To aid your daily digestive transit: now with added leafs and road grit for roughage.
You'd buy any old rubbish if a svelte, young, inanely grinning woman
with impossibly good dental work tells you it'll stop you looking,
"bloated" wouldn't you?
Sod that: save the money you'd spend on buying endless, pointless bottles of sour-milk, profligately packaged in earth's precious and dwindling fossil-fuel resources, buy a gun with the money instead, find that smug cow off the advert on the telly and pop a cap in her ass. Give her a week going off in the flooded quarry you dumped her sorry carcass in, and then we'll soon see who's feckin' "bloated" won't we? Ha!
Postsript from some much later month:
Sorry, that's a bit mean of me. I think I must have been in a bit of a bad mood. Ignore all that. Drink as much probiotic yoghurt as you like. It's really none of my business.