Ooga’s Prophecy of Dawgly Coronation – 12/5/2002

Behold, the prophet bringeth forth this, the ultimate pronouncement of Dawgly Glory, over a tasty chipmunk-and-bacon omelette braised with fresh yellow jacket honey. But lo, thou asketh, “How cometh yellow jacket honey to thy table of manly gorging? For even I, a foolish and gigglesome youth, know that yellow jackets giveth no honey!” And the prophet replieth forth to say, “Pound forth the yellow jackets 51 times and they giveth whatever thou ask of them.” For the bodacious can of whoopassishness hath been fully and justly opened upon the Nattering Nimrods of North Avenue, and wimply is their whining, woossish is their whimpering, and womanly is their weeping and wailing.

But the People of the Dawg listeneth not, nor addeth they even one Nimrod moment to the Holy Highlight Tape, for the Day of Dawgly Domely Dominance beckons. It has been decreed even from ancient times, that the Swinely, Swaggering Sweathawgs riseth up from the wallowsome muckish mire of mediocrity to challenge they whose rightful crown waiteth in the Dome of Doom, yea, even the People of the Pig, led by Lord Numb Nutt, he who bringeth forth the miracle of losing to Kentucky in his own Hawgly Home. But the Piggly Wigglies hath no worthy heritage among they who do battle in the Southeastern Fields of Slaughter, for they are Swinish Switchers and Swappers of their conferencely allegiance, having crept in from the abomination and desecration of the Southwesterly Tribes. And Lou Holtzheimer, too, cometh from the People of the Pig. And Danny Fraud, the Dithering Doofus of Death Valley, leadeth the People of the Pig, though it bringeth shame even to a pig. And lo, they loseth to the Citadel, yea, even in recent times.

Turneth back, Piggly Punkish Porkpackers! Thy bacon shall be quakin’. And thy ham shall be sandwiched between slices of Boss Bread, with Pickled Pollack and Manlynaisse. For pigs walloweth not on artificial turf, but only in the mud of thy reeking region of wretchedness. This is the Day of the Dawg, prophesied forth for two decades, when the great coronation shall come upon the head of Richt the Righteous, and they anointeth his head with a big fat raise, and his incentive clause runneth over.

And great shall be the barking of the People of the Dawg, and the Houndly Howling shall raise the roof of the Dome of Dawgly Domination, and the Great Red Sea shall overflow from the Havens of Cheap-seatly Hunkering, and the hymn shall flow forth in great melody: “Lo, it’s Great to Be a Georgia Bulldawg, It’s Great to Feast Upon the Splattering Entrails of the Vanquished!” …What, thou knoweth not that one? Lifteth thine eyes to the Great Jumbotron of Joy, and singeth thy praises. For the Day of Atonement hath arrived, and long shalt be the Reign of the People of the Dawg, and non-existent shall be their mercy, and many shall be the legions of comely cheerwenches, and Larry Munson shall liveth to be the age of two hundred seventy-nine. Amen.

The Twelfth Book of Ooga (Ga Tech) – 11/27/2002

Behold the hordes who dwell across the land, and beateth upon their chests, and screameth savagely, and smiteth one another, and trampleth the entrails of their brother-hordes into the earth, and breaketh wind when and where they feeleth like it. Are they not proud hordes, the People of the Gator, and the Hickolian Hill People, the Tiger Eagles of the Jungle Plain, and even the fallen Hickolian Hill People who settleth for the bowls of the half-hindquartered? But the manliest and greatest among all the tribes are the People of the Dawg; and the feeblest among them by far are the Nattering Nimrods of NATS, the weasels of whinish whimpery, the Arch-Nerds of the Pimply-Wimpliverse. For into battle they do not run but skip, and they do not bellow but giggle, and their heads are not spiked but Spock-eared, and they hath beaten their swords into slide rules.

And lo, about them are told One Thousand Feeble Fables, and the Nattering Nimrods are symbolized by the wiley coyote which chaseth the road runner in vain. For the coyote is mangy and starving and unworthy, and it dwelleth in a desert of despair, like unto Dud-Grunt Stadium, whereas the road runner, like the People of the Dawg, sprinteth by, on its way from glory-era to glory-era. And the coyote saith, “I am an engineer! I am smarter than you!” And he fashioneth many wimpish ACME devices by which to capture the road runner, but in the end he plummeteth off the cliff, or weareth the face of scorching, or findeth himself crushed under the boulder of bulldoggery. And the road runner hurrieth on to his championship games, while the coyote is made sport of by the world’s mocking laughter.

