Ooga’s Eighth Prophecy: Auburn – 11/3/2001

And lo, the time came when the Big Dawg vanished from the shadow of the gridiron, and none were the sightings of him, yea, even for two weeks. And great was the anticipation of the People of the Dawg, and restless were they, having to behold with their eyes instead the feeble wranglings of neighboring tribes, even the Old Mist Rabbles and the Pig People of Puny Rock, they who were too unmanly to prevail against one another in their womanly skirmish. But the People of the Dawg knew that they, the hallowed and herculean heroes of the Holy Hedges, would arise again, yea, even to take and smite forth their most ancient of battle foes, their rivals of much longstanding, even they who are called the Pez People of the Auburn waste, for yea, they have interchangeable heads.

For do not these people wear for a period the head of the tiger, then do they not place upon themselves, hence, the head of the Eagle? And do they not then appear under the head of Dumbo, he of the massive coachly ears? And the superior peoples who would invade them, should they journey to the Plains or the Jungle? Surely these strategems are concocted to confuse their enemies, and to save them in overtime from the fierce chieftains of Northeastern Louisiana, they who skirmished in overtime with the Tiger Eagles from the Jungle Plain. And surely it was confusion that salvaged the Pez People from going down by an even greater score to the Pig People of Puny Rock.

But lo, in truth the Pez People are a haughty and arrogant people, for they are empowered and made to supernaturally substitute their heads by the dark sorcery of the Brazen Banker of the Board, yea, even he who lurks in the trustee shadows and is known to be Lowder, using all the black magic of capital funding to work his dark evil on the Pez Plainsmen who ride forth, transforming their many heads at will.

But hear this, O people of indeterminant mascotry: The People of the Dawg rideth under ONE NAME! The Hallowed Head of the Holy Hunkering Hound doth not change like the wind, and the Domain of Dawgly Domination respondeth not to trendy nicknames. But your heads shall supply many trophies suitable for display upon the Wondrous Walls of Sacred Sanford. On the west wall shall rest the tiger head of olde, striped with blood. And on the east wall shall be seen the head of the Great Bald Eagle, he who is endangered and soon be extinct. And on the north wall we shalt behold a blank spot, for the sorcerer known as Lowder seems to not have much of a head on his shoulders. But on the south wall, that direction most sacred of all, shall rest two elephantine ears, cut off from the head of the chieftain himself. For it has been said of old of all those crowned of the Pez head, that on the other end their hindquarters spew forth candy. And the People of the Dawg shall chew thy candy a new Pez-hole, and thus smite one more feeble infidel of the weakly west, and turn their attention to the reeking wastelands where dwell the Rabble of the Old and Smelly Mist. And great will be their season; and bodacious shall be their bowl. Amen.

Ooga’s Seventh Prophecy: Florida – 10/21/2001

And lo, the time of tribulation came when darkness fell upon all the lands of the Southeastern hordes. This was the age of the fierce and ruthless chieftain, Spurrier the Spurious, the Visored Vizier, he who rose up in savagery among the Gator People of the Reeking Swamp, until his fingers were filled with rings which were emblems of mastery over all the Southeastern Hordes. Great and mighty was he, brilliant of mind was he, handsome of countenance and studly of fashion accessories was he, but all these things true only in his mind, which was a gaping canyon engulfed in the echoes of his own braggadocio. In sooth, most of the people agreed that behold, here was one arrogant and braying ass, and soon should the world be rid of him.

And so many were the tribes who came forward to challenge the Kaiser of the Visor, namely the Hickolian Hill People who were soundly thumped, thwacked and thwarted annually; and yea, the Tide tried, but were denied; and great was the feebleness of they who took on the Gator Goliath and failed. But there was one who knew the hidden weaknesses of the Spurious One. And he was not of the Southeastern hordes, but of they who call themselves the Seminole Savages. And this chieftain, known as Richt the Righteous, emerged from among his tribe and became one with the People of the Dawg. And great was the rejoicing between the Holy Hedges of Sanford, and renewed was the revelry, and mad were the mat drills. For the whisper spread forth throughout the land that the People of the Dawg, whose bite was once again exceeding their bark, were rabid and foaming at the mouth once again.

And lo, the Greene Machine went forth into the gnarly Knoxville hills and slew the Hickolian Hill People, when the great hobnail boot came from the sky and inserted itself far into the nether regions of Foul Fulmer’s Fulsome Fanny, into places uncharted by any priestly proctologist of the heinous hills. But now, the People of the Dawg draweth nigh unto the Village of the Son of Jack, yea, also called Jacksonville, even unto Alt.Hell Stadium, where the Big Dawg shalt bringeth forth the pain in great cans to be opened forth before all the people.

