In the beginning, when the earth was young and the Big Dawg createth all the savage hordes of the world, those who were reeking and those who were of manly aroma, the league was without form and void, and a foul and flatulent mist encircleth the earth. And great was the stench of that mist, and they calleth it The Great Gas Bag of Lou. And many were the torments of this fetid vapor, for it speaketh to men in endless motivational speeches, culled from the scrolls of the prophet Tony Robbins.
And the Great Gas Bag of Lou moveth like the stale flapping of the massive armpit of the earth, from the northern wastes to the southern wastes and to every corner where people be wasted. And the Gas Bag taketh the shape of a shriveled and gnarly balloon, yea, a buffoon, and great were its wrinkles, like unto the late Irene Ryan. And it sayeth endless trite sayings, then moveth on again, and the People of the Hog, and the Yankeeish Tribes of South Bend, and many other of the world.