The Third Book of Ooga the Huddling Hermit
These are the weekly prophecies of Ooga, the huddling hermit, seeker of the unrevealed playbook and diviner of point spreads; Ooga, the One Who Hunkers, wearer of the Great Loincloth of Loran; yea, even Ooga the prophet–do not the holy horns of Highway 78 honk forth his praises? “Ah, Ooga,” they belch forth, “Ah, Ooga!” And lo, these are his words as delivered unto Saxondawg, who is his messenger and High Bookie.
Behold, there will come a season of silence upon the Athenian fields of battle, and its length shall be thirteen days of desolation. And the teeming multitudes of the dawgnation shall cut their lawns, and surf forth unto the uttermost programming of ESPN2, and quench their restless anguish in the bubbling pools of yea much beer.
Let the time be fruitful. Let the young whelp whose number is VI, he who hath never gone down to defeat, be trained unto newspaper in the Great Kennel of Seiler from whence he cometh.
And lo, let the Holy Hound of Hunkerdom whizz forth on the writings of plenteous babbling sportswriters, for is their journalism not in sooth yellow? They sicken the prophet, but nay, not even so much as the yammering yankees of Seven-Ninety the Zone, who remindeth Ooga of many fingernails scraping on the Great Blackboard of Bainbridge, and for whom the sage reserveth special prophecies of dire disembowelment.
Behold, sayeth the prophet, I have seen a vision, like unto a dream, wafting like the Fetid Fumes of Fulmer from the swampland of the southernmost regions, yea, even the great armpit of the putrid peninula. Unto those swamp-dwellers shall come a great Armageddon. And it shall be waged between the armies who wear orange and blue, and the armies who wear orange and orange. And the antichrist shall look forth upon the other antichrist.
And the swampland shall echo forth with the hideous howling and scrofulous screeching of they who worketh for minimum wage eternally. And lo, the battle- beasts of Spurrier the Spurious and Fulmer the Foul shall getteth it on. As the poet sayeth, “Ignorant armies clash by night.”
Shall not the mindless pounding of the barbarians be great? Behold, the grass shall be filled with teeth, yea, and the fingers they have severed! Toppled battle helmets, shall they not roll across the cleated turf like tumbleweeds, and shall they not contain the heads even still? Doom, death and disfigurement! Let the warriors consume each other until they are removed from the face of the earth! Knock yourselves out! Let the Big Dawg eat!
And the spectators, they whose unseemly orange is drenched in the blood of the combatants, shall not an earthquake swallow them up? Shall not the land be dotted henceforth with deserted trailer parks? Ooga hath seen it, and the prophet sayeth . . . “Yesssssssss!”
And the Dawgs shall inherit the earth! Ah, Oooooga!