The Gatorache Book of Ooga – 10/26/2000

And lo, the appointed day and hour came for the Great and Hallowed Cocktail Party of the Southern Waste, that which was a sacred and manly tradition in olden days. And the People of the Dawg mounted forth their SUVS and their RVs and all manner of vehicles and began the great pilgrimage to that place which lies on the Reeking River of Refuse, where dwell the most feeble and annoying hordes of all the earth–the Yankee tribes which cometh upon the sacred southern regions like puny mosquitos which whineth in the air, without ceasing, about how much better things are in the place where they chooseth no longer to live, and they yammereth on and on about the Big Ten hordes, which are slow of foot and of wit. And it was unto them, the Yammering Yankee People, that the ancient prophet Lewis, he who resteth his tired ash between the Holy Hedges, sayeth, “Lo, Yankee Mongrels! Delta is ready when you are.”

But in the Southern waste, where lie the beaches, there dwell countless cowering Yammering Yankee People. And they are an offense to the Hunkering Hermit, who would confine them to the Stinking Sewers which some calleth New Jersey. And of these tribes, the most offensive to the Hermit are those known as the People of the Gator, they whose chieftain is Spurrier the Spurious, the Vizier of the Visor, who haileth from the South but speaketh with all the manners and courtly etiquette of the Yammering Yankee. And lo, it is said that this is because little pieces of Bill Stanfill, he who sacketh him savagely in 1966, are to this very day imbedded in the heinous hindquarters of Spurrier the Spurious, and it giveth him pain to sit down. And this also is the reason the Vizier of the Visor speaketh out of those hindquarters.

Hear me, ye Putrid, Pompous, Pus-pocked, Punk-packed People of the Gator–the day of retribution cometh! The People of the Dawg shall rise up again, and swarm thy puny linemen, and spanketh thy prepubescent quarterback, and enslave thy comelier cheerleader wenches. Fear the name of Alt-Hell Stadium, for it shall run deep and smelly with Gator entrails. The number of our passers is three, and the number of our runners is four, and the number of our catchers is seven, and the number of thy losses to the Dawgs of the SEC is two. For thy encounter with Sherrill the Shady, was it not an omen of thy deathly doomish Dawgian destiny?

And the People of the Dawg shall destroy thee utterly and without mercy or stopping for commercial breaks, and the hindquarters of the Spurious One shall ache anew, and he shall attempt to throw his visor, but Donnan the Dominator shall hurl it for him, without stopping to remove it from the head. And the People of the Dawg shall return to the sacred city of Athens, with the Severed Head in their car, and the Severed Head shall look up to the leering visage of the Hunkering Hermit and repeat, as of old, the truest words he has spoken: “The Dawgs were better’n us today. This is their day.”

And the People of the Dawg shall bark long into the night, and exchange many high-fives, and open forth another six-pack, and fly high the flags, and blare Larry loudly from the car stereos, and hurl lusty Rebel Yells, and sporteth with the slave wenches, and order forth the videotape, and retaketh the Top Ten, and maketh room in the bandwagon, and make a Home of the Dome, and silence forth the Yammering Yankees, even as the Hickolian Hill People were silenced, and then, having slept for 13 days, turn their eyes to the Plains of Auburn, where revenge has been foretold. Ooga certifieth this prophecy! Hear it and fear it, or face the wrath of his spiked club!

The Mummefied Book of Ooga – 10/19/2000

And lo, in ancient times, there was but one chieftain who was known and feared in all lands for the majesty of his hair: Spurrier the Spurious, he who ruleth from the reeking swamplands of the South.

But behold, an ill wind befalleth the People of the Gator, and many things stinketh: the defense of the Gator People reeketh; then the quarterbacks of the Gator People reeketh with great stench; then the coaching of the Spurious One himself reeketh with the most stupendous stink of all; and the Spurious One yanketh off his Victory Visor, and hurleth it at the dirt, and messeth up his hair. And lo, even as the hair of the Spurious One falleth into chaos, the evil spell weareth off and nevermore has there been a Championship for the People of the Gators.

And many there were to arise and seek forth to be the new Man with the Mane; but many there were with the Dandruff of Desolation, and the Uncomely Comb-Over, and many who consorteth with the Bumbling Barbers of Barbarism who layeth a coach’s head to ruin.

