Ooga’s First Prophecy: Arkansas St. – 8/26/2001

And lo, when the stars were right, and the Moon was in the Seventh House, and the big-money boosters were in the president’s house, a new chieftain rose up among the People of the Dawg, and the old was cast out to outer darkness, where there is weeping, wailing, gnashing of teeth and lesser-paying coaching jobs. And the name of the new chieftain was Richt the Righteous, and legendary was he among quarterbacks, and ambitious was he in world conquest, and consistent was he in Sunday School attendance. Poor of haircut was he of a sooth. But lo, he weareth a cool and happenin’ hat.

And the chieftain Richt gathereth a staff, ferocious and snarling of nature so as to balance out his righteousness. And he bringeth them forth in a great Van–Van Halanger bringeth he, and Van Gorder bringeth he also. Van Halanger lurketh in the weight room, bearing a whip and a cruel laugh, and doing nasty and unspeakable things to earthly bodies through mat drills. Van Gorder lurketh on the practice field, bearing the likeness of the Tasmanian Devil and the voice of Yosemite Sam, and he too doeth cruel and unspeakable things to earthly bodies, and kicketh butts, and taketh names. And lo, the players had no place to hide.

Behold, the whip cracketh and the brass knuckles flaileth for nine months, a season of gestation, until a new thing was conceived and hatched among the People of the Dawg. And it cometh out cackling and evil and hungry laugh. The day came when it was unleashed forth upon the lowly and feeble hordes from Arkansas State, they who dwell in the vast and miserable wilderness of the Land of Clinton. And it came to pass that the weak and unmanly visitors knew not what hit them when they entered within the realm of the Holy Hedges of Sanford. For the Dawgish tribes had grown sour of the sport of flailing one another’s hind quarters; and they longed greatly for new hind quarters to flail.

So it happened that, after nine months of cruel and unrelenting torture, Richt the Righteous released the snarling, growling, chop-licking, fang-grinding, butt-biting, blood-drinking, death-dealing Demon Dawg warriors and pointed them toward the marshmallowy hindquarters of the wimpish wastrels who dared to stray from the Arkansas waste. And the Green Machine struck with cruel vengeance, and the defense doled out pain. And the Shock Jocks brought forth havoc, and the defense doled out devastation. And Cory, Cory to ol’ Georgia sayeth the backups, and the defense doled out gore and entrails. And several stadium ushers and Coke vendors playeth quarterback also, and certain tuba players from the Redcoats, and the beat goeth on until the wimpish wastrels cryeth for mercy.

And Richt the Righteous waded out into the field of liquid gore and interior bodily organs, and said that it was very good. And he closed in prayer and a group hug. And the People of the Dawg sighed as one, and said, “Yea–That’s what I’M talkin’ about.” And they hosed off the blood-splatter, snarled one deep, guttural snarl, and crouched in wait for Lord Holtz of Hokum, the 9,000-year-old witch doctor and motivational guru. And they dreamed of new depths of pain to be unleashed upon the world on the seventh day. And then they rested–for about twenty seconds until Van Gorder findeth them and flaileth some more. Amen.

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