but it acted as a forceful sleeping gas for Stefan because he was fast asleep. Fortunately, I seemed to be all out of farting juice, which enabled us to get near a state of tiredness. I felt one more fart rising in my sphincter, so I figured this was the last hurrah before I could get some must needed rest for the long day tomorrow. So I let it out for one last show. Unfortunately, my intestines seemed to have taken the expression "Go out with a bang" very seriously.

It started out as a normal, funny flappy noise. Like the noise a fourth grader makes with the palm of his hand upon learning the wonders of flatulence and all its audible pleasures. It continued for another second or two before it went down into baritone territory, which is when the unspeakable occurred: soilage. I filled up my ratty Fruit of the Looms with about two fluid ounces of noxious, brown goo. My realization was quick. "OH NO!" I exclaimed. Phil didn't seem to notice what was going on right away, which gave me the opportunity to empty the rest of my second wave into a more proper receptacle.

I felt much better having released the remaining feces, but what was I going to do with this rancid, ruined pair of boxers? I knew couldn't throw it away in our own garbage can for fear of spreading such a radioactive odor, so I decided to do something semi-drastic. I slipped on a pair of gym shorts (which acted as my underwear for the rest of the night), snuck out of the hotel room, sprinted about a quarter of a mile to the nearest public wastebasket (which was outside the lobby and near a window with a clear view of the front desk), and disposed of the evidence. A Hispanic looking man was staring at me through the window with the most peculiar expression of perplexity, suspicion, and curiosity, which scared the shit out of me (not literally, thank God) and acted as a starting gun for my mad dash back to the room.

And the rest is history. From that point onward, this occurrence was referred to as the "'Oh No!' Moment" and remains a staple in the ever-growing catalog of inside jokes between my good friends and I. From that point onward, I have never shat inside my pants as vigorously as I did that fateful evening. Because nothing tops the "'Oh No!' Moment."