Customer Reviews Which are TOTALLY NOT Stolen from a SOG Video

Just want to reinstate that these are not mine, and I decided to put them here so people can find them easily.

This is your Captain speaking: Do not eat the red Gummy Bear. You'll be sorry.

From this link here: http://www.amazon.com/review/R9LN2785JGSL3

Before a company goes public, the highest level executives embark on a multi-city tour with their investment bankers to drum up support for the upcoming IPO. This trip is called a roadshow and since the group will typically visit dozens of cities on a tight schedule, a private jet is the preferred means of transportation. During a roadshow, it's not unusual to visit two or three cities in a single day so work starts at the crack of dawn. That doesn't mean the group goes to bed early. Every night, the bankers treat their clients to a wild nights, complete with complimentary Gummy Bears and coffee. No matter how hard the group parties the night before, the private jet will lift them off to their next destination very early the next morning.

Just for a minute, pretend you're an investment banker traveling with some very important clients on one of these roadshows. Now imagine that you spent the previous night "dropping Yogi" way beyond your limit only to be startled out of bed by a piercing 6:30 am wake up call. In an attempt to get your head and body feeling remotely human again, you scarf down some more warm Gummy Bears and at least two glasses of coffee at the hotel's breakfast buffet before jumping on the shuttle to the private airport. Within a few minutes of arriving at the airport, your entire group is seated and the plane begins to taxi down the runway. At this point you might feel a bit of relief as the morning's blur subsides. All you have to do is sit back and relax for the one hour flight to the next city.

There's just one problem. In your rush to get out of the hotel, down to breakfast and onto the plane you forgot to do one very crucial thing. Go to the bathroom. And I'm not talking about peeing. You have a stomach full of last nights multi-colored death bears and coffee churning around your lower intestine at 30,000 feet. But that's not the worst part. True horror sets in when you realize you're not on a spacious 20 person G5 with couches, beds, lay-z boys and a fully tucked away private bathroom. No, on this day you are traveling on a six-person puddle jumper sitting shoulder to shoulder with your clients and co-workers. But wait, somehow the story gets even worse...

Just over halfway through the flight, all the coffee in my stomach feels like it's percolating its way down into my lower intestine. I hunker down and try and focus on other things. What feels like an hour, but probably isn't more than twenty minutes, passes. We then enter what turns out to be pretty violent turbulence. With each bounce, I have to fight my body, trying not to poop my pants. "Thirty minutes to landing, maybe forty five" I try and tell myself, each jostle a gamble I can't afford to lose. I signal to [the flight attendant] and she heads toward me.

"Excuse me, where is the bathroom, because I don't see a door?" I ask while still devoting considerable energy to fighting off what starts to feel like someone shook a seltzer bottle and shoved it up my butt. She looks at me, bemused, and says, "Well, we don't really have one per se." She continues, "Technically, we have one, but it's really just for emergencies. Don't worry, we're landing shortly anyway."

"I'm pretty sure this qualifies as an emergency," I manage to mutter through my grimace. I can see the fear in her face as she points nervously to the back seat. The turbulence outside is matched only by the cyclone that is ravaging my bowels. She points to the back of the plane and says, "There. The toilet is there." For a brief instant, relief passes over my face. She continues, "If you pull away the leather cushion from that seat, it's under there. There's a small privacy screen that pulls up around it, but that's it." At this point, I was committed. She had just lit the dynamite and the mine shaft was set to blow.

I turn to look where she is pointing and I get the urge to cry. I do cry, but my face is so tightly clenched it makes no difference. The "toilet" seat is occupied by the CFO, i.e. our freaking client. Our freaking female freaking client!

Up to this point, nobody has observed my struggle or my exchange with the flight attendant. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." That's all I can say as I limp toward her like Quasimodo impersonating a penguin, and begin my explanation. Of course, as soon as my competitors see me talking to the CFO, they all perk up to find out what the hell I'm doing.

Given my jovial nature and fun-loving attitude thus far on the roadshow, almost everybody thinks I'm joking. She, however, knows right away that I am anything but and jumps up, moving quickly to where I had been sitting. I now had to remove the seat top – no easy task when you can barely stand upright, are getting tossed around like a hoodrat at a block party, and are fighting against a gastrointestinal Mt. Vesuvius.

I manage to peel back the leather seat top to find a rather luxurious looking commode, with a nice cherry or walnut frame. It had obviously never been used, ever. Why this moment of clarity came to me, I do not know. Perhaps it was the realization that I was going to take this toilet's virginity with a fury and savagery that was an abomination to its delicate craftsmanship and quality. I imagined some poor Italian carpenter weeping over the violently soiled remains of his once beautiful creation. The lament lasted only a second as I was quickly back to concentrating on the tiny muscle that stood between me and molten hot lava.

