My shutterbug honey heard astounding claims for Meta Therapy from them... tales of giant, curled, floating logs and effortless splashdowns, even from the toned butts of the one hundred pound models! And so, from that day on, he's been a true believer in the Power of Meta. Additional claims ascribed to Meta include immaculate defecations: no-wipe poops.

Well, let's just say this: I do his laundry, and I find occasional Meta Tags in his shorts.

Like true believers will do, he attempted to recruit me into the Meta Cult. He picked his moment -- while we were on vacation in Jamaica. An overload of spicy jerk chicken had turned my ass into an episode of Spring Break -- Girls' Guts Gone Wild. After a few reruns, my poor exit was so raw that using toilet paper was like aggravated assault.

My darling proposed a solution: Meta Therapy, of course. He reasoned that, while it would not stem the tide, I might be relieved of the pain of the paper. NOT!

I generally poop hearty two or three times a day, after a meal, like a dog. Thanks to Jamaica, I was now pooping like a poisoned dog. But the Meta acted on my bowels in reverse -- I could not poop! And, to make matters worse, the resultant work stoppage incited some nasty hemorrhoids. It was days until I pooped again, no longer on Jamaican soil. Needless to say, my distended belly and telltale sore ass/hemorrhoid walk was not something to be seen on any fashion runway!

My husband is still in long-term Meta Therapy. As for me, I'll never touch the stuff again.