Hear now the words of the prophet, O Gaseous Gator People. Thy decade of disgust draweth to a close. Thy chieftain practiceth golf strokes while the Big Dawg sharpeneth his teeth long into the night. Even the War Eagle Tiger People of the Jungle on the Plain, they who cannot decide upon an animal or a motif, they who bear the most severe identity confusion of all the hordes, even these feeble ones hath inserted their cleats in thy spongy hindquarters. Why thinkest ye that thou shalt escape the wrath of the Greene Machine? And lo, Lito is neato, but can he outleap Fred the Fast-Footed? Behold, Lito is meato. He shall know defeato.

And who is thy hurler, T-Rex Grossman? Or shalt we call him Retch Girlyman, for it is he who shalt be buried in Grant’s Tomb. Long will be the sniveling and whining among the People of the Gator until their tears stain their jean shorts and until they engage in screechy slap fights among themselves, yea, pounding one another with their Mighty Gator Chest Hair Medallions, and until they rid the world of themselves, amen and hallelujah. With joy shalt we behold their return to the Yankeeish lands from which they came and inflicted themselves upon these holy lands.

And having triumphed and overthrown, once and for all, the Gator Dictator, Richt the Righteous will come across the field and into the presence of the Spurious One, he who will be grimacing and cursing and kicking his various quarterbacks in various and sundry painful places of their bruised bodies. And Richt the Righteous will pull out the holy leatherbound playbook, and deliver forth the sermon: “Dear brother, is it not written in First Dawgations, that Gators Eateth Boogers? Here endeth the lesson.” And with that, Richt the Righteous shall reach out and lay hands on the halo surrounding Stephen’s head, yea, also known as the visor. And he shall yank it down until it covereth fully the neck, and proceed to twist it ever tighter until the face of Stephen is miraculously purple. And for all generations, this shall be known as “The Martyrdom of Stephen by St. Mark.” And framed lithographs shall be widely available.

And great shall be the partying in the streets of the Village of the Son of Jack. And loud shall be the barking. And outrageous and deranged shall be the Munsonisms. And cold and delicious shall be the beverages. And the People of the Dawg shall dwell in the House of the Dome forever.

The Inside Story of the Hobnail Boot Call – 10/8/2001

Special Report: Munson and Ooga
The Inside Story of the Hobnail Boot Call

ATHENS – The sailing football looked like a beachball to Verron Haynes. He was peacefully camped out on the orange checkerboard campground, waiting to clap his hands around the pigskin and posterity. Haynes was the only living creature in the stadium without a hillbilly in tobacco-spitting range. They were all looking for someone named “Vernon.” At the moment of the catch, Larry Munson made some history himself as he shouted, “We just stepped on their face with a hobnail boot and BROKE THEIR NOSE!”

Fearing he’d been too subtle, he added, “We just CRUSHED THEIR FACE!” For the dawgnation, sheer poetry.

Now, at last it can be told: The Bulldog Bard’s immortal line was not spontaneous. It was the culmination of a new partnership between Munson and Ooga, the Hunkering Hermit of Pigskin Prophecy. Munson had been fretting that his patented one-liners were losing a little of their customary chutzpah. He found himself looking to the hermit for inspiration.

The issue came to a head this weekend in Knoxville. During the halftime show, Munson anticipated a fourth quarter that would be a barn-burner. He called a full red alert for an Immortal Line. Everybody shrugged. So the famed announcer picked up the hotline to the home office of Munson Moments Inc. and said, “Home Office–whaddaya got?”

Larry Munson’s team of writers had been scribbling furiously as they watched the broadcast. They read off their newest brainchild: “TOUCHDOWN! Didja see THAT? Man, we contemplated the vicissitudes of DESTINY and interjected an alternative REALITY axis! I admit it, I communed with the dark underbelly of DESPAIR, so did YOU!”

Munson listened, grunted unhappily and asked if there was a fallback. There was: “The kick is GOOD! The thing soared on ethereal wings of FANCY into a wistful blue canopy of FLUFFY marshmallow clouds and happy-face TOMORROWS! I’ve BROKEN my BEANBAG chair!”

Munson was appalled. He stubbed his cigar into the telephone, fired all 750 employees in the home office, and slammed down the receiver. Then, looking around furtively, he pulled out a concealed hotline. Speaking into it, he said, “Hermit–Whaddaya got?”