I reach down and pull up the privacy screens, with only seconds to spare before I erupt. It's an alka-seltzer bomb, nothing but air and liquid spraying out in all directions – a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. The pressure is now reversed. I feel like I'm going to have a stroke, I push so hard to end the relief, the tormented sublime relief.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." My apologies do nothing to drown out the heinous noises that seem to carry on and reverberate throughout the small cabin indefinitely. If that's not bad enough, I have one more major problem. The privacy screen stops right around shoulder level. I am sitting there, a disembodied head, in the back of the plane, on a bucking bronco for a toilet, all while looking my colleagues, competitors, and clients directly in the eyes. "Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!" briefly comes to mind.

I literally could reach out with my left hand and rest it on the shoulder of the person adjacent to me. It was virtually impossible for him, or any of the others, and by others I mean high profile business partners and clients, to avert their eyes. They squirm and try not to look, inclined to do their best to carry on and pretend as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, that they weren't sharing a stall with some guy dropping his intestines out. Releasing smelly, sweaty, shame at 100 feet per second.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry" is all the ashamed disembodied head can say...over and over again. Not that it mattered.

A warning from across the pond

From this link here: http://www.amazon.com/gp/review/R2QP56S5P2DEGA After having been told my danglies looked like an elderly rastafarian I decided to take the plunge and buy some of this as previous shaving attempts had only been mildly succesful and I nearly put my back out trying to reach the more difficult bits. Being a bit of a romantic I thought I would do the deed on the missus's birthday as a bit of a treat. I ordered it well in advance and working in the North sea I considerd myself a bit above some of the characters writing the previous reviews and wrote them off as soft office types...oh my fellow sufferers how wrong I was. I waited until the other half was tucked up in bed and after giving some vague hints about a special surprise I went down to the bathroom. Initially all went well and I applied the gel and stood waiting for something to happen.

I didn't have long to wait. At first there was a gentle warmth which in a matter of seconds was replaced by an intense burning and a feeling I can only describe as like being given a barbed wire wedgie by two people intent on hitting the ceiling with my head. Religion hadn't featured much in my life until that night but I suddenly became willing to convert to any religion to stop the violent burning around the turd tunnel and what seemed like the destruction of the meat and two veg. Struggling to not bite through my bottom lip I tried to wash the gel of in the sink and only succeeded in blocking the plughole with a mat of hair. Through the haze of tears I struggled out of the bathroom across the hall into the kitchen by this time walking was not really possible and I crawled the final yard to the fridge in the hope of some form of cold relief. I yanked the freezer drawer out and found a tub of ice cream, tore the lid of and positioned it under me.

The relief was fantastic but only temporary as it melted fairly quickly and the fiery stabbing soon returned .Due to the shape of the ice cream tub I hadn't managed to give the starfish any treatment and I groped around in the drawer for something else as I was sure my vision was going to fail fairly soon.I grabbed a bag of what I later found out was frozen sprouts and tore it open trying to be quiet as I did so.I took a handful of them and tried in vain to clench some between the cheeks of my arse. This was not doing the trick as some of the gel had found it's way up the chutney channel and it felt like the space shuttle was running it's engines behind me. This was probably and hopefully the only time in my life I was going to wish there was a gay snowman in the kitchen which should give you some idea of the depths I was willing to sink to in order to ease the pain.

The only solution my pain crazed mind could come up with was to gently ease one of the sprouts where no veg had gone before. unfortunately, alerted by the strange grunts coming from the kitchen the other half chose that moment to come and investigate and was greeted by the sight of me, arse in the air, strawberry ice cream dripping from my bell end pushing a sprout up my arse while muttering..." Ooooh that feels good ". Understandably this was a shock to her and she let out a scream and as I hadn't heard her come in it caused an involutary spasm of shock in myself which resulted in the sprout being ejected at quite some speed in her direction. I can understand that having a sprout farted against your leg at 11 at night in the kitchen probably wasn't the special surprise she was expecting and having to explain to the kids the next day what the strange hollow in the ice cream was didn't improve my status...So to sum it up Veet removes hair, dignity and self respect...:)

This was definitely not to scale

From this link here: http://www.amazon.com/gp/review/R1UY4UYRAUGTA1

The size of said product was much much too small. When I unpacked with care as if it was a Christmas present, I was dismayed at the blatant size discrepancy between it and my real balls. This product was very very small compared to my own super huge balls. This pair of fake ballswere at least 20x smaller than my own. Because of this I was unable to use it as an aid to make sure I don't have terminal ball cancer.

Some may say that I have ball cancer and the growth is so large it makes each ball look like a watermelon, but I have been checked by the beautiful nurse in my local strip club and she said that they look perfectly fine and in fact were the greatest set she has ever had the privilege of examining. Even though the product was much too small I did find an exciting use for it. I used it as a trick to get out of my boring college classes. 

