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It was time for Jade and I to revel in our newfound secret. While everyone else in the world was too afraid to eat it, we knew that we wouldn't have to wait for the inevitable marketing campaign to enjoy the fine oily flavor of Olestra. We knew about it now! We were ahead of the public opinion curve! Olé Olestra! We polished off a bag of Lay's "Max" chips for lunch and dinner, feeling chic and comopolitan. A little constipation was a small price to pay for fat-free enjoyment of a delicious grease substitute! Until that evening, when tragedy struck.  I went into the bathroom to attempt a transaction. Dropped my pants (still clean, but for the yellowing stains brought on by a week's worth of residue). I sat down with a good book (ironically, Tom Robbins' Jitterbug Perfume), and successfully issued forth a perfect grogan. But something was wrong. Everything seemed wetter, not like diahrrea, but somehow -- how can I put this delicately -- juicier. I couldn't explain what it was, until I got up to look. (Those with a weak stomach should now click over to somewhere less exciting.)  I was experiencing the horror of "anal leakage." In addition to my regular waste matter, there were thick brown drops of grease floating on the water. It looked like someone had spilled 10W-40 into the toilet. What was even more disturbing was the greasy yellowish film that was collecting on the water's surface, like high-grade canola oil.  I had to wipe 15,000 times to clean up this mess. When I was finished, I called in Jade to take a look. She was so terrified by my bunghole emissions that she refused to eat any more chips. |