The question was:
They call them the "Seven W's": Who, What, Where, Which, When, Why, and How. Shouldn't that be Whow?
And in response, thus spake the Oracle:
All depends on who's saying it, sweetie.
The question was:
Oracle, better than a crushed kneewcap, whose nose smells like roses (but does not actually smell roses) - tell me...why ar ebell clams so damn hard to cook?
And in response, thus spake the Oracle:
The Ar Ebell clam-- or more popularly, "desert clam"-- is a marvel of evolution. Found only in the Ar Ebell desert, this unique mollusk has developed a thick membrane that traps moisture within but allows oxygen and waste to pass through, allowing it to reduce its metabolism until moisture is abundant. The secret to cooking Ar Ebell clams is to remove that membrane. Most people just tear it off (and destroy the clam in the process), but the real secret is to soak it in lemon juice overnight. The next morning the membrane will just fall off. You owe the Oracle a tundra lobster (with garlic butter).
The question was:
Oracle, most wise, before whom BC3K is fun to play, I come before you as a humble supplicant with the following question: Derek Smart has *tons* of friends. People are constantly talking about him on c.s.i.p.g.strategy. What do I need to do to become as popular as he is? I humbly await your reply, Hymie
And in response, thus spake the Oracle:
It's all in a name. Listen: "Derek Smart." Crisp. Clean. Highly Anglo-Saxon. der-ECH smarTTT. Just listen to those consonants. Compare that to "Hymie." Nasal. Feminine. Easily mocked. hi-MEE. Brings to mind the poor kid always beaten up on the playground. Change your name to "Dirk Vicious." dirKK vish-ohSSSS. Guaranteed results.
The question was:
How many licks does it take to get to the center of a woodchuck?
And in response, thus spake the Oracle:
Well, let's see. First off, I'd zot you today for the lack of even a rudimentary grovel, but I'm still bummed out by the death of Sonny Bono (he represented the promise that even small weird-looking guys could get it on with sexy long-legged chicks), so I'll overlook it just this once and proceed directly to the matter at heart. A typical bottle of Woodchuck cider is 16oz, so the center of a Woodchuck would be 8oz. I'm not sure why you're licking it rather than drinking it like a normal person, but experiemental research done at the prestigious Oracle Labs determined that the average lick can carry around .08oz (lapping does better, but is impolite), so the average person would take 100 licks to get to the center of a Woodchuck. Lisa did it in 53 licks, but she's *really* good at licking... You owe the Oracle a good recipee for owl and turtle stew.
The question was:
Knowing how you feel about woodchucks, I'm curious to know what was your opinion of the movie "Groundhog Day"?
And in response, thus spake the Oracle:
Ever since Groundhog Day came out, it's become somewhat of a mini-cult movie. As a result, they always play it at repertory theatres every February 2. Year after year, they just play it over and over, year after year, they always play it, it just keeps playing over and over and over again... You owe the Oracle a way of removing Andie McDowell from any movie she's been in.
The question was:
} You owe the Oracle a really mindboggling question about the art of Odd } Nerdrum, the famous Norwegian painter. OK, How did the art of Odd Nerdrum, the famous Norwegian painter, affect the evolution of modern deconstructionalism?
And in response, thus spake the Oracle:
Nerdrum wasn't a deconstructionalist, he was an antiecclesiodisetablishmentarianist. The antiecclesiodisetablishmentarianist movement had very little impact on modern (or pre- or post-modern, for that matter) deconstructionalism. However, Nerdrum's work had a profound impact on the movement in art towards neo-antiecclesiodisetablishmentarianism, particularly in the field of impressionistic-surreal-neoantiecclesiodisetablishmentarianism. Hope this cleared it up for you. You owe the Oracle an English word longer than antiecclesiodisetablishmentarianistic and a round of Scrabble.
