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Since the dawn of time, mankind has been on a mission to find answers to questions that seem beyond the scope of our knowledge. Are we alone in the universe? Is there life after death? How many licks does it really take to get to the center of a tootsie roll pop? These mysteries eat at our collective souls like some kind of collective soul-eating parasite, either driving us to seek out new sources of knowledge or simply make something up and post it on the internet as fact. Ultimately, either way works.

Unfortunately, I wasn't born a scientist or a wackjob so I lack the necessary skills to fit into either of the aforementioned categories. However, despite 30 years of people telling me otherwise, that doesn't mean that I am useless. As a somewhat functional human being who has lived on Earth for at least 96% of his life. I had devoted ample amounts of my free, non-masturbatory time to answering questions on my own. In this new update series, I seek out the toughest questions, ask them to myself, and then come up with a bunch of answers that I assume are right because I honestly don't know any better. Let's just ignore the fact that I am coming up with multiple answers to the question, which kind of flies in the face of finding the "right" answer but why don't we just pretend that this is a "Choose Your Own Adventure" kind of question and I don't feel like choosing for you. I am simply providing the gateway for you to provide your own enlightenment in the form of a bullet list of items on a web page. Yes, cocaine is a hell of a drug.

Today's question: What Would I Do For A Klondike Bar?

Admit to being a fan of Celine Dion.

I would travel back in time and beat up a 12-year old.

Dress up in the outfit that Cher wore in her "Turn Back Time" video and sing the national anthem for a group of senior citizens.

I would allow an attractive girl to have sex with me, but only in the missionary position and with the lights out. Even I have standards.

I'd sit through an entire set by Larry the Cable Guy.

I would bury the truth in a shallow grave very far away and not tell anyone where I put it. Then, I would enjoy eating my Klondike bar while watching the justice system collapse.

I'd pay the suggested retail price at my local grocer.

I would make out with your mom.

I'd get AIDS for a Klondike bar, but only if it was the temporary kind of AIDS that disappears after a week or so.

I would buy a Klondike bar for a Klondike bar. Even if you didn't give it to me after I did the deed, I would still have a Klondike bar.

I would punch a pregnant teenager in the stomach.

Become addicted to methamphetamine.

I would bid on the first showcase showdown despite knowing that the second one is always better.

I would write a gigantic run on sentence for a Klondike bar, preferably a sentence that involved the liberal use of Benjamin Franklin quotes and a giraffe that talks, but instead of sounding normal, he sounds like he is full of helium in that Fran Drescher as The Nanny kind of way that really just grates on your nerves and makes you slowly go crazy until you've decided that you've had enough and you call animal control on the giraffe because he is being a public nuisance and they lock him up in the zoo for testing purposes because animals really shouldn't be talking.

I would carve "snitch" in my chest with broken glass and run through the exercise yard at San Quentin state prison.

Go to Africa and laugh at starving children.

I would "go all the way" with a boy.

I'd go to work, deal with retarded customers all day, come home only to deal with family problems, lose sleep each night and continue this cycle every day for a week until I got paid and made enough to afford to purchase one.

Fly to the moon and fight a blue whale. Give me two Klondikes and I'll make it a killer whale.

I would spend an afternoon watching people entering and leaving a supermarket, wait until the time is just right and then smack one on the back of the head with a hockey stick, running off with their purchases. Bitches can't prove nothing.

I would eat 100 Klondike bars for a Klondike bar.

Faithfully enter the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes once a month until I won and when Ed McMahon showed up on my porch with that huge check, I kick him in the balls and tell him that I don't want the money, just a Klondike bar.

I would do the running man dance wearing nothing but a a cowboy hat.

I would fold the very fabric of space and time, return to Nazi Germany and tell Hitler how mean of a person he is.

Battle rap the President in a winner-takes-all-the-Klondikes showdown.

I would kill a cow with a cinder block in front of some Hindu people.

Actually, you know what? I think I'd rather just have a Drumstick or a Nestle crunch bar. Those desserts don't demand answers from me or make me do stupid things just to enjoy them. Who died and made the Klondike bar boss? I mean, I'm not even all that hungry. I just wanted a light snack to tide me over until dinner time. I don't want to get too full -- I'm having pizza.

I would waste a bunch of my precious time to write unappreciated articles on the internet for a Klondike bar.

Hell, it's more than I get for an update now.

There is no link of the day on this update.