I was awakened the other morning by a primal scream. Someone was in trouble and needed my help. I got up and looked around, but found nothing unusual. I went outside with a flashlight and found nothing. It was 2:30am. I could see the lights from the Dairy Queen through the trees. Orion was setting. Not an animal in sight. All was well and I went back to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. There WAS something, or someone…somewhere…in distress and I was going to find the answer. I looked to my dreams…
I found myself in a church and there was a choir of red necks wearing Boston Red Sox hats, chewing Grizz and singing New York State of Mind to the tune of Achey Breaky Heart. Instead of saying “Amen” at the end of each prayer, the congregation droned, “Fuuuuunnnny!” There was a guy with a sword walking up and down the aisles, lopping off heads, indiscriminately. And I could hear the anguished voice of someone yelling, “Help me! Help me!” I walked down the center aisle and as I approached the swordsman, a tall guy in the shadows pushed “delete” and the swordsman disappeared. I approached the alter...and there he was…Oscargamblesfro, with shocking pink hair, up on the wall, nailed to the cross, screaming, “Help me! Help me!”
This was too much and I awoke. There’s only one place that I can find Oscargamblesfro, so I got up and logged onto his homepage and searched for clues.
“Which MLB Team Should Sign Barry Bonds?”
“Suggestions for Improving RateItAll”
“Music Movies”
“Who the fuck is niehausappraiser?”
“Condiments, Dips & Toppings”
Nothing. Not a clue. (But he does have nice range, doesn't he?) I was willing to rifle through all of his 7502 reviews, if that was what it was going to take to help my friend.
And there it was. The mother lode:
I found myself in a church and there was a choir of red necks wearing Boston Red Sox hats, chewing Grizz and singing New York State of Mind to the tune of Achey Breaky Heart. Instead of saying “Amen” at the end of each prayer, the congregation droned, “Fuuuuunnnny!” There was a guy with a sword walking up and down the aisles, lopping off heads, indiscriminately. And I could hear the anguished voice of someone yelling, “Help me! Help me!” I walked down the center aisle and as I approached the swordsman, a tall guy in the shadows pushed “delete” and the swordsman disappeared. I approached the alter...and there he was…Oscargamblesfro, with shocking pink hair, up on the wall, nailed to the cross, screaming, “Help me! Help me!”
This was too much and I awoke. There’s only one place that I can find Oscargamblesfro, so I got up and logged onto his homepage and searched for clues.
“Which MLB Team Should Sign Barry Bonds?”
“Suggestions for Improving RateItAll”
“Music Movies”
“Who the fuck is niehausappraiser?”
“Condiments, Dips & Toppings”
Nothing. Not a clue. (But he does have nice range, doesn't he?) I was willing to rifle through all of his 7502 reviews, if that was what it was going to take to help my friend.
And there it was. The mother lode:
4/10/2008 2:43:00 PM
Light is purely a wave (no particle like properties). In: WebLists > Features > Miscellaneous (Features) > Incorrect Theories (Scientific and Some Not So Scientific)
RIDGEWALKER…HELP!
(2 voted this helpful, 1 funny and I agree)
0 comments
What could this mean? He got a “funny” on this one, but something told me that there was nothing funny about this. I tried to reconfigure the clues: Light. Waves. Particles. Scientific. When nothing came to me, I consulted my medical database and found the answer:
Bad FrankenBerry.
There is great history behind this. It seems that when FrankenBerry was introduced, General Mills used a food coloring that had such a long molecular chain, that the human body was unable to assimilate it and it passed right through, creating a syndrome called “FrankenBerry Stool”, or Pink Poop. This is true. A young body just couldn’t digest this stuff. When Count Chocula became the king of the Monster cereals, General Mills changed their marketing strategy on FrankenBerry, making it available mostly around Halloween, which gave them time to straighten out the pink dye problem…hoping that no one would notice the change. But, it just made some crave it more. It became the Grateful Dead of Monster Cereals, bringing with it a following into adult life. Then, when no one was looking, someone dumped 1000s of gallons of the old dye into a batch.
Bad FrankenBerry.
Yes, and Oscargamblesfro is an addict. He is suffering from FBSS…FrankenBerry Shock Syndrome. He no longer has the Pink Poop he was so fond of as a youngster. Excessive adult consumption of this dreaded foodstuff (and one bad batch) resulted in a Pink Coif (the color has a half-life of 25,000 years). But, Oscargamblesfro asked for help and I can’t let him down.
