And lo, the time of tribulation came when darkness fell upon all the lands of the Southeastern hordes. This was the age of the fierce and ruthless chieftain, Spurrier the Spurious, the Visored Vizier, he who rose up in savagery among the Gator People of the Reeking Swamp, until his fingers were filled with rings which were emblems of mastery over all the Southeastern Hordes. Great and mighty was he, brilliant of mind was he, handsome of countenance and studly of fashion accessories was he, but all these things true only in his mind, which was a gaping canyon engulfed in the echoes of his own braggadocio. In sooth, most of the people agreed that behold, here was one arrogant and braying ass, and soon should the world be rid of him.
And so many were the tribes who came forward to challenge the Kaiser of the Visor, namely the Hickolian Hill People who were soundly thumped, thwacked and thwarted annually; and yea, the Tide tried, but were denied; and great was the feebleness of they who took on the Gator Goliath and failed. But there was one who knew the hidden weaknesses of the Spurious One. And he was not of the Southeastern hordes, but of they who call themselves the Seminole Savages. And this chieftain, known as Richt the Righteous, emerged from among his tribe and became one with the People of the Dawg. And great was the rejoicing between the Holy Hedges of Sanford, and renewed was the revelry, and mad were the mat drills. For the whisper spread forth throughout the land that the People of the Dawg, whose bite was once again exceeding their bark, were rabid and foaming at the mouth once again.
And lo, the Greene Machine went forth into the gnarly Knoxville hills and slew the Hickolian Hill People, when the great hobnail boot came from the sky and inserted itself far into the nether regions of Foul Fulmer’s Fulsome Fanny, into places uncharted by any priestly proctologist of the heinous hills. But now, the People of the Dawg draweth nigh unto the Village of the Son of Jack, yea, also called Jacksonville, even unto Alt.Hell Stadium, where the Big Dawg shalt bringeth forth the pain in great cans to be opened forth before all the people.
Hear now the words of the prophet, O Gaseous Gator People. Thy decade of disgust draweth to a close. Thy chieftain practiceth golf strokes while the Big Dawg sharpeneth his teeth long into the night. Even the War Eagle Tiger People of the Jungle on the Plain, they who cannot decide upon an animal or a motif, they who bear the most severe identity confusion of all the hordes, even these feeble ones hath inserted their cleats in thy spongy hindquarters. Why thinkest ye that thou shalt escape the wrath of the Greene Machine? And lo, Lito is neato, but can he outleap Fred the Fast-Footed? Behold, Lito is meato. He shall know defeato.
And who is thy hurler, T-Rex Grossman? Or shalt we call him Retch Girlyman, for it is he who shalt be buried in Grant’s Tomb. Long will be the sniveling and whining among the People of the Gator until their tears stain their jean shorts and until they engage in screechy slap fights among themselves, yea, pounding one another with their Mighty Gator Chest Hair Medallions, and until they rid the world of themselves, amen and hallelujah. With joy shalt we behold their return to the Yankeeish lands from which they came and inflicted themselves upon these holy lands.
And having triumphed and overthrown, once and for all, the Gator Dictator, Richt the Righteous will come across the field and into the presence of the Spurious One, he who will be grimacing and cursing and kicking his various quarterbacks in various and sundry painful places of their bruised bodies. And Richt the Righteous will pull out the holy leatherbound playbook, and deliver forth the sermon: “Dear brother, is it not written in First Dawgations, that Gators Eateth Boogers? Here endeth the lesson.” And with that, Richt the Righteous shall reach out and lay hands on the halo surrounding Stephen’s head, yea, also known as the visor. And he shall yank it down until it covereth fully the neck, and proceed to twist it ever tighter until the face of Stephen is miraculously purple. And for all generations, this shall be known as “The Martyrdom of Stephen by St. Mark.” And framed lithographs shall be widely available.
And great shall be the partying in the streets of the Village of the Son of Jack. And loud shall be the barking. And outrageous and deranged shall be the Munsonisms. And cold and delicious shall be the beverages. And the People of the Dawg shall dwell in the House of the Dome forever.