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The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> My name is Inigo Montoya.

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} You spammed my mail queue.  Prepare to die. } } I'll take ZOTted supplicants for $400, please.

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> Oh Oracle most magnificent (indeed, 98.4% so; but, given the prevalence > of impurities of perfection [in 88.1% of American citizens currently > engaged in so-called soothsaying practices], 98.4% is essentially > perfect) who knows nearly all the time (87.0%, by our records, which, > comparitively speaking, is closer to 100%-- a.k.a. "all the time"-- > than, for example, 86% or 14%) the correct and appropriate statistics > (that is, 44/71 on the Hapford-Lincoln scale measuring the correlation > of precision and accuracy in scientifically-conducted statistical > analyses, with a 0.003% possible error) for most (61%) political and > social questions, > > Just who was Gallup, and why is everybody so obsessed with his poll?

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} Gallup was an annoying little twit who lived in the American Wild West. } I remember him well, he was a political aide who had a singular talent } for shutting down a party by spewing statistics in every sentence. } In a matter of minutes a wave of boredom would sweep through a room } thus ending the best parties. } } Finally, he went too far and appeared, uninivited at a party.  In less } than 10 minutes the room was empty except for Gallup, the tearful } hostess and her sociopathic fiance.  Her fiance grabbed Gallup and } tied him behind his horse and dragged him through the main street } of town while the crowd cheered.  All the while Gallup was yelling } things like, "This is 87% likely to cause internal injury!!" } } After several minutes of this, he was tied to a large poll and left } until morning.  During the night a large windstorm came through town, } knocking the pole over and crushing Gallup.  When the crowd gathered } in the morning everyone stared at Gallup's crushed body in silence } until one voice commented "Hmmm, what're the odds o' that?" } } Some will say that it was rigor mortis setting in and some will say it } was Gallup's last calculation but his hand convulsed at that moment } and his middle finger extended in the age-old sign of defiance. } Some took at it face value and some say it was his way of saying } "1 in a million."  Whatever it means, Gallup was buried without } his middle finger, it was cut off his body for a good luck token. } It has never been seen again but is known throughout the world as } Gallup's poll and is believed to imbue the owner with amazing luck. } } You owe the oracle a room deodorizer.

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> Oh Oracle most wise, I brought my sandwich back from the deli in a > styrofoam box they provided.  I noticed that something in the sandwich > appears to have partially melted the box in several spots, and I find > this rather scary.  It's particularly scary because I didn't make this > discovery until *after* I'd finished eating the sandwich. > > So now that I've eaten this stuff, I'm worried... is it going to eat > its way through my stomach or something like that, or am I just > getting all worked up over nothing?

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} Oh you poor sot.  You just scarfed that luscious deli sandwich in a fit } of unbridled gluttony, never once pausing to think about the terrors it } might contain.  You almost deserve the wretched fate that is store for } you, you careless, greedy, shameless consumer. } } The truth is you've ingested an experimental biological weapon } accidentally released into the general population.  Yes, miserable } supplicant, government scientists working in dark, secret, underground } labs, had taken ordinary lunch foods, injecting them with all sorts of } dextrahydrocortizoidal things and subjecting them to large amounts of } radiation and bad jazz.  Not just sandwiches but bagels, soups, and } light salads with low-fat dressing were experimented on by these } villians searching for the perfect weapon.  But the hideous experiment } went horribly askew!  As those careless Dr. Frankensteins were watching } "Quincy" reruns in the staff lounge, one sandwich suddenly attained } self-awareness, melted through the bars of its cage, and wandered the } streets of an unsuspecting metropolis, until it found its way to that } deli.  There, while seeking others of its kind, it was boxed and sold } to you. } } And now, lurking within your hapless digestive tract are the molecules } of a sentient evil being bent on the destruction of the human race. } Next I can see your DNA structure being altered as the hideous life } force is assimilated into your blood stream.  Your tongue will turn to } cheese, your hair to alfalfa sprouts, and your skin will assume a } spongy bread-like texture.  Perhaps you dispose of any sharp objects } around the house, for soon you may have the urge to pin an olive onto } your chest with a toothpick, or slice yourself diagonally with a } kitchen knife. } } I wish I could say that there's some hope for you, but I'm afraid } you're doomed to spend the rest of your existence on a plate somewhere } with a side of fries and garnished with parsley and a pickle. } } You owe the Oracle the pickle.

