The Oprah Cult

Dan Caldwell, his hair perfectly moussed and styled, was just about to admire his reflection in the mirror when the phone rang.

These people! Dan thought angrily to himself as he reached for the cordless phone hanging on the wall. Don't they realize I need my twenty minutes of self-adoration every morning?!

"Hello?" Dan answered the phone sulkily.

"DUDE," said Dan's friend Dave Trite on the other end, his voice positively trembling with excitement. "There is an AFRICAN CHANT TRIBE going down 34th Street."

"Yeah, and?" Dan asked impatiently. "So what?"

"Do you know who's in this tribe?"

"Who?"

"OPRAH."

"Huh?"

"OPRAH! She's dancing down 34th Street in these weird African clothes and a bunch of people are following and imitating her! The line of people goes on for an entire block!"

"Hold on," said Dan. "Where exactly are they dancing? On the sidewalk, or—"

"In the street!" Dave interjected in a high-pitched voice. "They are dancing in the street!"

"You idiot! " Dan cried, willing himself not to throw the phone across the room in rage. "It's on the street! On the street! How could you dance in the street?! You're so retarded!"

"You and your grammar rules," said Dave good-naturedly. "So, do you wanna come?"

Dan sighed and walked into the kitchen to prepare himself some breakfast. Clearly this conversation wasn't going to be over soon. "Come where?"

"To the chant thing, of course!" Dave exclaimed, chuckling. "I mean, it's Oprah, man."

"Honestly, Dave? I think you're seeing things," said Dan, cradling the phone on his shoulder so he could pour the pancake mix into the pan. "Why would Oprah be dancing down 34th Street? Are there TV cameras around?"

"No."

"So it's not for her show..." said Dan with feigned contemplation. "Hmm...yeah, I don't know why she would be doing that. Sorry."

"Maybe she's finally lost it," Dave speculated. Dan could just picture Dave tapping his stubbly chin in thought.

"No, I think it's something else," said Dan. "Have you been eating those 'special' brownies again?"

"Dude, I'm telling you, Oprah and her tribe are dancing down 34th Street!" Dave yelled in exasperation. "I'm watching them right now!"

"Oprah and her tribe?!" Dan shouted incredulously, his blood bubbling along with his pancake. "Her tribe?!" Dave was so flipping stupid sometimes!

"I dunno! Maybe she's started up some cult or something—"

"A CULT?! Have you completely lost your mind? Oprah doesn't have a cult!"

"How do you know?" Dave challenged. "Maybe she does! You know she's got those crazy fans..."

"YOU ARE RIDICULOUS!" Dan screamed, finally losing his temper and lifting the pan off from the oven from sheer fury at Dave's incredibly far-fetched Oprah cult conspiracy theories. Dan, however, underestimated how far his arm would go up when he did this, and the pancake batter flew into the air and splattered right on top of his perfectly coiffered, elegantly styled hair.

Dan stood there in shock as the batter dripped onto the floor from the ends of his formerly gorgeous locks.

"Dan? Dan? You there, man?" Dave's voice asked from the phone that Dan held limply in his hands.

Blinking, and rubbing the goopy batter off of his face (for some had managed to get on there as well), Dan calmly said, "I'll call you back," hung up, and went back into the bathroom to take yet another shower.

I will get back at him for this, Dan thought with a vengeance as he rubbed the shampoo through his hair. Mark my words.