And the Nattering Nimrods, being pimply and wimply, wail and whine and gnash their teeth, and the People of the Dawg haunteth the Nerdly Noggins of the Nimrods three hundred and sixty-five days and four seasons and countless moons, knowing their gigglesome giddiness and Tickle Pilish Poindexterishness shall always render them as the wretched rejects of their own chosen region. And their cheerwenches are frat pledges in mascara, and their color glorifieth the tee-tee of terminal illness, and their emblem is that of a despised garden pest, and their girlish warriors loseth in battle, even unto Wimply Wake Forest. And their recruiting hath been cast out into the darkest and most desolate reaches of New Jersey. And within a generation these Nimrods shall have perished from the earth, for their seed is unmanly and populateth the earth only with sickly sucklings.

But the People of the Dawg shall speed them along in their reeking elimination from the bowels of the earth, for there shall be a rambling reckoning in the Sacred Sanctuary of Sanford, where dwell the Holy Hedges of Herschel. For lo, these are Dawgs of Destiny, Hounds of Heaven, Canines of Conquest. In the Dusk of Tuscaloosa prevaileth they; in the Tumult of Tigertown prevaileth they; to the Dome of Dawgly Domination shalt they travel; and the pimply pestilence of the poltroons shall not deny them. For Richt the Righteous shall lead an onslaught of Dawgish Doom, and the brittle bones of the Bilbovians shall be shattered and ground into the earth, where even the ashes of Grizzard the Greatheart shall stifle them. And as the entrails of the Nattering Nimrods are like unto manure, great shall be their fertilization of the Holy Hedges, which springeth up from the blood of the vanquished from generation to generation. And in this way and only this way shalt the feeble Techmites provide their seed to the future, for their feeble foibles are at an end, and their stadium shall be steamrolled and converted to an Infertility Clinic as a memorial to their unmanliness; whereas the People of the Dawg shall dwell in the House of the BCS forever, and getteth the best wenches, and enjoyeth the finest grog. Amen.

An Ooga Thanksgiving – 11/27/2002

Behold, Ooga is thankful to the Big Dawg…

  • for the foul and reeking minions of the Hickolian Hill People, enchained in slavery, their orange apparel running red with the blood of Dawgly vengeance.
  • for good, polished iron spikes, sharpened for battle, mounted upon the White Stripe of Helmetly Righteousness, and dipped in the poison of Dawgly vengeance.
  • for comely hordes of fine young cheerwenches, capable of worthy feats of gymnastiness, divided thusly into two factions, one yelling, “Oo!” and the other, “Ga!”
  • for firstborn male puplings, ready to be trained in the Way of the Dawg, upon the gift of their first spiked club and the trophy ear of a vanquished Hickolian.
  • for an orgy of swinely Thanksgiving feasting: possum-ka-bob; tasty squirrel cutlets stuffed with savory vegetables and live insects; pickled Techling pie with loads o’ whipped cream.
  • for the slow, painful deaths by torture of all of the Nattering Nimrods of NATS fanboy nation, lo, all seven of them, and to the music of their shreiking in the process.
  • for the Pilgrims and the Indians, and the savage combat with which they smote one another and devoured each other’s remains for The First Thanksgiving, just as all young warriors are taught the story.
  • for a well-woven and comfy loincloth.
  • for two days after Thanksgiving, waking from the orgy of swinely feasting, and enjoying leftovers combed from one’s manly tuft of facial hair.
  • for possum-ka-bob. What, hath Ooga already mentioned it? Mmm, possum-ka-bob.

Eleventh Book of Ooga (Auburn) – 11/14/2002

From olden days riseth the legend of the White Powder Man, he of the Tiger Eagles from the Jungle Plain who catcheth passes and selleth evil opium to children, like unto the thuggish Auburnian ones of olde. And in the ancient time of 1996, the White Powder Man conspireth to enter into the holy and forbidden place, the Dawgly End Zone, which is a transgression punishable by the instant and toothly deprival of manliness. And the White Powder Man believeth not the warnings, and approacheth the End Zone, where dwelleth the sacred dawg named Uga. And being foolish and unbrainly, he taunteth the Great Dawg, and the sacred dawg entereth the White Powder Man’s End Zone promptly, teeth bared, and removeth said manliness so that the White Powder Man needeth much of his own sniffly snortation forthwith. And it is said that the only white line he crosseth that day was the one which entereth his nostrils. But the People of the Dawg riseth up and entereth the Tiger Eagle End Zone repeatedly, even unto four overtimes, and great was the rejoicing among men of good dawgliness.

And lo, the ancient tale is told again, to all young Tiger Eagles whom cherisheth their budding manliness and wouldst not have it removed by toothly caninish surgery. For the Tiger Eagles of the Jungle Plains, they who changeth their heads and symbols like unto Pez containers, are an arrogant and taunting people. They are the people of Dye the Drunkenly and Tater Tot the Tiny, yet they are arrogant and taunting. They are the people owned forth in slavery by the Tuscaloosish Tide People, yet they are arrogant and taunting. They are the people who throweth toilet tissue in the trees of Toomer’s Corner and thinketh it to be a manly and tribely tradition, yet they are arrogant and taunting.