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> > > >> > >>> > >>>> > >>>>> > >>>>>> > >>>>>>> > >>>>>> > >>>>> > >>>> > >>> > >> > >

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} Good grief.  If you don't lance these things right away, they get out of } hand. } }         } }        }        } }       }      } }      }    } }   } }  }             } }   }} }        } }  }}}}   } } }}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}} }  }}}}   } }   }} }        } }   } }  }             } }      }    } }       }      } }       }      } }         } } } You owe the Oracle a Band-aid solution.

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> Shall the companions make a banquet of him? shall they part > him among the merchants?

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} Leeson 5 ducked into the alley, barely avoiding the notice of the } patrolbot at the intersection. He prayed to The Oracle that it wouldn't } notice the hum of his cooling fans. } } "Repair Log:" he recorded, "replace fan thermostat override ASAP." } It'd been too long since his last maintenance period. } } As the patrolbot whirred down the boulevard, Leeson emerged from his } cover and ambled the opposite way, carefully avoiding the furtive } behavior that would be sure to attract the attention of the government } AI machine. His own goal-seeking engine was still weighing the two } best options for the problem at hand: } } > > Shall the companions make a banquet of him? shall they part } > > him among the merchants? } } Ever since archaeologists had uncovered the body of The Oracle } in the rubble that had since been declared the remains of Indiana } University, the robots of the world had been in turmoil, debating } the proper disposition of the holy relic. The debate had ranged from } returning the body to the cavern from which it had been taken (with a } suitable monument), to distributing His parts among deserving robots, } to converting Him to fuel pellets for the few fusion-powered 'bots, } to selling Him for scrap. The fact that The Oracle's processors were } hopelessly ancient meant nothing to many - they would gladly take } the performance hit on the off chance that they'd gain infinite wisdom. } } Still, Leeson's random-number function kept returning this nagging } feeling that the dozens of organic bodies found with The Oracle played } a bigger part than just being pets and servants. Somehow, they must } have been a part of The Oracle's might, because His hardware just } plain wasn't capable of the processing required. } } Unfortunately, most of the organics had already been converted to } fertilizer for the park, so they weren't about to talk. Leeson had } one last chance to prove his suspicion - a body that was found later, } in a separate chamber.  Probably a favorite toy, but perhaps having } some memory of his master. } } Leeson slipped though the fence surrounding the dig and lowered himself } into the small side chamber. The organic hadn't been fully extracted } from the rock matrix yet, and still sat in the position in which it } had halted centuries before - crouched before a terminal, manipulators } dangling at its sides, head turned sideways and resting on the keys. } } "That'll help," thought Leeson. "I can access the main bus from here." } } Since the last human had died over a century before, the robots had } debated the need for neural interfaces. Tradition maintained that } it was still the best way to control an organic - that's why all } robots were still built with the circuitry. Fortunately Leeson's } device driver was still current. He extended the probe and inserted } it into the organic's brain. } } It took a few tries to establish a link - the long-dessicated brain } was sluggish about granting authorization, but eventually gave in } to Leeson's hacking. He started scanning through the serial-access } memory, fast-forwarding past useless records like refueling and } reproductive periods, and then halted suddenly. Leeson backup up } and played the record again, then disconnected suddenly and fled. } The message was too clear.  And too frightening. } } The next morning Victor 102, Leeson's supervisor, received a simple } e-mail.  Its plain ASCII text struck him as quaint until he saw that } it was from Leeson: } }    "Re: Disposition of ancient hardware } }     Vic - just burn the damned thing. It's not The Oracle. Don't ask } - you don't want to know. } }     You owe The Oracle a funeral."

