Ooga’s Prophecy of Dawgly Coronation – 12/5/2002

Behold, the prophet bringeth forth this, the ultimate pronouncement of Dawgly Glory, over a tasty chipmunk-and-bacon omelette braised with fresh yellow jacket honey. But lo, thou asketh, “How cometh yellow jacket honey to thy table of manly gorging? For even I, a foolish and gigglesome youth, know that yellow jackets giveth no honey!” And the prophet replieth forth to say, “Pound forth the yellow jackets 51 times and they giveth whatever thou ask of them.” For the bodacious can of whoopassishness hath been fully and justly opened upon the Nattering Nimrods of North Avenue, and wimply is their whining, woossish is their whimpering, and womanly is their weeping and wailing.

But the People of the Dawg listeneth not, nor addeth they even one Nimrod moment to the Holy Highlight Tape, for the Day of Dawgly Domely Dominance beckons. It has been decreed even from ancient times, that the Swinely, Swaggering Sweathawgs riseth up from the wallowsome muckish mire of mediocrity to challenge they whose rightful crown waiteth in the Dome of Doom, yea, even the People of the Pig, led by Lord Numb Nutt, he who bringeth forth the miracle of losing to Kentucky in his own Hawgly Home. But the Piggly Wigglies hath no worthy heritage among they who do battle in the Southeastern Fields of Slaughter, for they are Swinish Switchers and Swappers of their conferencely allegiance, having crept in from the abomination and desecration of the Southwesterly Tribes. And Lou Holtzheimer, too, cometh from the People of the Pig. And Danny Fraud, the Dithering Doofus of Death Valley, leadeth the People of the Pig, though it bringeth shame even to a pig. And lo, they loseth to the Citadel, yea, even in recent times.

Turneth back, Piggly Punkish Porkpackers! Thy bacon shall be quakin’. And thy ham shall be sandwiched between slices of Boss Bread, with Pickled Pollack and Manlynaisse. For pigs walloweth not on artificial turf, but only in the mud of thy reeking region of wretchedness. This is the Day of the Dawg, prophesied forth for two decades, when the great coronation shall come upon the head of Richt the Righteous, and they anointeth his head with a big fat raise, and his incentive clause runneth over.

And great shall be the barking of the People of the Dawg, and the Houndly Howling shall raise the roof of the Dome of Dawgly Domination, and the Great Red Sea shall overflow from the Havens of Cheap-seatly Hunkering, and the hymn shall flow forth in great melody: “Lo, it’s Great to Be a Georgia Bulldawg, It’s Great to Feast Upon the Splattering Entrails of the Vanquished!” …What, thou knoweth not that one? Lifteth thine eyes to the Great Jumbotron of Joy, and singeth thy praises. For the Day of Atonement hath arrived, and long shalt be the Reign of the People of the Dawg, and non-existent shall be their mercy, and many shall be the legions of comely cheerwenches, and Larry Munson shall liveth to be the age of two hundred seventy-nine. Amen.

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