Game-Day Wedding, and How I’m Handling It

Posted by Saxondawg on 2/24 10:46 am

Dear (Name):

Heartfelt best wishes on your recent engagement! I particularly want to congratulate you on your decision to be married at halftime at midfield of Sanford Stadium. SURELY, as a True Dawg, this is the ONLY conceivable plan you could have in mind by scheduling your nuptials DURING A HOME GAME. Given there are 46 available Saturdays which do NOT conflict with home games, at first I thought either you had taken complete leave of your senses or perhaps had a very twisted and tasteless sense of humor.

Then I realized what you must REALLY have up your sleeve — what a brilliant idea you had hatched! After all, every (worthwhile) friend you have will already be assembled in the same location, and since it’s certain to be a day game, you won’t catch any flack from your bride for listening to the Mark Richt locker room show on your wedding night. The Redcoats can play the Wedding March (I’ll be happy to help paint the banner for the bride and her dad to run through), and the Majorettes will make lovely bridesmaids. Let me suggest using defensive linemen as groomsmen, for they’ll be best at batting down the cups thrown at you by visiting fans during the ceremony. Hey, and I can already hear Vince saying, “If anyone has any objections, bark now or forever hold your peace.” I need to check an etiquette book on whether the North Stands should chant your name, and the South the bride’s — or vice-versa. One safety pointer: When your sweetheart throws out the bridal bouquet to 91,000 people, let’s have the State Patrol ready to help prevent injuries.

I’ve known so-called “fans,” less loyal than you, who have actually scheduled weddings DURING home games — AWAY from the stadium! Can you imagine anyone so OBTUSE, INSENSITIVE AND UNFEELING? We don’t need THEM as Dawgs, as I’m certain you’ll agree. Usually the only remedy to their making us miss a game is to follow them out of town in our RVs and make their honeymoon a living hell, tailgating outside their room for the whole week and drunkenly singing Dawg songs. Not that YOU have to worry about this, for I’m certain YOU would never commit such a sick, sociopathic act of cruelty against friends and loved ones who care about you. By the way, is your fine china red or black?

Best wishes and Go Dawgs!

Section 331
Aisle 16

Ooga’s Mutant Mammoth Mildcat Prophecy – 11/20/2003

From the Yankeefied lands of Kentucky, yea, even the land of the Blue Grass, cometh the legend of the Giant Jared, the Mutant Mammoth Mildcat, the Blue Beacon of Bacon, the Throbbin, Lobbin’ Ever-Lovin’ Load o’ Lorenzanian Lard, who rumbleth like a lineman and chucketh like the mormonic hurlers of the western beaches. J-Load the Gelatinous; he who awardeth snatcheth away certain victory and awardeth it to the Gator people, and is thus forever christened the Blue Blur of Blunderment; he who loseth to the Commode-odors and is forever christened the Vast Vittle-Vat of Vandy Vanquishment.

Yea, the Man of Eternal Fat Jokes. Lo, he maketh the prophet’s work easy.

Yet the day draweth nigh, under the November skies, for the Last Sanford Battle of the People of the Dawg, when the Great Procession of the Tailgate maketh its pilgrimage to the Holy City and offereth its sacred sanfordian sacrifice to the Great Dawg who barketh thunder, pooteth lightning, and giveth forth many championships. And yea, the same day draweth night for the last sanfordian battle of St. Vincent the Valiant, a great and noble warrior, a giant among gentlemen who sayeth “please” and “thank you,” and never burpeth or emitteth offensive vapors while dining on the entrails of his defeated foe.

And thus the People of the Dawg, as they prepare for the Annual Bee-Bash Banquet and the journey to the Great Dome of Dawgly Domination, shall ROMP FORTH. The Mutant Mammoth Mildcat shall be POPPED by St. Odell of Hell, and blue gelatinous waste shall flood the sacred grass of Sanford. And the remains of J-Load the Jelloed shall float to the top, so that his tiny hiney head shall become the cherry atop the Blue Jello that wiggleth between the holy hedges. And Rich Babbling Brooks shall leap into the jello, bouncing back through the skies to the yankeefied lands from wench he came.

And the People of the Dawg shall face two battles of Atlanta, with the Sleazy Bees and the SECs. And the Dawgly Empire shall expand to encompass the very earth. And unto the end of the age, Mark May sucketh. Amen.

The Wingnut Prophecy of Ooga – 11/3/2003

From earliest times cometh the proverb: “There are, from the historical anals of warcraft, no great warriors who answereth to the name, ‘Tommy.'”

