The Y2 Book of Ooga – 12/29/99

The Y2 Book of Ooga
Posted by saxondawg on 10:25 AM 29-Dec-99

I always lose track of the Hunkering Hermit this time of year. I’m busy with serious holiday eating, bowl-watching and more eating; Ooga’s out on the recruiting trail. We only use him with prospects in truly critical situations. For those of you without “sources” (and is there anybody left without “sources”?), here is Georgia’s normal 8-step recruiting procedure, moving from soft-sell to toughest cases:

1. Regional specialist at high school game
2. Position coach in home
3. Coach Donnan in home
4. Coach Garner in home
5. Coach Garner in church
6. Coach Garner in bathroom, handing prospect the tissue
7. A visit from Ooga
8. Nobody has ever gotten to #8.

Ooga is master of the “shake, rattle, enroll” school of football recruiting–by the time he finishes shaking and rattling the prospect, they’re ready to enroll. He’s not too long on the sweet-talk stuff. Matter of fact, when a freshman has to take a redshirt due to slow healing of spike abrasions, that’s a pretty good clue Ooga’s been in his home.

But this week finds Ooga in the Sunshine State for the Outback. I thought I’d track him down and get his thoughts on our matchup with Purdue. Of course, he never registers under his own name (he thinks it’s a hilarious gag to sign in as “Atilla” and reserve an extra suite in the name of “Huns”). Finally I found him checked in at the Surf and Stalk Inn in Ybor City, under the name “H. Unker.” (Good one, Ooga.)

When he didn’t answer my knock, I figured he must be out trapping his dinner. But it turned out he was–of all places–out on the beach. I walked by him five times slowly before I was certain it was really the Prophet himself. Maybe it was the Ray-Bans. Maybe it was the Speedo loin-cloth (he was clad in no other raiment; I suggest you not attempt this mental picture). Everyone else had moved their chairs and towels a good forty yards away, except for Larry Munson. Ooga was listening to Jimmy Buffett on a boom box and drinking something pink with a little umbrella in it. “Um . . . Ooga?” I asked, timidly.

“‘S’up, dude?” he drawled, slurping his drink.

I told him it was time to talk some football. Did he have any visions or revelations? A New Year prophecy of the Millennium? He paused a minute, dragged a forefinger through the sand, and said, “Chill, dude, okay?”

Again I looked closely to see if it was really Ooga. Munson was saying, “Turks, in the Holy City. Eleventh Century. Now there was a TOUGH one to beat. And you had to go on the ROAD and face those guys. DO YOU REALIZE we had to travel there THREE times? That was a WAR, that’s what it was.”

“Ooga, O Wise One,” I said, ignoring Larry, “Dawgnation needs you. Speak to me. What about Brees?”

“Yeah, how ’bout it?” said the hermit, giggling as the wind lifted his mane.

“Sixty-three degrees, coming off the Gulf,” said Jim from Duluth, who just happened to walk by at that moment. He was in a Speedo too, I’m sad to say.

“This is a big one, Ooga,” I persisted. “Don’t ease up now.”

“Yeah, Dude, whatever. Hey, man, could you turn up my blaster, dude? That’s my main man Ricky Martin!”

“Buffett,” said Munson pensively. “I just don’t get this Parrothead thing. Somebody explain that. And DID HE SAY, ‘Stepped on a pop top, blew out my flip flops?’ What was THAT all about? Fly-fishing. Now there’s a sport for you.”

Just then a HUGE wave, I mean a really big one, washed over us. It washed away everything–radio, deck chairs, Munson, even the little dab of Coppertone on Ooga’s nose. I think the Big Dawg sent this wave. It knocked Ooga back into character, just as I ran out of time and space here on the Vent. I caught a few words of the angry prophecy as Ooga was running out to sea, spiking sea creatures and surfers with his club. Again, sorry I don’t have room for detail, especially since it was awe-inspiring stuff–but you can be certain it involved the Great Wall of Stroud, Seymour the Sackmaster, and the “mangled, half-chewed arm of Drew the Dead.” I think there were six Los and five Beholds, if that helps you.