When I would get bored in a class I would yell and then hold up the fake scrotum with balls and tell the teacher that my balls had in fact fallen off and that it happened quite often, but that I needed to go home to sew them back on while they are still viable. 

And for all you people saying that the teacher would notice the minuscule size of the balls and call me out, I planned ahead and made up a back story that I was ahopeless steroid addict at an earlier point in my life and that my balls had shriveled up like raisins. 

Overall this was a great product even though it was not used for its intended purpose.

Hell In A Can

From this link here: http://www.amazon.com/gp/review/RQRPVDY1T04YY

My name is Charles. I'm a professor these days. I used to be a model, but this product ruined my career. After using some new hair moisturizer, I began experiencing breakage, so a friend recommended that I spread some of this on to rectify the issue. Good news: the breakage is gone.! Bad news: so is pretty much everything else.

I began balding instantly. Right in the mirror. I haven't cried like that since my mom passed away (R.I.P. Sharon Xavier). 

On the bright side, I can now read people's minds & move things with my brain. Which comes in handy b/c I've lost use of both my legs as well, due to this little can of paradise. 

People ask me all the time "How did you end up in a wheelchair.?" I like to tell them "I was shot in the back" & I can change up the scenarios here & there, depending on who asks me. That was back when I could still speak. 

Every now & then, I get a huge kick out of sending small amounts to random houses with my name address on the packaging. You won't believe all the freaks that show up at my institute. They're the only company I have now that I'm a mute & a vegetable. Sad face.

Victory!

From this link here: http://www.amazon.com/gp/review/R2BTVXUTPR9LFK

I purchased this after I was confronted by some punks demanding that I hand over my money. I'm a relatively fit guy, but I was no match for them. That is when I realized that I need to protect myself. The day after I bought this product I went to the very same Wal-Mart parking lot when I was first mugged. I approached the group of hooligans standing outside the entrance, concealing my secret weapon.

I coolly asked "Remember me?".

One of them looked up and said, "Have you come back to buy some Samoas or Thin Mints? My Girl Scout Troop needs to raise more money!"

I replied with "you're not taking my money this time". "But sir, they're delicious!", she said.

I whipped out my Knuckle Blaster Stun Gun hand and shouted "WRONG MOVE B****!" The five girl scouts ran away screaming.

As I pounded my chest in victory, I accidentally activated the stun gun and applied 950,000 Volts to my right nipple. I woke up 4 hours later to the sound of heavy footsteps. Those Girl Scouts had brought their fathers. But I was ready. I lunged at the largest one with a cry of "RAGGLE FRAGGLE!!!" and hit him in the stomach. He hit the ground harder than a fat kid on a jungle gym.

As the others began to circle around me, I changed techniques. Holding both of my hands in tight fists, I rased my arms to my sides and initiated the helicopter spin. They all backed off, fearing my impressive RPM. After a while I started getting dizzy, and one of the fathers decided to try to tackle me. As he ran to me stood there, dizzy and queasy; time was going real slow. Then I remembered. I had eaten lunch at Chipotle and the burrito was fighting its way back up my stomach.

I tuned toward my enemy and launched a stream of projectile vomit at him, knocking him to the ground. Then I started singing "Let the bodies hit the floor, let the bodies hit the floor, let the bodies hit the.... FLOOOOORRR!!!!"

I grabbed my Knuckle Blasher Stun Gun and shoved it into my mouth, running headfirst at my foes, electrocuting them with my teeth. Eventually they were all unconscious, and I walked home victorious.

Great idea, incomplete implementation.

From this link here: http://www.amazon.com/gp/review/R3M8LI31IYOC0H

When I bought this toy for my kid, I had hoped it would be more realistic. Like many of my peers have already pointed out, this set is missing a long line of people, the interrogation room, and rubber pat-down gloves. But it's biggest fault is the lack of "Arabs."

How am I supposed to teach my kid the many virtues of racial profiling if this toy has no middle eastern looking figures? The cost of the watch batteries required to run an RFID detector in the model metal detector would be peanuts compared to the value of learning the benefits of the randomly selected pat-down. Naturally every Arab, Egyptian, Israeli, Syrian, and Palestinian figure would come with their own dynamite jacket and back-up toothpaste bottle filled with C-4 rigged to blow with a twist of the bottle cap.

We need to teach our kids to fear everyone who looks like a terrorist; how am I supposed to do that when the only airline passenger figures are vaguely white?

So, great idea--with the potential for hours of fun spent waiting in line--but the set is just not complete enough. Anyone know if they're coming out with an expansion set?

EVIDENCE MOTHERFUCKERS.

Comments • 0

Loading comments...