First and foremost, this isn’t easy for me. It’s been fifteen painful years that I’ve dealt with a nagging, embarrassing personal issue.

I’ll cut to the chase. I have graduated Bi-terminal Gastrointestinal Dianalsis (BGD). You’re probably familiar with the symptoms of BGD, though I doubt you’ve ever experienced them at this level. In its most harmless manifestation, BGD reveals itself as little more than a slight stomach irritation after eating most relatively mundane foods. I wish I were so lucky. In my case, BGD is defined by the most foul of foul; that which goes unspoken throughout the dating ritual yet filled our childhoods with glee: intense flatulence.

Unfortunately, my BGD is much more than your typical “bad gas” (slightly upset stomach and bloating). In addition to common gas issues, my BGD is accompanied by a severe need to pass the gas, resulting in an unstoppable storm of feverish flatulence. Though less common than level three BGD, graduated BGD is still considered “normal” by most physicians. Luckily, BGD isn’t painful, at least not in my case. But alas, I won’t bore you with the dirty details (so to speak).

The biggest problem with BGD is its consistent intensity and difficulty to manage. While in college I went through fifteen jobs because of it. I also went through ten relationships, once finding a forgiving young lady who managed to deal with it for a then-record 13 months. For some unknown and definitely unquestioned reason, she was able to find the humor in my stumbling stomach and our rumbling sheets. Unfortunately, the humor wore off, turning instead to disgust and revulsion. Not the first time, definitely not the last.

After driving one partner after another from my bed, I was about to give up. I’d tried unending doses of Beano in addition to 32 different diets guaranteeing a gas-free future. The fact is, nothing kept the beast at bay. It didn’t matter if I ate legume-free or if I slept on my right hand side with a pillow perched precariously between my knees. I couldn’t do anything but break wind.

Then it happened. My third senior year in college I discovered that which would mark one of the most significant chapters in my life: the charcoal man pad.

To the general buying public, it was known as the Sandman Sanipad. Designed by a Midwest team of female gynecologists, the Sandman was a true piece of beauty, combining cutting edge engineering with simple, yet artful design. The Sandman looked quite a bit like a Tampax pad, albeit an extra long pad with wide front and rear panels connected by a slim, comfy strip of cotton.

The Sandman packed a double punch for diffusing the negative effects of mans’ two most significant personal issues: the unsavory scent of flatulence, and the vile stains produced by a leaking “member.” That’s right, the Sandman provided a one-two punch for managing manhood’s dirty little secrets. The rear panel featured a full five square inches of slim charcoal filter, infused between two layers of cotton lining. The front featured a lightly quilted padding for absorbing any excess liquid, regardless of where the snake lay.

Sandman Sanipads were neatly packaged in cases of 30, perfect for a full month of protection. For intense BGD sufferers worldwide, the Sandman provided a new lease on life. I could finally go out on dates and sit through an entire movie. I no longer cleared a dance floor nor offended circus animals. The Sandman proved that where there is charcoal, there is freedom from humiliation.

As an unexpected bonus, the front pad provided a new lease on life for my Jockey briefs, which in turn meant that girlfriends wouldn’t bolt from my apartment screaming when they stumbled upon a pair of my underwear lying outside the hamper. The Sandman provided three beautiful years of personal freedom and self esteem –enough time to meet a beautiful woman, get married and purchase a home. Then it happened.

In the summer of 2002, McNairy Enterprises shuttered its doors, closing two Wisconsin Sandman factories and laying off more than 200 employees. When I received the letter in the mail I barely had enough time to grieve before I found myself speeding to Lanny’s Emporium to purchase the last of their stock -just three cases. I went home and jumped on the Web, finding the Sandman online store still open for business. The site featured a true-count ticker showing the little pads flying out the door faster than Sting tickets at a swingers’ party. BGD sufferers and hygiene lovers alike flocked to help liquidate the company’s assets. I faced the facts head-on and realized that my new-found confidence would soon slink back into the shadows, hazed by a cloud of foul odor and a trail of tears.

It’s been nearly five years since the demise of the Sandman and I have yet to find a suitable substitute. There are plenty of wannabes, from the almost-there Flat-D liners to the ridiculous UnderEase granny panties. But nothing matches the power, comfort, flexibility and front-to-back protection of the Sandman.

Luckily for me, my wife has recurring sinus troubles, so we’ve managed to cobble together a marriage that works, even in the face of adversity. But my life might never be as beautiful as those two short years of normality –when I could ride bikes, horses and motor scooters effortlessly. I could play volleyball, have lunch at nice restaurants and go on adventures through downtown malls. And I can’t forget those long walks on the beach and candlelight dinners for two…

April fools.

Roderick Armageddon was recently indicted on charges of "tampering with the elemental substance of nature." He currently writes from his cell at the Umatilla County Justice Center in Pendleton, Oregon.