Bottom line, it looks as if the Dawgs will bark in the New Year.

Oh, and Munson wanted me to add this little prophecy of his own: “”Old Lady Luck will be HUNG OVER, just HUNG OVER, at 11 a.m. Saturday, and she’s gonna HEAVE! DO YOU REALIZE the Old LADY is gonna HEAVE all over that field.”” I’m not certain what that means, but Larry seems pretty firm about it.

The Final Book of Ooga – 11/24/99

Posted by saxondawg on 1:11 PM 24-Nov-99

Ooga, the hunkering hermit, girds up his loins, sharpens his spikes, shakes the Thanksgiving-roasted-mole-and-dumpling leftovers from his beard, and lets out a ground-shaking bellow. If dinosaurs still walked the earth, they would run for shelter. Ooga is limbering up for his final and greatest mortal battle with the forces of evil. The prophet clears his throat, coughs up a half-chewed lizard, and speaks:

Lo! Behold! The final dark days of the thousand-year-period enter their dusk, darkness begins to fall, and the long-foretold Millennium, The Thousand Years of Dawg Dominion, when Red and Black shall rule and the Vol shall lie down with the Gator, are imminent. Have not Ooga’s fabled ancestors of old, from Erk of Thunderdome to Krug the Impaler, not spoken? Have they not pointed to the Nebulous Ninety-Eight of the Nerdpeople, when the Holy Hedges of Herschel would be defiled? Have they not spoken of the Wanton Walloping of the Wheelchair Warriors, when the Nerdpeople would overcome the only challengers they were capable of confronting? And did not the fearsome Goldberg the Gallbladder-Muncher warn that a day of reckoning would close out these thousand years?

Lo, that day of reckoning has arrived.

Nerdpeople! Hear my solemn growlings! Come thee hence from behind thy computers, thy science fair competitions, thy Star Trek marathons–and know thy Dark, Dire Destiny of DoubleDawg Devastation. Take off thy thick glasses and deliver them to thy ever-hovering mothers. Remove thy pocket protectors and bequeath them to thy sniveling and nose-picking little brothers. The People of the Dawg will not toy with thee this year.

No, ye vile and nauseating dorkish ones! They shall rise up and invade the foul, stinking wasteland known as Grunt Field. With a cry of vengeance, the Dawgnation shall fall upon thy frail and weakly bodies. The Great Wall of Stroud shall collapse on you. Seymour the Sissycrusher has a thigh greater in girth than thy entire puny quarterback, and he shall prove it in a display that will disgust the millions who behold on the Sacred Screen.

Thy midget quarterback shall seek shelter beneath the cavernous butt of Friedgen the Fat, but he shall be caught by Kendrell the Dweeb-Dicer. And the lightning feet of Quincy the Quick shall create a great fire at the center of thy gnarly field, and Donnan the Dominator shall seize thy warrior chief, O’Leary the Oleaginous (“of or pertaining to oil”–saith Webster’s Dictionary). And the Oleaginous one will be thrust into the fire, whose flames shall leap high into the night, illuminating the ancient city of Atlanta, which shall burn yet again with Yankee fuel, only this time the infinite and oily bodily fats of the Yankee.

And all the invading, whining Yankees of Atlanta will sniff the wretched stench of the burning Oleaginous oils, and the odor shall remind them of New Jersey and bring them forth, and they shall be thrust into the fire which shall rage ever greater. And when all the Yankees and Nerdpeople of the inferior kingdom have been roasted, and Ooga has eaten his fill of barbecued muskrat and is drunk with grog, the Great Dawg, yea, UGA VI himself, shall lift his fabled leg and quench the flames.

And lo, the remaining entrails of Joe Hamilton shall be boxed up, and delivered unto graduation, and shipped off to Canada where he shall play Arena Football unto the end of the Age, leaving the Nerdpeople to annual losses to Wake Forest and Duke. And the Nerdpeople will snivel forever and suddenly become interested in basketball again as of old, and the Big Dawg shall reign for a thousand years.