But one there was who emerged with the magnificent Big Hair to silence the reeking hordes of the SEC. And lo, he was the Mummefied Mumbler, he who leadeth the Warriors of the Wildcat Wastelands. For his hair soareth to heights never attained by the Wildcat warriors themselves, and he wrappeth a sweater around his neck for he thinketh it maketh him look like Batman. And lo, while the proud and manly warriors of the opposition laugheth at his weak and girlish demeanor, his team throweth a multitude of girly-passes and maketh first downs. And many there are who say, “Behold, the Mummefied One, is he not a wise and crafty chieftain?” And they sayeth this for about three minutes. For then, the proud and manly warriors of the opposition stoppeth laughing and begin their savage and merciless conquest of the feeble Wildcat warriors. And lo, the Mummefied One calleth the fake punt, and his opponent chuckleth heartily and beateth upon him; and the Mummefied One tryeth a gimmick play, and his opponent chuckleth some more and beateth upon him; and the Mummefied One throweth another girly-pass, and his opponent haveth a good hee haw, scoopeth the hallowed hogskin out of the air, scoreth, and beateth upon him yet some more.

And the Mummefied One hurleth words unfit for wenches and young warriors, and raketh his Big Hair with his fingers, and throweth off his cape, and stompeth his little feet.

And to the South, where the People of the Dawg are soon to invade, the Spurious one sayeth, “Hmmm. A cape. I never thought of that.”

The Vandified Book of Ooga – 10/13/2000

And lo, when the Big Dawg created the world, he looked upon it and saw that it was a Dawgly world, and it was good; and he furnished it with many Dawgly creations, such as trees, and bushes, and telephone poles, and fire hydrants, and Tech alumni, that the People of the Dawg might never lack for inspiration in their great and masterly target practice. And so the Big Dawg divided the earth and all its tribes into two varieties: the Dawg and the Drenched; the predator and the prey; The muncher and the munchee.

And of all the reeking tribes of the world, they whose scent lureth the People of the Dawg, they who are weak and unmanly and provide fitting targets for the lordly lifted leg of the canine conqueror, none excels the tribe known as the Vandiferous Book-bearing Peoples of Nashville. For truly may it be said that in defenselessness and impotency they have no equal. Behold, the Commodore People combine the powerful military defenses of France with the sea-going aptitudes of the Swiss navy. And the People of the Dawg looketh upon them, and sayeth, “Behold, here are weak and churlish men. See, even now they readeth poetry and nibbleth stinky cheeses–from France! See, they disdaineth the beer appointed forth for those wise in the ways of the Big Dawg, and drinketh wine coolers instead! See, they weareth yellow for our inspiration; yellow is our color; let us go forth and relieve ourselves.”

And thus the People of the Dawg openeth a can, but it containeth no caviar of the Commodore People. It containeth the Deadly, Devouring Defense of Dawgly Devastation and Destruction, and it wreaketh havoc among the whining and whimpering weasels of the wastes of Nashville. And the Big Dawg hangeth 40, nay, 50 points upon his emfeebled opponent, and still haveth enough left in him to water the holy hedges of Sacred Sanford, that they might grow strong and mighty in future generations. And those who survive nurseth their bruises, returneth forth to Nashville, drinketh their wine coolers, nibbleth their cheese, and read many French poems, and dream of the great day when they might finally slip down to the dredges of the ACC, where they might play Wake Forest forever and ever. Amen.

The Vile Book of Ooga – 10/5/2000

And lo, the children of Israel lived in bitter desolation during their capitivity to the Towering Towel-Heads of Babylon. And the people of Asia Minor suffered and shed unmanly tears during the epoch of Roman enslavement. And the Prissy Pastry People of France, yea, even they who men calleth the Vanderbilt of Europe, have they not been enslaved by all people except the Doddering Fool-People of Canada?

And behold, the People of the Dawg–let it be said! Sayeth the words! Choketh them out! They have been surely and unduly enslaved, captivated, disenfranchised, held in thrall, branded, stigmatized, vanquished, subjugated, be-yoked, besmirched and be-whoop-iced by the Hickolian Hill People of the Weasely Walls of Neyland. Ooga must stoppeth to shreik here.

EEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!

Thanketh you.

And an ancient curse surely causeth this Age of Darkness, for the warrior Brice Hunter, droppeth he not the pass? And he of Studly Magnitude, Robert Edwards, breaketh he not the foot? And Peyton of the Exposed Bum, breaketh he not the records?

And great weeping hath there been among the People of the Dawgs. And great wrath, and pointing forth of the fingers, and questioning forth of the play-calling. And the half-breed half-wit Hickolian Hill-posters, they behaveth not as proud and manly battlefield champions but as jabbering juvenile jackals, until Ooga ariseth to smite 70 or 80 or them just on principle.

And the prophet sayeth, IT ENDETH HERE. For lo, the curse is lifted! The People of the Dawg invoketh sorcery of their own, and calleth forth an even more ancient spell, yea, a spell known as BETTER PLAYERS. And the lumpish linemen of the Vols, are they worthy of facing the Great Wall of Stroud and the Tremblesome Tremor of Seymour? And they who calleth themselves defensive backs, are they a match for the quicksilver quiver of Quincy? And when Donnan the Devourer calleth Dibs on Gibbs, he sealeth the doom of the hickolian ones! Lo, let us worship now at the Shrine of the Staunch D!