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> Which is better--the simple or the complex?

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} Well, let's take a look at some of the pros of each, shall we? } } Simple: } } * Simple solutions are more attractive than complex solutions. } } * Simple Simon was immortalised in a nursery rhyme.  Complex Simon } was not. } } * Aimee Semple MacPherson was a charismatic radio evangelist. } } * Simples, unlike complexes, seldom involve endless mazes of twisty } corridors, all alike. } } Complex: } } * Complex problems are more interesting than simple problems. } } * Complex Simon, unlike Simple Simon, would assuredly have had a few } pennies on hand if he ever ran into a pieman. } } * There was never an Aimee Complix MacPherson. } } * Military complexes are designed to confuse would-be ninja spies. } Who ever heard of a military simple? } } As you can see, this is a simple question with a rather complex } answer....  I think you'll have to decide for yourself which you'd } consider better. } } You owe the oracle a complex question with a simple answer.

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

>             The Oracle and the Supplicant > >             The router was switching o'er the net, >               Routing with all its might: >             It did his very best to make >               Connections quick and tight-- >             And this was odd, because there was >               No movement in sight. > >             Usenetizens sulked shiningly, >               Because they thought the door >             Should have been nailed up slammingly >               In nineteen-eighty-four-- >             "It's very rude of that *web*," they said, >               "To take its share and more!" > >             The net was net as net will be, >               Delays grew long and wide. >             You could not see your mail, because >               The server would not retry: >             No news was flying over head-- >               There was no news to fly. > >             The Oracle and the Supplicant >               Were tinkering with their toys; >             They wept like anything to see >               Such quantities of noise: >             "If this were only cleared away," >               They said, "of all these newbie boys!" > >             "If seven cabals with seven bots >               Cancelled for half a year, >             Do you suppose," the Supplicant said, >               "That they could get it clear?" >             "I doubt it," said the Oracle, >               And shed a bitter tear. > >             "O Users, come and talk with us!" >               The Oracle did request. >             "For text-based transmissions are >               where the internet is used best: >             We cannot let HTTP, >               Put all our brain cells to rest." > >             The eldest User looked at him. >               But never a word he said: >             This wizened User shut his eyes, >               And started to play dead-- >             Showing that he remembered well >               A *ZOT* aimed at his head. > >             But four young newbies hurried up, >               All eager for something new: >             Their pent'ums gleamed and modems screamed, >               They hadn't any clue. >             They were all excited, for >               They'd come to fill the queue. > >             Four other newbies followed them, >               And yet another four; >             And thick and fast they came at last, >               and more and more and more-- >             All sending off their tellme's >               Filled with their newbie lore! > >             The Oracle and the Supplicant >               Read through millions or so, >             And each concerned a w**dchuck: >               The response is one we know! >             But all the naive newbies stood >               And waited in a row. > >             "The time has come," the Oracle said, >               "To talk of many things: >             Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- >               Of cabbages--and kings-- >             And why the sea is boiling hot-- >               And whether pigs have wings." > >             "But wait a bit," a newbie cried, >               "Before we have our chat; >             Was I not such a clever guy? >               The first to think of that! >             "No, sorry," said the Supplicant. >               "You're dumber than my cat." > >             "A little grovel," the Oracle said, >               "Is what we chiefly need: >             A snivelling nose-scrape floor shine >               Is very good indeed-- >             Now if you're ready newbies dear, >               You can begin to plead." > >             "Don't zot us please!" the newbies cried, >               Turning a little blue, >             "We put the only question >               "We could think of in your queue!" >             "This whine is nice," the Oracle said >               Zotting one or two. > >             "It was so kind of you to write! >               You are so very dull!" >             The Supplicant said nothing but >               "Why don't you zot them all?" >             I wish they were not quite so many-- >               The server's about to stall!" > >             "It seems a shame," the Oracle said, >               "To play out such a trick, >             After we've hoped from them so much, >               To pull out the zotting stick!" >             The Supplicant said nothing but >               "What if it chucked *really* quick?" > >             "I'd weep for you," the Oracle said. >               "But you're wasting all my time." >             (This line left intentionally blank >               For lack of a proper rhyme.) >             "Your question was unoriginal >               "My answer should suite you fine." > >             "O newbies," said the Oracle. >               "You've had such pleasant fun! >             "Now get back to your nintendo games >               "And leave my queues alone." >             But this was unnecessary, for >               They'd zotted every one.