Amen!

Short Press Release: Ooga Won’t Address Rumors – 11/19/99

Short Press Release: Ooga Won’t Address Rumors
Posted on 1:31 PM 19-Nov-99

Thought you’d all be interested in this dispatch from today’s Daily Barbarian, if you missed it:

Will He Stay or Will He Go?
Hermit Surrounded by Rumors
by Lothar the Disemboweler, Beat Reporter

ATHENS- (Barbarian Press Intnl.) The legendary cave is silent this week, but the surrounding forest reverberates with whispers. As has become an annual late-season tradition, Ooga the Hunkering Hermit is rumored to be taking his weekly prophecies to another warrior horde.

The prophet emerged only to make a short, terse statement early Friday.

“Lo, the way of the wind, does it not carry the stench of lies?” said the prophet.

“Is that a denial?” asked several reporters, shouting above the commotion.

“TV Anchor-weaklings with big hair of women are scaring away Ooga’s dinner!” grunted the hermit to the TV reporters, disappearing into his cave.

“That’s all, gentlemen, show’s over,” said Ooga’s press agent, known only as “Saxondawg.”

“The rafts are waiting down below. Watch that 30-foot-drop along the rapids on your way back and keep your microphones dry.”

“We want more than that! I got my hair mussed by a bobcat for this?” said a voice remarkably like that of the cartoon character Bullwinkle. It was Chuck Dowdle.

‘Saxondawg’ ignored him, however.

The rumors persist that Ooga is tight with some old clan warriors and grog-drinking buddies from the University of North Carolina. However, some point out that Ooga has persistently referred to the Atlantic Coast Conference as “an alliance of whining girly-men who must be thrashed and the smoking earth sown with their bloody remains.”

Some say this is mild language for Ooga, however, who may be “keeping his options open.”

However, Ooga’s failure to issue a weekly prophecy has excited a new round of gossip.

‘Saxondawg’ claims that the hermit receives his revelations from the dawgly spirits present in the night sky, but that the air this week has been polluted by wailing, lamentations and rumor-mongering among the Dawgnation.

“Lo, nothing but static,” Ooga has reputedly been overheard to mutter.

(Gormak the Gut-Thrasher and Spikeface the Bringer of Pain contributed to this story.)

The Ninth Book of Ooga – 11/10/99

The Ninth Book of Ooga
Posted by saxondawg on 2:34 PM 10-Nov-99

In the beginning, the Big Dawg created the Heavenly Hedges and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void where prohibited.

On the first day, he made the People of the Dawg. And he was well pleased.

On the second day, he fashioned the Chickens of the Plains, that the Dawgs may have some vile and objectionable creature to thrash and pummel and inflict diverse varieties of pain upon. And so, before all manner of reptiles and hill people and insects ever teed it up, the People of the Dawg and the Chickens of the Plains, lo, they duketh it out.

But the Chickens of the Plains were corrupt, and claimed for themselves a foul and dung-encrusted wasteland, like unto Clemson; and like unto the fetid, reeking provinces of Neyland and the Swamp; yea, fouler even than the stinking coops of Columbia, and almost but not quite as heinous as the Midtown Hive of the Buzzing Gnat. And they called that land Auburn, for the word meaneath “brown.” And the Chickens of the Plains thought that was beautiful.

But green must be the wallets of the Chickens of the Plains; for hath they not enriched the polyester pockets of Tater Tot the Tiny One, as an enticement to keep silent? (Lo, many there have been who would pay not to hear the Tiny One’s porcine squealings.) Hath the Chicken People not cast gold and jewels and deferred stock enticements upon the Cringing Criminoles of Tallahassee, as an enticement not to inflict nationally televised humiliation upon the Chicken People? Lo, they who driveth the tractors must have harvested bounteous bushels of payoff booty! But all thy wealth, can it buy an offense?