The question was:
Hey Oracleman, riddle me this! Expand (x-a)*(x-b)*(x-c)*...*(x-z)
And in response, thus spake the Oracle:
"Holy Hofstadter, Oracleman! That's going to be one wicked polynominal!" exclaimed Lisa. "Indeed," I replied, noting that she was already busy scribbling an expansion on her notepad, "but the twenty-fourth term is the killer." "Twenty-fourth?" she said, puzzled. "Um, that would be... (x-x)?" I stared at her until she slapped her head in annoyance. "Of course! It all reduces to zero! But why would the Puzzler send you something so obvious?" "Because its a clue to something more sinister, chum. That's what we have to find out." Normally the Puzzler gives obvious hints about his capers, but this one had even my razor-sharp mind boggled. Lisa had all but given up. She sat in the large armchair in the Commissioner's office, fiddling dejectedly with the envelope in which the message came. She stared at it, then sniffed it cautiously. "Smells like chicken," she sighed. Her statement triggered something in the back of my mind. "What?" I asked cautiously. "Oh, this stain on the envelope. It smells like chicken grease." I practically leaped across the room to snatch the envelope from her startled hands. After taking a deep whiff myself, I said, "Not just any kind of fried chicken, chum, but *Polly's* Fried Chicken!" The Commissioner marveled at my sensitive nose, but he was still missing the connection. Fortunately, Lisa didn't. "Polly... polynominal!" "Right!" I shouted, glad to be on the track of something. "And I would gamble anything that there's a Polly's Chicken franchise on Nominal Avenue. To the Oraclemobile!" The Commissioner was reaching for the phone book as Lisa and I bolted from the room. "Don't bother checking, Commissioner," she called back over her shoulder, "he's always right!" Indeed I was. We entered the Polly's Chicken on Nominal from the roof. Scaling walls is easy; all you have to do is pretend that everyone is looking at you sideways and that you're really walking along the ground. The store was deserted. "Perhaps it was a coincidence?" my partner inquired, almost apologetically. "With the Puzzler, it's *never* a coincidence," I snarled back. As if on cue, all the lights in the store came on, momentarily blinding us. When our eyes undazzled, we found ourselves facing two large guys in bowling shirts, each bearing the embroidered name "Herb." Also present was the Puzzler! "Herbs," he shouted, "get them!" The Herbs were no match for our polished fighting skills, so it looked like an easy win... until the Spice Girls suddenly appeared and started singing. We tried to hold out as long as possible, but eventually the pain was too much and we had to cover our ears. Without the use of our arms, the Herbs (who were wearing earmuffs, I noted) quickly beat us into unconsciousness. I awoke first. "Ah, Oracleman! I see you're awake. What do you think of my seven secret Herbs and Spices?" "I think you're insane," I muttered. We had been manicled to chairs. In front of me was a computer console. The handcuffs I wore gave me just enough slack to reach the keyboard. Lisa moaned to signal her return to consciousness. "I see you're curious about this setup. The computer in front of you will begin to display logic puzzles. You have thirty seconds to solve each one. If you answer incorrectly or fail to answer at all, the crack in the platform below you will open an inch. When it opens wide enough, you and your lovely companion will be dumped directly into the deep fat fryer, and you'll quickly become tomorrow's special of the day." "You twisted goon! Leave Lisa out of this!" "Sorry, Oracleman! I need to keep the both of you busy while I go out and commit the Crime of the Century! Herbs! Spices! Pack up, we're moving out." He chuckled evilly as the first logic puzzle appeared on the screen. "Enjoy yourself, Oracleman. Don't think too hard; you'll give yourself a headache..." Great Spicy Chicks! Can Orrie and Lisa escape before they become just another Urban Legend? Find out next week! Same Oracle time, same Oracle channel!
The question was:
Ba Wheep Gra Na Wheep Ninny-bong?