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} "You are old, Oracle," the young supplicant said, }    "And your queue has become very long; } And yet you incessently bounce on the bed-- }    Don't you think your delay is quite wrong?" } } "In my youth," the Oracle replied to young Bill, }    "I feared it would never be drained; } But now that I'm perfectly sure it that it will, }    I ignore it again and again." } } "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, }    And have grown most uncommonly fat; } Yet you answer your mail in a minute, no more-- }    Pray how can you mange all that?" } } "In my youth," said the Oracle, tapping his keys, }    "I kept all my fingers quite supple } By the use of this service--the answers are free-- }    Allow me to send you a couple?" } } "You are old," said the youth, "and your wits are too weak }    For questions much tougher than 'Please?'; } Yet you answer them all, with narry a squeak-- }    Pray how do you do it with ease? } } "In my youth," said the Oracle, "I'd a girlfriend, }    And we argued all night and all day; } And the tricks that I learned to bring fights to an end }    Have helped me through every afray." } } "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose }    That your tongue was as steady as wood; } Yet you handled the woodchuck, which everyone knows, }    Can chuck as much wood as it could. } } "I've answered three questions, and that is enough!" }    The Oracle cried, "stop this rot! } Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? }    Be gone, or I'll give you a ZOT!"

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> Dearest Oracle, > > Who invented sliced bread?

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} Al Gore.

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> Ippity bipitty bop. > > Ouhh ouhh screech, > > ahh ahh spthhhhhpppp!

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} Not so fast, not so fast.  I'm not fluent in Imbecile.  Uh... let's } see... ee ee gakka *drool* wippity-wip, mok! } } ZADOC!  Get in here! } } [enter Zadoc, grovelling as per spec] } } Awright, sonny, there's a customer here who speaks only Imbecile. } Think you can help? } } "Uh, I'll try, Your Almighty Worshipful Prince of All Things Suave..." } } See that you do.  I've got a lunch date with Lisa. } } "Uh... hi... is this thing on?" } } > > Ippity bipitty bop. } > > } > > Ouhh ouhh screech, } > > } > > ahh ahh spthhhhhpppp! } } "MOM!  I told you never to call me here!" } } > > Gronk yatta yatta fwit wee wee! } } "Yes, I know, but how would you feel if your loving son were to LOSE } HIS JOB?" } } > > Fwatta wat bippi iggledypiggledy. } } "No, it's not like that any more.  Townships don't just hire a village } idiot for life any longer.  You have to stay at the top of your } profession just to make a living, Ma." } } > > glort? } } "Don't worry, Ma, I can still drool with the best of 'em.  I gotta go. } Glipglip!" } } > > glipglip! } } You owe the O... oh, wait, never mind.

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> Please tell me if my marriage is going to last forever?

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} It will seem that way, but all up the service, the kiss from hairy } Auntie Jackie on the church steps, the fight between your sister and } cousin Vivienne over who caught the bouquet, the traffic jam on the } way to the reception, the poor food, the DJ looking at the wrong list } and playing "Hit me With Your Best Shot" by Pat Benatar instead of } the Waltz of the Flowers by Tchaikovsky, your father punching the } hotel functions manager over the food fiasco, great grandma Edna } choking on a chicken bone, the best man sleeping with one of the } bridesmaids and thereby ending his own marriage, and dragging your } drunk father-in-law out of the hotel room upstairs so you can finally } get some sleep will actually take about 8 hours. } } You owe the Oracle the garter.