Hear, O Chicken People! The Big Dawg heareth the Band, and it’s playing “our” song! Glory, glory! And he says unto you, take thy fistfuls of booty and buyeth your OWN song; for thou wilt shortly be changing thy tune anyway, and it shall begin, “Gory, gory!” For the Big Dawg hath looked upon the Chief Chicken, the Tubb-of-Vile, he whose ears are like unto radars. Hear these words with those Ears of Enormity, Tubb-of-Vile! The Big Dawg will prove that the Heavenly Hedges of Sanford are Holy Hedges, and no invading chickenly band shall roost successfully here in the future. For the Great Wall of Stroud is stronger than chickenwire, and ye shall not score. Grant the Grinder shall squeeze thy puny quarterbacks, and ye shall not score. Thy Bell shall be rung, so gird up thy loins! But ye shall not score. And Quincy the Quieter-Recently, is he not due for a break-out game? Shall he not riddle thy feeble, prancing cornerbacks with pigskins of propulsion? Shall not Sanks the Savage trample thy feathery birdmeat?

And lo, on the Sixth Day the Big Dawg covereth the spread. And on the Seventh Day the Big Dawg shall rest. And on the Eighth Day, in an empty stadium, the People of the Chicken MAY score. On a field goal.

Ooga’s Weekend of Weirdness and the Saga of the Baker Man – 11/8/99

Ooga’s Weekend of Weirdness
Posted by saxondawg on 3:57 PM 08-Nov-99

Ooga the Hunkering Hermit, Spiked Bludgeon Hobbyist, Dealer of Double-Dawg Devastation and 6-Time Grand Champion of the Northwest Georgia Stinky Breath Tournament, HATES Dawg off-weeks. Generally he ends up sacking, raping and pillaging some peasant village on the order of Lavonia or Cornelia. No one but recruits from our short list makes it out alive. Then he orders a pizza and smites the delivery boy. But it’s just not the same as Saturday Between the Holy Hedges.

This weekend Ooga crept out by the highway with the sole intention of weeping, wailing and rending his garments. But he saw a northbound caravan and his curiosity got the best of him. The hermit hopped the back of an SUV packed with chattering yuppies and clung to the underside for two hours. The strength required was no problem for Ooga, but the smooth, jazzy sounds of Kenny G wafting through the floorboard nearly provoked a savage rage in the prophet.

When the vehicle came to a stop, Ooga found himself surrounded by mountains–and scores of yuppies, a veritable fighting brigade of them! He nearly screeched in manly panic, but realized a wise warrior would avoid drawing attention to himself. He had to blend in (a challenging task given his ground-length beard encrusted with spilled bites of chipmunk and pepperoni). Luckily, the yuppie hordes were prancing to and fro exclaiming about the colors of the leaves, bantering with pumpkin and apple-sellers and screeching whenever they found a barn with Coca-Cola painted on the roof.

Ooga felt he had never been in the presence of such mindless insanity, even at a Clemson home game. Worshipers of dead leaves! His mind struggled to comprehend it. Finally failing to ascribe any reason, he smote 47 of the yuppies and hung them from the trees they chattered so much about. This lifted his spirits a bit. Just then another caravan came through–heading south. Ooga was all too pleased to leap onto a vehicle. This time the sounds he heard were more of the type that brought him comfort–manly oaths and cursing. But the voices, though coming from men, were like those of weak and silly girls. Ooga noticed all the cars were driven by gold-clad girly-men in glasses with many facial blemishes, and they looked VERY sad; many were sniveling–not weeping as a manly warrior does when his city has fallen, but sniveling. The most puzzling thing was that, though these were obviously NOT the People of the Dawg, many were barking; at least he kept hearing “Roof, roof.” And all along the road little gold flags had been discarded, and all of them looked less than a year old. Gold sweaters and hats, too, were being flung aside as if the wearers suddenly resolved to abandon that color and go into hiding.

It was a peculiar weekend for Ooga, as off-weeks always are. He is now gladly summoning the Dawg gods for his weekly prophecy.