And lo, the children of Israel lived in bitter desolation during their capitivity to the Towering Towel-Heads of Babylon. And the people of Asia Minor suffered and shed unmanly tears during the epoch of Roman enslavement. And the Prissy Pastry People of France, yea, even they who men calleth the Vanderbilt of Europe, have they not been enslaved by all people except the Doddering Fool-People of Canada?
And behold, the People of the Dawg–let it be said! Sayeth the words! Choketh them out! They have been surely and unduly enslaved, captivated, disenfranchised, held in thrall, branded, stigmatized, vanquished, subjugated, be-yoked, besmirched and be-whoop-iced by the Hickolian Hill People of the Weasely Walls of Neyland. Ooga must stoppeth to shreik here.
And an ancient curse surely causeth this Age of Darkness, for the warrior Brice Hunter, droppeth he not the pass? And he of Studly Magnitude, Robert Edwards, breaketh he not the foot? And Peyton of the Exposed Bum, breaketh he not the records?
And great weeping hath there been among the People of the Dawgs. And great wrath, and pointing forth of the fingers, and questioning forth of the play-calling. And the half-breed half-wit Hickolian Hill-posters, they behaveth not as proud and manly battlefield champions but as jabbering juvenile jackals, until Ooga ariseth to smite 70 or 80 or them just on principle.
And the prophet sayeth, IT ENDETH HERE. For lo, the curse is lifted! The People of the Dawg invoketh sorcery of their own, and calleth forth an even more ancient spell, yea, a spell known as BETTER PLAYERS. And the lumpish linemen of the Vols, are they worthy of facing the Great Wall of Stroud and the Tremblesome Tremor of Seymour? And they who calleth themselves defensive backs, are they a match for the quicksilver quiver of Quincy? And when Donnan the Devourer calleth Dibs on Gibbs, he sealeth the doom of the hickolian ones! Lo, let us worship now at the Shrine of the Staunch D!
And the People of the Dawg shall howl together even as 86,000 rabid, blood-craving, entrail-coveting hellhounds. And they shall stomp their stands until the Holy Hedges Heave, the Sacred Sod Shakes, and a Ravening Red Rift opens in the earth to swallow the Vile, Vain, Vitriolic and Vomitous Vol-People. Only Fulmer the Foul shall be spared, for the rift shall not be quite wide enough for his loathesome lumbering lumpishness to fit. And he shall be skinned, and cleaned, and prepared for Sacrifice to the Great Dawg Idol of the Eastern End Zone, and his blood shall paint it red. And the bones shall be tossed to Uga VI. And the band shall play, and the People of the Dawg shall sing and frolic and administer High-Fives and produce a multitude of offspring, even before departing the Temple of the Dawg, and they shall nameth these offspring Stroud-Mary and Jasper Junior and Little Grant the Gruntmeister. And the cleansing rains shall come, and the People of the Dawg shall NOT go home. And the tropical storm shall come, and the People of the Dawg shall NOT go home. And Thanksgiving shall come, and the People of the Dawg shall sniff the air, and their gastric juices shall rise up, and still they shall NOT go home.
And in mid-December, when the spirits of the bottle runneth dry, the People of the Dawg, yea, they shall go home. They shall climb forth into their SUVs and journey to outermost suburbia. And there will be no more sidewalks to protect forth from tailgaters, for they shall have been partied flat. And there will be no evil negotiations of home-and-home with the People of the Gator, for Sanford shall have been partied flat. And there shall be no more issues or bashing or moaning or groaning or grunting, for the people themselves shall have been partied flat.
And the Hunkering Hermit shall sigh in relief, and stew himself a fine possum, and read forth the scouting reports on Vanderbilt, the France of the SEC.