Yes, this must be shared. The enormous potential of sugar-free gummi bears to be used a weapon of mass toilet destruction holds true. Here, on the Amazon.com review of Haribo’s version of these monsters, I found this “top rated review.” Though I did not write this, I feel as if it would be a crime against humanity to not share the author’s incredible story:

The Brown Wedding

It’s been a rough couple of years for my family. There have been a few land disputes, some nasty feuds, several imprisonments and a beheading. But perhaps our most celebrated misfortune was what has come to be known as The Brown Wedding.

I don’t want to bore you with all the details, but essentially my cousin Robb was betrothed to the daughter of a family rival. Then, against all our counsel, he eloped with another woman. Classic Robb.

Anyway, you can imagine our surprise when we found ourselves invited to the wedding of the jilted bride. Perhaps it should have been a red flag. But we Starks love a free meal, so off we went.

They threw it in their castle. After a tense exchange between Robb and the father of the bride, the ceremony was performed, and we all sat down for the feast. It was bench seating. The food was simple fare–beans, broccoli, and bran muffins. Again, a warning sign, but we were caught up in the merriment and the wine.

Dessert arrived. The waiters uncovered tureens filled with colorful piles of gummy bears–a welcomed note of levity. The fifes played a jig, and we all dug in. They were delightful–fruity and delicious.

Twenty minutes later, the father of the bride proposed a toast. “To the Starks,” he said. “May all your misfortunes be behind you.”

Around this time, I began to feel uncomfortable rumblings down below, and looked about for a restroom. As my eyes scanned the hall, I noticed that the bride’s family weren’t eating the gummy bears. A waiter was refilling the tureen next to me. I snuck a glance at the bag–Haribo Sugar Free Gummy Bears. My blood ran cold.

I rose to shout a warning to my family, but the alarm came from my backside–a three-note trumpet blast that ended badly. I felt a fullness in the back of my pants. A thousand shocked eyes turned to me. And then the room erupted in a cacophony of flatulence–and worse. Far worse.

How can I describe it? The sights, the sounds, the smells. And the pain–like a grappling hook dragged backward through my bowels.

I watched in horror as, one by one, my family doubled over, succumbing to the ceaseless waves of stabbing pain. Some were clutching their bellies, others lay writhing on the floor, or stumbling in circles, emitting auburn plumes of effluvium. The walls were soon spattered with our suffering.

The father of the bride watched it all with intent eyes, delighted by the macabre spectacle.

I saw Robb–brave Robb–fall victim to the gastronomic assault. Not even his pregnant wife was spared. Monstrous.

Soon only our matriarch was left standing, teetering as she made a final plea for mercy. But too late. She fell to her knees and erupted, and what came out of her haunts me to this day.

So hear me, and hear me well. I swear vengeance on them, their house and their kin. I will hunt them to the last of their line, from Winterfell to Casterly Rock. And if I do not live to see their castle burn to the ground, I will at least light the match. For, by the gods, someone needs to light a match in that place.

–James O. Thach.