It’s been very difficult to get a prophecy from the Hunkering Hermit this week. He’s kept pretty busy over on the Afghan border. Ooga has a bunch of old grog-swilling Hun buddies over there, and he’s trying to mobilize them to kick some fuzzy llama tushie. He says these Yo-Tail-is-banned chuckleheads know NOTHING about terror. He’s ready to offer them a few pointers, each of which is freshly sharpened and on the business end of his famous spiked club. News reports are just beginning to come across the wire concerning severe turban perforation along the border. Ooga calls it Operation Sprinkler-Head. At any rate, I just caught up with him as he road by on a camel, humpin’ it down the Kabul highway. I had no idea a camel could gallop like that. I don’t think the poor camel did either.
So the Hermit and I sat down behind a dune and I presented him some fresh jackal meat, which he appreciated. I asked him to go ahead and finish dining before speaking, because I hate it when he spits jackal chunks on me in the middle of prophecying. After he ate his meat (it only fought back a little) and downed it with cactus grog, his eyes rolled back and he made contact with the Great Dawgly Spirit. Here is what he said:
“And lo…the Dawgs covereth the spread. Amen.”
I said, “…That’s it?”
He said, “Behold. That’s it. (Burp.)”
I said, “And for this I got jackal teeth marks on my rump? By the way, can you post yourself downwind on the belches? You might wipe out a few terrorist camps.”
He said, “The prophet is preoccupied; his mind returneth to the vile Osama. O sue me.”
Well, it took some contactual wrangling which I won’t relate here, mostly involving nomadic desert wenches. Ooga has a thing for nomadic desert wenches–I think the veil is sort of a turn-on for him. Anyway, finally he started up again.
“And lo, in the ancient times of olde, many were the ruthless tribes who mercilessly ruled the territorial alliance known as the SEC. There was the Tide of Terror; the People of the Gator; the Hickolian Hill People; even the Tiger-eagle from the Jungle Plains, which confused all whom it attacked. But then came a dark day when the alliance, for a few pieces of silver, invited weak and feeble tribes within–lo, even pigs and chickens! The chickens could not fly south to the Great Bowls of Fire which are held at the time of the New Year; and the pigs had wallowed in the mud of the south waste alliance. There did ensue much mongrel intermixing between the proud, pure-blooded members of the ancient SEC and the feeble pigs and chickens. This did indeed lower the standards of a hallowed tribal alliance.
“And though the People of the Chicken have, for a fleeting moment, risen to unprecedented peaks of adequacy, the time cometh soon that they will squawk again among their own dung. And the Pigpeople, they have defied all rumors and prophecies of attaining new levels of averageness. For is it not said, ‘Thou might clean up a pig; thou might place him within a proud alliance; thou might giveth him a fine and comely temple in which to wallow. But he remaineth in sooth a swine; still he walloweth in a waste called Little Rock; still he answereth to a pig-keeper called Nutt.
“And now the one called PigNutt bringeth his band of inept grunts into the place of the Hallowed Hedges of Sanford. And of his quarterback, it is said that his experience cometh from Nintendo; and of his offensive line, it is said that the high heels of UNLV’s womanly defense is imprinted on its helmet. How be it that these posers dare to confront Grant the Gruelish? How is it that their backs dare to tread within the zone inhabited by Spoon the Spear-Helmeted or Boss the Booty Basher?
“Let it be proclaimed across all the land–the time of the Pig Poke is at hand. The Swine shall swoon, the Hog shall hang, the blood shall bleed and the People of the Dawg shall consume the flesh of tasty barbecue, after a fine and worthy show of manly patriotic muscle by the Band of the Red Coat. Then the Hunkering Hermit shall return to the desert lands to smite some toga-tush. (Burp.)”