500+ reviews at Amazon.com and growing…
Not good for roof leaks, August 4, 2006
I had a problem where my roof was leaking. I poured some Tuscan Whole Milk over it to seal it up and it just flowed right into the hole and didn’t do anything. I now have milk constantly dripping down from the ceiling and it has stained the drywall as well. The milk trapped in the ceiling is now rancid and smells horrible. It has also induced a pest infestation problem. The pest control company won’t deal with it because of the odor is unbearable in the house. My wife and children are now leaving me as well. This product has ruined my life. Do not buy this product, I suggest some roof caulking or tar instead.
Bizarre yet true, August 4, 2006
I drank the entire 128 fl oz in one gulp, and for the next 43 minutes and twelve seconds I could divide by zero. The taste is okay, but what makes it worth the shipping is the ability it confers: the ability to defy the laws of mathmatics with impunity.
Container problem, August 4, 2006
I ordered a gross of these containers last week and they have just arrived today. They were each filled to the top with the strangest white substance, but there appears to be some sort of tamper-proof seal on each container’s top to prevent the liquid’s leakage. Of course, I know not exactly if these tops are, in literal fact, “tamper-proof” - instead of touching the accursed things, I have taken to hiding behind my windows and fitfully peering at them through the blinds - but I would imagine that no one would dare imprison such filth without a modicum of security in their foul investment, and as this is such good reasoning on a topic so difficult as to probably inspire other, lesser guesses, we may comfortably take my thoroughly well-reasoned imaginings as long-established fact, and I would furthermore postulate that my well-reasoned imaginings are so thoroughly factual as to now appear in all manner of books to be read by the intelligent and the yearning-to-be.
That said, the gross of containers still sits on my lawn, still filled, not yet moving - or doing anything else. God only knows what that “else” may be, or when it shall come. The flatmate above my basement mutters strange talk of “cheese” and “rotting” in relation to these containers. I am saddened; quickly, endless terror seizes upon me and threatens to swallow me whole. Clearly, the liquid creates madness, and as he is ceased upon by this liquid madness, I must remain here, in my basement apartment, surrounded on all sides by my totems, by my protective symbols, and by what must be now hundreds of little Post-Its reminding me not to look out the window at the angel-white madness-jugs.
But curses. Here I am looking at them.
As for you, dear reader, I ask that you not only never order these containers, but that you also send me $5, for I have no job and no one wishes to publish my tome.
It is a spy novel about magic and how I am magical myself, and it is very good.