And in response, thus spake the Oracle:
"Ba Wheep Gra Na Wheep Ninny-bong"! That's what Q told me our contact was expecting as the password. We're just going to have to say "Ba Wheep Gra Na Wheep Ninny-bong" to every dignitary at this convention until we find the one who responds. We've got the heads of most countries in the world here, so let's get going. Mr Clinton! Yes? The name's Bond, James Bond. Hello Mr Bond. Ba Wheep Gra Na Wheep Ninny-bong. I beg your pardon. Ba Wheep Gra Na Wheep Ninny-bon. I'm sorry. I didn't even inhale, let alone learn any of that British junkie slang. I see. Sorry for bothering you Mr Clinton. That's fine. See you around Mr Bond. OK Chaps, it's not Mr Clinton. Mr Blair! Hello. Aren't you one of ours? Yes Prime Minister. The name's Bond, James Bond. Ba Wheep Gra Na Wheep Ninny-bon. Hmmm. I don't know what that is, but slip me a million pounds and I'll make sure the EEC allows you to write it on the side of racing cars. Deal? Sorry, Prime Minister. I was talking while I was eating. Look, there's a drug-addled rock star. Excuse me, I must go and have my photograph taken with him. Goodbye Mr Bond. Mr Yeltsin. Mr Yeltsin! The name's Bond, James Bond. Ba Wheep Gra Na Wheep Ninny-bon. (silence). Mr Yeltsin, Mr Yeltsin! Oh dear, he appears to be dead. He's awfully cold to the touch. Mr Bond! Our leader is not dead, this is a vicious rumour. He is merely suffering from a bad cold. Ba Wheep Gra Na Wheep Ninny-bon. No, he's not suffering from any of your decadent Western diseases, merely a bad cold. Please excuse me while I put our great leader back in the freezer. OK chaps, chin up and don't give up. Mr Kim! Hello. The name's Bond, James Bond. Hello Mr Bond. Can you spare a dollar or two? Ba Wheep Gra Na Wheep Ninny-bon. Yes, very good. You see, I wouldn't ask you but Korea's in a bit of a tight spot at the moment and I could only afford a one way ticket. Sure Mr Kim. Take ten. Look, the North Koreans are over there and I'm sure you can sell them enough secrets about your military to afford a ticket home. [much later] Not anyone in the Western world, not Africa, not South America. This is more difficult than I thought. Mr Eye al For Eye. Mr Eye al For Eye! Good evening. You are British, no? Yes. The name's Bond, James Bond. Ba Wheep Gra Na Wheep Ninny-bon. (pause) You speak Afghani very well Mr Bond. Have you spent time in my country? Destabilising the Russians I hope (laughs) Mr Eye al For Eye, you are our contact, are you not? Contact? I'm sorry Mr Bond, but I don't know what you are talking about. But, you understood the password!! Well yes, but I can't see what 'You can take your job and stuff it' has to do with anything. Have you been to Afghanistan often? You owe The Oracle a magazine with 'Contacts' written on the cover.
The question was:
Ba Wheep Gra Na Wheep Ninny-bong?
And in response, thus spake the Oracle:
And ba wheep gra na wheep ninny-bong to you, kind supplicant. I notice that you append your intergalactic greeting with a question mark. Are you asking what it means, perhaps? Surely you know that the phrase is from an old computer game, which claimed it was a message of peace. This is, of course, entirely untrue. The message is actually mathematically proven to be the least provoking phrase in the universe. As was recently discovered by your human astronomers, there is a lot more space out there than meets the eye. Given this almost infinite space, one can deduce that there is an almost infinite number of stars, with an almost infinite number of planets around them. My bookie says that the chance for life is 1 in 9 (Actually the chances are 2 in 9, but those NASA bunglers keep sneezing on their rocks.), and since an almost infinite number divided by nine is... lessee, carry the 1... is an almost infinite number with a remainder of 6, that makes for an almost infinite number of languages. From this point the calculations start to get complicated, with a lot of language theory and esperanto thrown in for good measure. The point being that when you're mucking about with a large number of languages, any random phrase is likely to be a disgusting insult in some language or another. As it turns out, ba wheep gra na wheep ninny-bong is a harmless in all languages but one, where it means "may your dear sweet auntie be slowly eaten alive by a narg fairy." In response to your question, then, no. You see, my dear sweet auntie IS a narg fairy, and she's very hungry. You owe the Oracle an essay on how not to insult the Oracle, given that he knows an infinite number of languages. In esperanto. Or I'll send Aunt Viola after you. Incarnation's note: The above answer is fiction. fick-shun. As in not true. In the real world, the phrase "ba wheep gra na wheep ninny-bong" is much more likely to put you in the hospital than, say, "here's my wallet." You have been warned. fnord.
The question was:
"You are old, Uncle Orrie," the young man said, "And your skin is as tough as old leather. Yet you keep all your answers at once in your head. What makes you so frightfully clever?"
And in response, thus spake the Oracle:
"In my youth," Uncle Orrie replied with a sneer, "I ate woodchucks for breakfast and lunch. Why, look! I still have a crate of them here! Allow me to sell you a bunch?" You owe the Oracle a copy of "The Annotated Alice."