And lo, it is also said of olde that, “By their ears ye shall know them. He whose lobes flappeth freely in the breeze haveth a vacuumous wind tunnel betwixt them.”

It is also a saying of sooth that “He who betrayeth Olde Mist shall soon be olde, but not missed.”

It is furthermore said that broasted filet of roadside Texas armadillo, sprinkled with candied woodchuck cutlets, maketh a fine tailgate feast which prolongeth post-game wenchery. This saying hath no bearing on Auburn, but the prophet yearneth to try it out.

It was also said by inferior prophets that the Tiger Eagles of the Lobeliest Village on the Jungle Plain would be fearsome warriors, yea, even national championship warriors, and that all tribes of the SEC would cower in fear before their manly tailbacks. Did not these prophets scattereth like mealy-mouthed mice when the Tiger Eagles falleth before the lowly Nattering Nimrods of NATS, they who cowereth before Dook-Doo? Did not these prophets hide themselves in humiliation when the more tigerly tribe of the cajun swamplands taketh a big bite out of those flapworthy ears?

Long liveth the curse of Tiger Eaglely Visitation in Athens, but no more shall they come boldly into Holy Hedges of Sanford. The Ascension of St. Michael, twelve moons past, when the Great Dawg ascendeth its Johnson into the sky to seize Dawgly Victory over Willis the Wimply, spelleth the END OF THE CURSE. The Cadillac shall collide with the Pollack, and Ronnie Brown shall go Down. Thomas the Tank Engine Davis shall be Chasin Jason, and our Golden Fleet of receivers shall roll Tommy’s Corners. Super Dooper Cooper shall leave their linebackers in a Stupor, and Richt the Righteous shall accept surrender terms at midfield, whereby he shall hang Tommy the Tame Tiger from his egregious ears upon the great scoreboard of victory, from where he will be auctioned off by Lowder the Louse to the highest bidding 1-AA football program, while Olde Mist proceedeth to the Dome of Dawgly Domination.

Great shall be the wailing in Noxiousville and Gainesburgerville, for the evil Zookly minions and the Festering Followers of Fulmer the Foul shall be denied again of their Domely Conquest. And the People of the Dawg shall tailgate forth toward worldly domination. Amen.

Ooga’s Birmingham Babblin’ Bumpkin Batterment – 10/23/2003

It is said there are seven reeksome regions of hell upon the earth; yea, open oozing scabs of gnarlacious nastiness upon the leprous left buttock of mother earth. And these seven regions of damnation are: the Black Hole of Calcutta; the Sickly Stinking Sinkholes of Siberia; the Dung-Dappled Dales of Auburn; the regions within the ten thousand tumbling tummy-folds of Fulmer the Foul; the nebbish-knotted North Avenue of the Nattering Nimrods of NATS; and the Babblin’ Bumpkin-Battered Boonies of Birmingham.

Upon these last, the Babblin’ Bumpkin-Battered Boonies of Birmingham, there is an additional curse, for the Aladambamians, having already pockmarked the earth with the Dung-Dappled Dales of Auburn and the Tidely Toe-Cheesery of Tidesaloser, hath appointed yet another feeble and festering faculty. And there, for many generations, the lower orders of the Aladambamians hath dwelt and multiplied like ingrown hairs in the unbathed and perspiring armpit of mother earth, begetting their young in the puddles of snuff-spew surrounding their trailer parks, and producing ever lower orders of evolutionary development, many of them using their knuckles when walking.

And it is UAB, these people of the Babblin’ Bumpkin-Battered Boonies of Birmingham, who oozeth forth to challenge the People of the Dawg between the holy, hallowed hedges of sacred Sanford–like unto Nerdly Bill Gates challenging Attila the Hun to a kick-boxing tournament. For the Dawgly Warriors are even now girding their loins, looking forth to the valleys that lie beyond–the Gigglesome Gator People and the TigerEaglePlainsmen of the Pukesome Pastures of Auburn. And beyond that, the Dome of Domination and the Sweet Bowl of Worldly Conquest.

And the prophet taketh last week off, and drinketh his grog, and trimmeth his festering toe-nails, and grouteth his bathroom tile, for Vandy is Candy, the weasely wine-coolerish wimpolians of the lordly SEC, and unworthy of sacred prophecy. But without the words of the prophet, the dawgly warriors approacheth the land of embarrassment. No more shall the prophet restrain his revelation! The Bumpkins of Birmingham goeth down! And lo, the Gigglesome Gators goeth down! And great shall be the words of the other prophet, Munson the Muscle-Mouthed. And great shall be the tailgate feasts, and frothy and full-bodied the grog, and frothy and full-bodied the ten thousand wanton wenches of Athens. Amen.

