Behold the carcasses of the Elephant Men. Do they not rot in yonder Tuskcameloosa, on the field of Dawgly Conquest, at the hindward, liquidly leg-marked path of they whom are manly, they whom bring merciless chaos in the stadiums of their foes, they whom are the Rampaging Road Warriors, yea, the PEOPLE OF THE DAWG? And the grimacing grog-guzzling pie-hole of Dithering Dye the Debunked, hath not that oozing orifice been shut forth? And the nattering naysayers of the reeking hordes of the Scribe Nation, have they not been reduced to gigglesome geeklords? The People of the Dawgs, the Manly Maulmeisters, came, they saw, they exacted forth the whoopfest of the wailing whooparama.
But lo, what heareth the ears of the prophet from the rocky places where dwell the Hickolian Hill People, the minions of the wallowsome whalish warlords Lulu and Junior? The prophet heareth the wheezy, whinesome, whimpers of they whom plead for mercy, unworthy of the Dawgs of War! Sir Casey of Malibu, he of the hair as spiked as Ooga’s club, yet fashioned of mousse rather than steel–does he not moan about his sissified shoulder? And King Kelley the Konceited, does he not groan about his nebulous knee? And the girlish minions of the battle-scarred bench, do they not cower in their womanly whirlpools just in time to AVOID THE WRATH OF THE RAMPAGING DAWGS? Come forth, Prissy and Panicking Poltroons! Art thou Vols MANLY? Come forth if thou have Volleyballs! Cower not beneath thy blubbersome coach’s pumpkinish parka!
Behold, it mattereth not who dresseth out among thy Crop of Craven Creamsicles. Bringeth forth Peyton the Heismanless, or Jamal the Jerkly. Bringeth forth thy decade of dundering defenders. Buyeth some new warriors and taketh forth thy best shot. The People of the Dawg have smote thee TWICE, with fewer warriors from the zone of blue-chipperliness. The People of the Dawg have smote thee with Rage of the Rising Richtian Rampagers. The People of the Dawg have smote thee with the Hellish Havoc of the Hobnailed Boot. And the People of the Dawg just getteth warmed up.
Come taste the Pounding of Pollack the Pulverizer. Come see thy orificial orange ooze beneath the blistering blades of the Greene Machine. Come feel the cleats of Musa the Merciless, of Sullivan the Sackmeister, of Itty Bitty Billy Bennett the Bootmaster, of Damien the Demon and Terrence the Terrible. Surely the reeking orange entrails of the vanquished shall seep from sanctuary of Sacred Sanford, and clog the outgoing highways upon which thy mooing minions shall flee in chaos. And Fulmer the Foul shall blame forth the referees, and blame forth the players, and blame forth the circus tent canvas manufacturers which provideth his pumpkinish parka. And the People of the Dawg will stand forth upon the high and rocky places, howling at the moon, crying forth, “Is there no more worthy challenger, no reeking horde manly enough to stand proudly before the Dawgly Decimators?”
And the People of the Dawg shall rule the regions of the Southeastern Kingdoms forever and ever.