There are temporary measures that you can take, Oscar. First, let’s not kid anyone; you’re not gonna stop eating FrankenBerry, but there is something that you can do to reduce that half-life. When you’re sitting there in front of the TV, watching Family Guy, or Just Shoot Me reruns, smoking and eating and you reach across to flick those 1-inch tubes of spent ash that are dangling from the end of your cigarettes and they drop into your bowl of FrankenBerry, just mix 'em in and forget about 'em. The carbon absorbs some of the dye and helps it to safely exit your body without turning your hair a darker shade of pink. The more…the better. Hell, there’s enough sugar in that stuff to mask a silo of Grizz, so a little ash ain’t gonna hurt none. But, you gotta face the fact that you’re looking at pink hair until Star Date 2743.65.
You are the 21st century Elephant Man…
Next, don’t cut your hair. Just let it go. The longer it gets, the lighter that shade of pink will get. If you do think of cutting your hair, you’re gonna end up going down the same path as so many others before you…you’re gonna try to dye it back to your natural color, but that ain’t gonna work. It’s really hard to mask neon pink and you’ll just end up looking like Forest Whitaker-gone-Emo.
Here’s some tips on going out. You can justify your pink hair by wearing a Ringling Brother’s T-shirt. Or, you can just pretend that you’re important and that’s why people are looking at you. Pretend you’re Richard Gere, or Al Gore. Or you can do something sensible like wearing a “I Ate Too Much Fucking FrankenBerry Cereal” sandwich board over your shoulders.
You can take the RIA approach and just surrender to the fact that God planned this before the Big Bang. Or, you can take the opposing position and say that you are an anomaly that evolved from a pink flamingo lawn ornament. Or you can take the scientific approach and say that your hair has never changed colors; it just began to absorb the photon particles from a different wavelength of electromagnetic radiation.
Either way, you can rest assured that there are no absolutes. The last stroke of an artist’s paintbrush may end the painting, but the painting is never finished. Scientists may solve the problem of your pink hair, but it will create no absolutes. It may change your hair color back to normal, or to one of the billion, billion possibilities that have not yet been conceived. Think outside the box…forget about the bottom line…because there is none and anyone who does believe in that bottom line…the perception of absolutes…the way things must be…that there is only one way and one way only…is only headed down a road of misery and tragedy awaits them. Certainly, no God turned your hair pink.
It was Bad FrankenBerry.
Next, don’t cut your hair. Just let it go. The longer it gets, the lighter that shade of pink will get. If you do think of cutting your hair, you’re gonna end up going down the same path as so many others before you…you’re gonna try to dye it back to your natural color, but that ain’t gonna work. It’s really hard to mask neon pink and you’ll just end up looking like Forest Whitaker-gone-Emo.
Here’s some tips on going out. You can justify your pink hair by wearing a Ringling Brother’s T-shirt. Or, you can just pretend that you’re important and that’s why people are looking at you. Pretend you’re Richard Gere, or Al Gore. Or you can do something sensible like wearing a “I Ate Too Much Fucking FrankenBerry Cereal” sandwich board over your shoulders.
You can take the RIA approach and just surrender to the fact that God planned this before the Big Bang. Or, you can take the opposing position and say that you are an anomaly that evolved from a pink flamingo lawn ornament. Or you can take the scientific approach and say that your hair has never changed colors; it just began to absorb the photon particles from a different wavelength of electromagnetic radiation.
Either way, you can rest assured that there are no absolutes. The last stroke of an artist’s paintbrush may end the painting, but the painting is never finished. Scientists may solve the problem of your pink hair, but it will create no absolutes. It may change your hair color back to normal, or to one of the billion, billion possibilities that have not yet been conceived. Think outside the box…forget about the bottom line…because there is none and anyone who does believe in that bottom line…the perception of absolutes…the way things must be…that there is only one way and one way only…is only headed down a road of misery and tragedy awaits them. Certainly, no God turned your hair pink.
It was Bad FrankenBerry.
I hope this finds you, Oscar and finds you well…the same way that your cries for help found me.
BTW, for all concerned parties, this does not cause oscar any pain, except when people stare, point and whisper...