And the People of the Dawg shall howl together even as 86,000 rabid, blood-craving, entrail-coveting hellhounds. And they shall stomp their stands until the Holy Hedges Heave, the Sacred Sod Shakes, and a Ravening Red Rift opens in the earth to swallow the Vile, Vain, Vitriolic and Vomitous Vol-People. Only Fulmer the Foul shall be spared, for the rift shall not be quite wide enough for his loathesome lumbering lumpishness to fit. And he shall be skinned, and cleaned, and prepared for Sacrifice to the Great Dawg Idol of the Eastern End Zone, and his blood shall paint it red. And the bones shall be tossed to Uga VI. And the band shall play, and the People of the Dawg shall sing and frolic and administer High-Fives and produce a multitude of offspring, even before departing the Temple of the Dawg, and they shall nameth these offspring Stroud-Mary and Jasper Junior and Little Grant the Gruntmeister. And the cleansing rains shall come, and the People of the Dawg shall NOT go home. And the tropical storm shall come, and the People of the Dawg shall NOT go home. And Thanksgiving shall come, and the People of the Dawg shall sniff the air, and their gastric juices shall rise up, and still they shall NOT go home.

And in mid-December, when the spirits of the bottle runneth dry, the People of the Dawg, yea, they shall go home. They shall climb forth into their SUVs and journey to outermost suburbia. And there will be no more sidewalks to protect forth from tailgaters, for they shall have been partied flat. And there will be no evil negotiations of home-and-home with the People of the Gator, for Sanford shall have been partied flat. And there shall be no more issues or bashing or moaning or groaning or grunting, for the people themselves shall have been partied flat.

And the Hunkering Hermit shall sigh in relief, and stew himself a fine possum, and read forth the scouting reports on Vanderbilt, the France of the SEC.

The Second Book of Ooga – 9/7/2000

And lo, having vanquished the misbegotten midget micro-marauders from the stenchly stinklands of Statesboro, the People of the Dawg howled, high-fived, hiked, hunkered, and hankered for a worthier adversary. And they cast their eyes northward, to the Colossal Cockroach of Columbia, where dwell they who crow like the cock but vanish into cracks like the Roach.

And the People of the Dawg said, “Lo, worthier adversaries these are most assuredly not! But we maketh not the schedule, so whatcha gonna do?”

And the blood of the midgets having been spilt, and the thirst of the holy hedges having been satisfied, the People of the Dawg journeyed on foot many miles to the places wherefore they had tailgated forth, lo, even unto Watkinsville, and some unto villages even more remote; arriving at the places of their recreational vehicles and sacred SUVS and savage sedans, weary from the long midnight pilgrimage but filled with joy for having consumed forth many six-packs and wantonly ogled forth countless comely co-eds. And lo, they cranked forth their engines, and it was revealed unto them that the appointed time and hour had already come to journey forth yet again, even to the Colossal Cockroach of Columbia, so they set their hearts toward invasion and road-tripped forth north, howling and honking, hunkering and hankering for a hammering.

And behold, an easy hammering it shall be, for is not the Clan of the Cockroach celebrated for its astounding feebleness? Is not he a womanly, wimpish and wishy-washy warrior who taketh down his sacred goal-post for a trouncing of New Mexico State, an unworthy sacrifice, having vomited forth the ball six times even so? Aye! Behold the Cheesy, Chattering, Choking, Chumpish Chuckle-heads of Chickenland. And is it not written among the scribes of the ancients, that thou canst not spell LOUSY without LOU? And is this not September, wherein the air is filled with a Chock of Cock Crock around the Clock?

Thus the Big Dawg shall enjoy a filet, for the Chumps of the Chicken are spineless; and then he shall spew forth, for it is whispered forth that Lou the Chicken Chieftain is half-baked. But even so, there shall still be a feast, for the People of the Dawg shall open forth a massive can. Seymour the Sackmeister shall return in glory, to visit untold tribulation upon the feeble blockers who wouldst hinder him; Grant the Gut-Grinder and Kendrell the Keister-Kicker shall descend upon the Chumpish Ones like grease upon Original Recipe. And the Clan of the Cockroach shall silence their chickenly chattering yet again, lo, for ten months, until that time wherein the Rule of the Rooster shall once again be proclaimed, as of olde, by feeble false prophets. But they shall be easy to pluck, even as they suck, for the truck of the Cluck is stuck in the muck. And out of luck.

And lo, who letteth the dawg out?