A long running national commerical poses a very intriguing question to me, on a daily basis. What would you do for a Klondike bar? Well, what would I do for one of these ice cream bars? A lot actually. As far as I'm concerned, no law or custom can bar me from the frozen ice-milk artificial chocolate coated nirvana I seek. I'd sell my soul and yours too in a second just to have another greedy bite of this mana. I'd offer my body to edgy drifters for whatever rough trade they'd inflict for just one more Klondikian pulmonary orgasam. I'd sell my family into slavery, if only I could feel the afterburn of jagged Klondike chocolate coating shards tearing through my esophagus. I'd kill, maim, pillage ... I'd rob a supermarket at gunpoint for a case of these accursed bars. Why must my life be this way? Why this obsession with something that doesn't taste very good? If I were a logical man, I'd rather suck on a scoop of the most vile barnyard filth than eat another one of these fucking frozen confections. But that's how addictions go. Much like cigarettes, you don't care, you don't care about the wretched taste, or the stench, or the awful things that they do to your body, you just want another fix man, you want that 5 minutes of inner peace, when the longings momentarily abate, but they'll be back, no matter what you do, the demons will always return, like herpes or Mr. Blackwell at Oscar time. So much like a crack addict, or the junkie jonesing for the methadone treatments, I'll whore myself for another klondike Bar. Evil, vile, dispicable Klondike Bar. that's what I'd do for a Klondike Bar.<P>-A sound file I have. Yes. Really.