Letters to Ooga (including Hickolean prophecy) – 10/9/2003

Dear Ooga,
My name is Henry and I am 5-years-old and I would like to play for the Dawgs when I get big and how can I get big?

Dear Henry,
As a budding young dawgling, my child, thou must first gird up thy loins and overthrow thy wee boon companions on the playground. Craft thyself a seemly weapon; Ooga suggesteth thou embellish thy kickball with spikes and affix a chain of iron. Brandish it with manly gore-lust and feed thy Cub Scout mates the belching flame of thy wrath. But lo, little one, do not flay the comely little wenches. These ye must keep in trust for the prophet’s eventual use. The prophet shall give thee counsel concerning wenchcraft when thou comest of age and sprouteth the first bristles of thy manly beard, usually at age 7.

Dear Ooga,
I am honey-blonde and thirtyish with a new love in my life. Elwood is an international women’s fragrance magnate. After a whirlwind courtship we embarked hand in hand, heart in heart upon a life of domestic wedded bliss. After a dreamy honeymoon in Rio, O Ooga, we’re setting up housekeeping in Elwood’s family manor, Blandings of lower Lilburn. But alas! A problem of physical intimacy has troubled the bright beacon of our wedded delight. I am a former gymnast and ..

Dear Ooga,
Um, I hate to interrupt, but what’s all this &*^%$^*# mailroom #$(&?? We want the DANG PROPHECY!!! Me, Squat-n-Honk-Dawg, and BigBoogerDawg are leaving for Knoxious Knukesville in about ten minutes! Don’t wanna be rude but can you GET TO THE GOOD STUFF? Just type out hickolean hill people and Phulmer the Phoul and a few good’uns like that, that’s all we need.

Dear Hairy-Nostils-Dawg,
Flay thyself and consume thy own fresh entrails. The prophet diggeth his public.

Dear Ooga,
Did you know Casey Clausen’s successor is either a) L’il Ice Man (Rick Clausen) or b) JIM BOB COOTER? Rumor is, Thomas Davis’ll be chasin’ Cooter all over town! Haw haw! (snort)

Dear Ooga,
Where you at? Took me a yar to figger out what be a hobnail boot, & a nuther’un to save up to buy one. Now I’m comin’ to put a big urnge-chekkered hobnailer all the way up yer smokies to yer rocky top. Just tell me where you at?

Dear Ooga,
C’mon, gimme some credit, the Jim Bob Cooter thing, it’s TRUE! You gotta admit that’s funny! For that, take this mental image: a rematch of Freakin Friedgen vs Phat Foul, this time sumo-rasslin.

LO, MANY AND MISERABLE were the years of Vast, Vile, Villainous Vollish Vanquishment in the dark ages of dawgliness. And in that day came many such as Raynoch the Repulsive, Chaplain of the Cheap Shot; Peyton the Heismanless, revealer of his hindquarters to training wenches; and various and sundry heinous hickolean hooligans. THEN cometh the new millennium, bringing forth Richt the Righteous and Greene the Groovemaster, SMITELY SMASHERS of Phulmer the Phoul and Phlabby.

THREE TIMES prevaileth the People of the Dawg in victory. THREE TIMES hath Clausen the Clueless munched upon the gore-sprinkled sod of Saintly Sanford and Kneeless of Knoxville. And Jabari the Jabber-wocky, returneth he not to the tasty Peach Bowl of his desires?

HEAR, O HAPLESS HUNKS O’ HICKOLEAN HALF-WITLERY! Kneeless of Knoxville holdeth no fear for the People of the Dawg. The screechings of thy scruffy scalawags are no more than phulmerly phlatulence, though we beseech thee to aim carefully in thy snuff-spittings.

Phulmer the Flabmeister couldst not out-scheme Van Halen, how then shall he outsmarteth Van Gorder? Davis the Devastator and Pollack the Pulverizer, hath they not enjoyed many quarterbacks for between-meal snacks? The Devastator shall squeeze until the helmet poppeth off Clausen’s Rocky Top; the Pulverizer shall plant forth his cactusly cranium in the soil, and Uga VI shall provide fertilizer, that there shall grow forth a memorial to Dawgly Domination in the Halls of Hickolean Heroism.

And Clausen, the Great Sour Pickle Tree, shall blossom upon the Power Tee at midfield, named for the power of Tee’s bank account; that henceforth no one shall stomp forth upon it again without getting spikes in their spikes. AMEN.