The Seventh Book of Ooga
Posted by saxondawg on 12:50 AM 21-Oct-99
Sorry for the delay in getting the weekly prophecies, but yesterday was rainy, and you know how I hate making that wilderness trip to Ooga’s cave in bad weather. It’s no picnic climbing the Great Dawg Rock when it’s slippery, knowing it’s an 80-foot drop to the raging rapids below. And when you’re in a hurry it only makes it easier to slip into the quicksand, step on the nose of a hungry croc, or reach for a swinging vine and find yourself yanking a 10-foot python. No thanks. Much as I knew your eagerness to get the weekly oracle, I waited out the monsoon. When the ground just didn’t seem to dry, I went ahead and dialed Ooga’s cell phone. He obliged by faxing me the following holy writ:
And behold the Last Words of the Nattering Nabobs of Gnashville: “Ouch.”
The battlefield is strewn with the plaid entrails of slaughtered preppy warriors. Unused shall be their heirloom china; unspent shall be their trust funds, for another band of CommodeDwarves hath been summarily pummeled. But largest to loom in lore and legendary for untold generations will be The Mystical Call of the Fourth Down of WiderHeifer the Unwise, yea, even he who commanded forth The Great Fake Punt of Purgation. And lo, the very grandchildren of WiderHeifer, and even the grandchildren of his grandchildren, will whisper of the Mystical Call of the Fourth Down, and ruminate upon its foulness, and seek in vain to untangle the enigma of its reasoning, and unto the very end of the age no rhyme nor reason shall be found. And some will speculate that WiderHeifer the Unwise was a cretin, while others will hold forth that no, he was merely an unreasoning mound of cholesterol, and still others will make no pronouncements, but insist that brand new derogatory adjectives must be created to describe the cataclysmic abomination of the Great Fake Punt of Purgation. And lo, WiderHeifer the Unwise shall wear a floppy hat and sunglasses wherever he goes, and lo, even a false beard, even unto his own family get-togethers, even unto the end of the age. And there shall be great revelry and razzing at off-season coaching conventions, forever and ever, amen.
But the Big Dawg turneth his nose to sniffeth forth northward, yea even unto the wasteland of blue grass where giants dwell, yea, skinny and dribbling giants, even the land of Tubby the Two-Timer; whence cometh a new warrior. And the new warrior carrieth the Swagger of Spurrier the Spurious, lo, but without the championships, and he weareth the Sacred Sunglasses and Cool Coif of Curry the Unhirable, lo, but without the network appearances; and he addeth to these a towel even unto his shoulders, yea, for he thinketh it maketh him look buff to the chicks; and lo, has there even been a warrior more well-pleased with his own fair countenance? And his name is Mummy, for his mummy fawneth over him and he was well-pleased with her fawning; and called Mummy also because he is so wrapped up in himself.
And the word went out throughout the land that Mummy the Mirror-Minded, he liketh to fill the air with pigskins, and spreadeth the defenses, and maketh much noise and commotion offensively, and lighteth up the scoreboard; and lo, on defense he haveth no clue. And this shall be his downfall. Heed the words of Ooga, O Mirror-Minded Mummy! The battlefields of Sanford shall be thy Pyramid of Embalming! The Big Dawg shalt seize thy towel, and snappeth it at thy buttocks seventy and seven times, lo, merely as part of the halftime show. And thy spiffy sunglasses, they shalt be shattered, and thy hair, it shalt be permed and styled by Mr. Josh. Any thy puny linemen, they shalt be manhandled by woodwind-players from the Band of the Red Coats. And thy defense shalt surely hide in the locker rooms, until the buses firest up their engines.
Filleth the air if thou wilt, O Mummy, for our defensive backs, do they not clamor for thy errant hurlings? And our defensive ends, do they not hunger for thy Famed Fake Punts? Just asketh WiderHeifer the Unwise.
And lo, thou shalt surely be wrapped up with thy towel, not only unto thy shoulders but unto the utmost parts of thy body, as befittest thy name, and thou shalt be buried, even unto the end of the season, and behold, thou shalt takest no bowl invitations from teams which smitest thy team, as unto the Outback in days of yore. And the Big Dawg shalt liftest his hind-leg, and christen thee Mummy the Mutilated, and bury thee like a bone, lo, in a place where the sun shinest not and the grass is never blue.
And the People of the Dawg shall woof mightily, and journey forth to the Land of the Gator.