For several years the two gravel-voices have been hunting buddies. Ooga has been teaching Munson to stalk and kill mountain lions with bare hands, and naked. In November of 1997, the hermit had happened to be in the booth when Mike Bobo threw the pass that beat Tech. Ooga provided Munson with the line, “They ripped out our HEART and we STUFFED it back in!” Munson loved the vivid violence of the image–anyone could “get the picture.”

Ever since, he had been clamoring for more barbarian word wizardry, but immortal fourth quarters were rare. It was the prophet who provided Saturday’s booted, nose-breaking, face-crushing line that became an instant classic. When asked about his relationship with the spike-helmeted warrior, Munson chuckled raspily and said, “Can you BELIEVE he wants payment in WOOD RODENTS? I told the little guy, ‘I got possums pancaked all over my driveway. Bring your shovel and eat up!'”

Munson refuses to confirm a future working relationship with Ooga, but sources reveal the prophet has already pre-uttered lines for most of the remaining games of 2001. Here are a few samples acquired by SaxonDawg International:

(For Vandy) Munson: “CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? We just came into their HOUSE, BLEW down their bedroom DOOR, and MASSACRED their whole family in their SLEEP!” Scott Howard: “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Munson: “We MASSACRED ’em, then DRANK their BLOOD!”

(For Florida) Munson: “YEAH! We were DEAD, RUN OVER, BLEEDING, and ONE MILLION GATOR TRUCKS had run over our bloody carcasses, then BACKED UP and rolled over ’em AGAIN . . . (Howard: “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”) . . . then we ROSE FROM THE ASPHALT AND BIT OFF THEIR NOSES!”

(For Auburn) Munson: “”WE SAVED OURSELVES! We just came FLYING down the field, carved new orifices ALL OVER their bodies, and FEASTED ON THEIR CORPSES!”” Howard: “”WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!””

(For Tech) Munson: “”MATT REDDING MATT REDDING, OH YOU MATT REDDING! I just cut off Scott Howard’s hand! Said I wasn’t gonna do it, but I cut his hand RIGHT OFF!”” Howard: “”WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!””

Stay tuned, some great moments are ahead. Just don’t plan any meals for the fourth quarter.

(c.2001 SaxonDawg International)

Ooga’s Third Prophecy: Arkansas – 9/23/2001

It’s been very difficult to get a prophecy from the Hunkering Hermit this week. He’s kept pretty busy over on the Afghan border. Ooga has a bunch of old grog-swilling Hun buddies over there, and he’s trying to mobilize them to kick some fuzzy llama tushie. He says these Yo-Tail-is-banned chuckleheads know NOTHING about terror. He’s ready to offer them a few pointers, each of which is freshly sharpened and on the business end of his famous spiked club. News reports are just beginning to come across the wire concerning severe turban perforation along the border. Ooga calls it Operation Sprinkler-Head. At any rate, I just caught up with him as he road by on a camel, humpin’ it down the Kabul highway. I had no idea a camel could gallop like that. I don’t think the poor camel did either.

So the Hermit and I sat down behind a dune and I presented him some fresh jackal meat, which he appreciated. I asked him to go ahead and finish dining before speaking, because I hate it when he spits jackal chunks on me in the middle of prophecying. After he ate his meat (it only fought back a little) and downed it with cactus grog, his eyes rolled back and he made contact with the Great Dawgly Spirit. Here is what he said:

“And lo…the Dawgs covereth the spread. Amen.”

I said, “…That’s it?”

He said, “Behold. That’s it. (Burp.)”

I said, “And for this I got jackal teeth marks on my rump? By the way, can you post yourself downwind on the belches? You might wipe out a few terrorist camps.”

He said, “The prophet is preoccupied; his mind returneth to the vile Osama. O sue me.”

Well, it took some contactual wrangling which I won’t relate here, mostly involving nomadic desert wenches. Ooga has a thing for nomadic desert wenches–I think the veil is sort of a turn-on for him. Anyway, finally he started up again.

“And lo, in the ancient times of olde, many were the ruthless tribes who mercilessly ruled the territorial alliance known as the SEC. There was the Tide of Terror; the People of the Gator; the Hickolian Hill People; even the Tiger-eagle from the Jungle Plains, which confused all whom it attacked. But then came a dark day when the alliance, for a few pieces of silver, invited weak and feeble tribes within–lo, even pigs and chickens! The chickens could not fly south to the Great Bowls of Fire which are held at the time of the New Year; and the pigs had wallowed in the mud of the south waste alliance. There did ensue much mongrel intermixing between the proud, pure-blooded members of the ancient SEC and the feeble pigs and chickens. This did indeed lower the standards of a hallowed tribal alliance.

