It's not like I hadn't been warned.
A few years back, while visiting my favorite aunt, I opened her freezer for some ice cubes and happened to notice a pint of ice cream with the proclamation "Sweetened With Splenda" on the carton. That was just about the time the alternative sweetener had
Add to coffee. Stir. Run to bathroom.
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made its initial splash in the consumer marketplace.
I asked her how the stuff tasted compared to regular ice cream, neither of which I usually buy. I remember her reply like it was yesterday: "Oh, that's been in there for months. I should throw it out. I tried it, and the stuff gave me the worst case ever of the toots!"
The other day, perhaps because I hadn't eaten any ice cream of any kind in quite a while, I decided to pick up a pint and satisfy a craving. Trouble was, I did so hurriedly, and didn't notice the Splenda emblem displayed on the carton. Only when I got it home and started spooning out a couple of scoops for dessert did that information come to light.
I had fixed for my evening meal some extra firm tofu, sautéed with onions, tomatoes, garlic and bell pepper -- a highly nutritious, delicious, protein- and fiber-rich menu. In case you're wondering about taste, when extra-firm tofu is cubed and well-seasoned, it takes on the chewy and satisfying consistency of fried egg-whites; I enjoy it very much when combined with the garlicky veggies. It's an excellent alternative to high-fat protein sources.
No more than an hour after consuming everything, however, my Splenda(id) Symphony began in earnest, and my aunt's testimony came back to haunt me. "Surely she was exaggerating," I kept telling myself, over and over.
But the rectal instrument I had begun playing involuntarily indicated otherwise. These Splenda(id) tones did range up and down the scale, but they were relentless. Sometimes I was playing the trombone -- an instrument I actually did master in high school band. Then there were the herald trumpet horrors I announced to the room at large. At other times, the only way to describe my anal onslaught is to say that Tubby the Tuba had taken up permanent, rumbling residence in my ass. And unlike the pristine cacophony of a typical brass section, these digestive complaints had all the bouquet of a dead skunk in the middle of the road. These honks, toots, squawks, bleats and thunderclaps continued like a nor'easter through my nether regions for at least two more hours.
I went to bed dutch-ovening myself by default and vowing to throw out that unholy frozen treat the very next morning. And, frankly, I wondered if there would be a solid price to pay when next the sun came up where the sun don't shine.
But believe it or not, there was an upside to all of this. That alternative protein, tofu, came to my system's rescue, and I awoke to a perfectly platonic bathroom visit. The bean curd turd I released upon the throne was the easiest of sliders -- not too firm, not too soft, almost no odor, about eight-and-a-half inches of efficiently-processed bodily waste. Although it required a tad bit of a wipe, it was nothing that a few passes couldn't and didn't handle.
It made sense. I had released all the evil Splenda residue into the environment the night before, no doubt seriously contributing to the greenhouse effect and giving all the cows on the face of the planet a run for their money; but all that ghastly gas had fortunately had no effect on the movement of solid food through my body. On this one occasion at least, I had achieved a greatly-to-be-desired karmic balance of sorts.
But I have definitively learned my lesson regarding Splenda. On the dark side, may I suggest that if you ever want to chase someone from your life with rubber skidmarks as CSI evidence, indulge in a bowl or two of Splenda-enhanced-whatever before engaging them. Believe me, they won't stick around for the twisted shitmusic you'll be composing.
