If you've been a long time reader, and I can't imagine why you would want to subject yourself to that, you've probably noticed that most of the updates have a structure and flow to them.  Like a Broadway play written by a retarded four year old, there is an almost plot-like quality to most of the writings.  However, every now and again I like to stray from the norm and do what I call a grab bag update.  These are generally written freestyle with me seemingly pulling topics out of thin air and writing about them.  This style of updates is a lot like sticking your hand in a bag of vomit: you're never quite sure what you're going to get.

Sometimes these things turn out good, like if someone was just playing a prank on you and the bag was really only filled with the fake, rubber vomit.  It would be one of those Mentos moments where you realize that the joke is on you and you get that look frozen on your face while saying, "Ah, you got me!"  However, these things can also turn out to be very, very bad, like if instead of vomit the bag was filled with poisonous unicorns who have a taste for flesh.  Oh, and did I mention that in this scenario, your hand is also allergic to said unicorns?  Not only are they biting the shit out of you, now you're getting a rash because of it.  Life sucks sometimes.

Nature, in all her infinite wisdom, has been providing boundaries for men since we've been on this planet.  There are certain things that are off limits to men such as caring, understanding, and wearing the color pink.  Well, I am adding something else to that list: driving a Volkswagon.  That's right, Volkswagons.  If you're a guy and you're driving a Volkswagon, you had better be either neutered or be next line for a genital change operation.  Now, I know there are some guys out there who'll try to justify their car by using such excuses like "but it's all black" and "i got the extra chrome package."  Sorry, that's not going to cut it.  Volkswagons are chick territory and no amount of trespassing is permitted.  Now, of course, there are exceptions to every rule and this boundary has a foreign persons clause in it.  If you're a guy and you drive a VW, you had better be foreign, if only for the simple reason that foreign people don't know any better.  Who can really blame them?  I mean, take me for example.  I know about as much about Indian culture as I know about sexual relations, which is to say that a kid in the 8th grade who just successfully unhooked his first bra and copped a feel knows more than I do.  But don't think of this boundary as a limitation, since we can use this for our benefit.  I say do away with the parole system and institute a mandated VW sentence.  If you've been bad and you just got released from prison, you'd be sentenced to drive a Volkswagon for a period of no less than one year.  And it wouldn't even be a good VW, if such a thing exists.  You know, then if you see someone getting out of a VW, you know he's trouble and you should probably walk to the other side of the street, kind of like what uptight white people do whenever they spot a minority.

You know what I've been wondering about lately?  What ever happened to dandruff?  In the mid-80's, you couldn't take three steps in any direction without being bombarded by commercials for shampoos and medications that claimed to help you cure dandruff.  Two corporate juggernauts, Head & Shoulders and Selson Blue, constantly had it out over the public airwaves in an effort to stop your hair from living in a winter wonderland.  There was even a commercial with a guy who shampooed with both and he pointed out that one side tingled so he knew it was really working.  Yeah, I bet it tingles, dickhead.  And now, what do we have?  We have nothing; no commercials, no crappy spokesmen.  The battle for dandruff has simply been tossed aside, probably in pursuit of much lesser ideals like cancer or fighting bird flu.  But what about those among us who suffer from this awful plague on humanity?  Well, all we can really do is point and laugh.

For some reason, I can't stop thinking about playing a game of ping pong with God.  I keep wondering if he'd be any good.  Everyone assumes that God is perfect and all that, but is he really that nimble?  I could probably blow a few serves by him before he knew what hit him and I'm not even that good.  They don't say so in the bible, but I'd wager God's true weakness is playing sports.  Did you ever wonder who God curses when he gets angry?  You know, he's all emotional and crying, his rage seething, and he shouts out, "Oh God WHY!?"  Except he wouldn't say God, he would say something else.  I wonder about things like that and that's probably why I am mentally retarded.  So, where do you think God stands on religion?  I mean, he has to believe in something and it'd be weird if he was worshipping himself.  But then, if he wasn't worshipping himself, if he claimed he was above religion (because, let's face it, he is the CEO of Christianity), wouldn't that make him an atheist?  It's all a sham I tell you.  Once you start analyzing, the wall begins to crumble.

I have to admit that at this point, I am kind of tapped out.  My brain is running on mental E and I don't see a gas station for miles.  The problem with these grab bag updates is that there is never any easy way to end them.  Once you open the door of nonsense, it's hard to get it closed again.  However, I do have other pressing emergencies to tend to.  I'm still trying to figure out how exactly to turn water into wine.  I did a google search and it came up empty.  So, anyway, about ending this thing.  I suppose I could just stop writing, abruptly cutting myself off.  But that's just rude and