“And though the People of the Chicken have, for a fleeting moment, risen to unprecedented peaks of adequacy, the time cometh soon that they will squawk again among their own dung. And the Pigpeople, they have defied all rumors and prophecies of attaining new levels of averageness. For is it not said, ‘Thou might clean up a pig; thou might place him within a proud alliance; thou might giveth him a fine and comely temple in which to wallow. But he remaineth in sooth a swine; still he walloweth in a waste called Little Rock; still he answereth to a pig-keeper called Nutt.

“And now the one called PigNutt bringeth his band of inept grunts into the place of the Hallowed Hedges of Sanford. And of his quarterback, it is said that his experience cometh from Nintendo; and of his offensive line, it is said that the high heels of UNLV’s womanly defense is imprinted on its helmet. How be it that these posers dare to confront Grant the Gruelish? How is it that their backs dare to tread within the zone inhabited by Spoon the Spear-Helmeted or Boss the Booty Basher?

“Let it be proclaimed across all the land–the time of the Pig Poke is at hand. The Swine shall swoon, the Hog shall hang, the blood shall bleed and the People of the Dawg shall consume the flesh of tasty barbecue, after a fine and worthy show of manly patriotic muscle by the Band of the Red Coat. Then the Hunkering Hermit shall return to the desert lands to smite some toga-tush. (Burp.)”

Ooga’s Second Prophecy: South Carolina – 9/2/2001

And lo, over time, many nations rose and prospered and fell again. Many tasted the wine of greatness, only to sip the bitter gall of defeat. But there was one nation consistent, almost magical, in its feeblesness. And it chose for itself the name of the Chicken People. For the its people clucked constantly, flapped their weakened wings, and attempted to crow with a womanish squawk. But in each time and season, when the winter came, the Chickens raised their eyes to the clouds and saw the other nations flying South for the winter, to be warmed by the Great Bowls of Fire which mark the commencement of the New Year. And the People of the Chicken clucked sadly, for they longed to see with their chickenly eyes the enchanted lands of the Great Bowls of Fire. And they flapped their wings frantically and ran in circles, attempting to fly. But only in the next life could they see the Great Bowls, and only in that next incarnation as tailgating meals, for Southern Fried Chicken was indeed a favorite of the true warriors who held forth the Great Bowls of Fire.

Then one day a stranger wandered into the barnyard. He was one Lord Holtz of Hokum, the 9,000-year-old witch doctor and motivational guru. In truth he was now little more than a stone statue, being elderly, hideously wrinkled, and able only to give forth the sounds of self-help tapes from a machine lodged within his bowels. But the chickens allowed themselves to hope. For all of them marveled at the motivational cluckings from his tapes, and many of them flapped their wings even more frantically and sought to become “peak achievers” and “inner winners” and to “stop the stinkin’ thinkin’.” For thus said the motivational tapes, and all the Chickens bowed down to the statue and worshiped, and clucked endlessly of Lord Lou’s greantess.

And, for a moment, emboldened by self-help mantras, the People of the Chicken rose up and flew–several feet in length did they fly. And being exhilarated by this airborne moment, they began to cluck even louder, more boldly, and to run around in more circles, and to announce forth to the world that the People of the Chicken were now the fiercest, highest-flying beasts that walked the earth. And thus they invaded the Holy Hedges of Sanford, where they attacked the People of the Dawg with prideful arrogance.

And lo, Richt the Righteous unleashed again the People of the Dawg. And they attacked Petty the Puny-Armed, and Derek the Undisciplined, and every other clucking thing. And Uga. the Great Dawg who presides at the fray, ventured forth to the stone statue of Lord Lou, and lifteth his leg, and doeth his thing. And the statue giveth forth a shreik, as the machinery of the tape recorder explodeth within the bowels of the idol. And then the spell of the deep magic of motivational speaking was broken. For the unsightly wrinkles of Lord Lou deepened, cutting into the stone until it began to crack. And the wig took flight from its head; and its dentures shot from the mouth, embedding themselves in the hindquarters of Derek the Undisciplined. And its pace-maker, too, did indeed explode.

And the hidden loin-cloths known as Depend became undependable, for surely the ancient thing did indeed wet itself. And finally, as the Great Chapel Bell of Champions rang forth throughout the land, the stone statue of Lord Lou burst into countless pieces, and those pieces seeped into the Sacred Soil of Sanford to fertilze the ground where true warriors have trodden, and will tread again. And the People of the Dawg breathed a great sigh of relief, and enjoyed the silence. Amen.