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!

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