Hear, O Pezzly War/Tiger/Eagles of the loveliest Village/Jungle/Plains, thy End Zone shall be desecrated once again by Musa the Marauder and the artillery of the Greene Machine. Thy womanly quarterbacks shall disappear forth in a steaming pile of Pollackipation. Even the biceps of Itty Bitty Billy Bennett the Bootmaster shall prove too powerful for thy maidenly feebleness.

Yea, beat thy chests, taunt forth, bringeth forth the smackliness, and feed lustily on thy confidence from thy wimpish victory over Lousy Anna Monroe, for the People of the Dawg are One People under One name, not Schizoidish Pezzly dispensers of candy such as that dispensed by the White Power Man. We are Dawgly Warriors. We seek forth the rightful throne of the home in the Dome, which we maketh our own.

And merciless shall be thy treatment, for the Loveliest Village/Jungle/Plains shall become a field of slaughter. And the head of Richt the Righteous shall be anointed with Gatorade, and he shall be carried upon the shoulders of the victorious warriors to the presence of Tommy Twerp-earville the Talkmaster, he whom proclaimeth championships and delivereth not. And Richt the Righteous shall reach forward with manly hands and rip off the great flapping ears of the Talkmaster, and hold them aloft, even as a trophy. And they shall be shredded and sprinkled over the great Alpo feast of Uga, as seasoning. And this shall be an act of mercy, for then the Earless Talkmaster shall heareth not the endless whining of they whom boast in season and whimper offseason, even the Pez People.

And the People of the Dawg shall travel to the Dome of the Dominant, even in their SUVs, even in their RVs, even upon foot, in a great triumphal parade. And the Big Dawg shall lift forth his leg and mark his new territory, and await the feebleness of westernly challenge. Amen.

The Tenth Book of Ooga – 11/7/2002

Many are the hordes of conquering armies which have ravaged the earth, and great has been there ferocity, terrible has been their power, and occasional have been their screw-ups. And lo, the Big Dawg hath tanked one bigtime; behold, he letteth loose his mighty gush of yellow upon the expensive indoor rug rather than the fireplug. Behold, he hath been exiled outdoors from the Great Bowl of the Dipchip. Lamentations! Fie upon it! Good Golly Dang It! Cruel and merciless shalt be the zookly zapping of the Gator People by future Dawgly tribes, and lo, the green-mouthly-smackers shall indeed sit inside their slumlordly domiciles, combing forth their moussely mullets, picking lice from their jean shorts, and gazing into their boobly tubes to witness the FINEST HOUR of the People of the Dawg, yea, even within the Great Dome of Hotlanta, when the Dawgly Race shall be crowned supreme dictatorly despot of they who reek among the Southeastern Hordes.

And now cometh Eli the Elite, Prince of the Preseason, Heir to Archie the Archaic, Brother to Peyton the Still Waitin’, whose restless spirit still haunts Heisman ceremonies. And Eli the Elite, sayeth the wise men, wouldst be the final and greatest among them. Eli, they said, would be studly and stellar. And for this reason they sayeth it: Eli hath the coolest name, and they liketh its sound upon their feeble tongues: “Eli, Eli, Eli!” He hath his own hit tune, “Eli’s Comin’,” sung forth in ancient times by Three Dawg Night, and truly it was a song of prophecy, for Three Dawgs shall visit Eli this Saturday night, and their names shall be Pollack the Pulverizer, Sullivan the Smitemaster, and Boss the Bootykicker. And forevermore shalt his name be changed to Eli Mae, for the Three Dawgs shall seize it and Clamp-it. And Old Mist the Arch-Feeble shall retreat forth to their accustomed reaking state as masters of no one except the False Dawgs of Missed State, the people of Sherrill the Shady.

And lo, the People of the Dawg shall be removed from their Seven Days Stupor, and shall shed no more tears, but bark proudly once more, and prepare for the Great Day of Reckoning upon the Jungle Plains, where dwell the Tiger Eagles of the Much Reaking Tommy Tupperware. And thence to the Great Dome, and onward to the Thousand Year Reign of Terror of the Dawgly Peoples, when all reaking rivals shall be pursued relentlessly until these borders are clean once again, and children can run and play without the threat of encountering a Hickolian Hill Person or a Nattering Nimrod of NATS slobbering before them and emitting a great stench. And none shall be the sound except proud barking, and Munson’s mouthings, and the chittering of the chipmunk which shall provide Ooga’s between-meals-snack. Amen.