And lo, the prophecies all came true. Yea, the Howling, Hunkering, Headhunting Horde swept across the land like dawgly locusts, consuming all living things in their path, mauling their feeble foes, pillaging their fallen cities, swilling their demon-grog and cranking their Munson tapes. And a great whining, sucking sound fell across the land, as the wimpolian orange-utan survivors wailed about the LUCK of their conquerors, and whimpered about their own feeble INJURIES, and whined about the People of the Dawg for their SURLY and UNRULY Fannishness. And their scribes saith unto the Internet, “Ye poured soft drinks upon us,” and “Ye chased our saintly grandwenches to our flatbed trucks, where we hid,” and “Ye stained our overalls with thy grogly expectorant,” and “WE BEAT THEE NINE TIMES IN THE PRECEDING MILLENNIUM! WAAAAAAAH!”
Hear the prophet, ye wimply trickle of orange unmanliness! Ye have spoken truly, for the People of the Dawg ARE of a sooth surly and unruly! We overrun thy cities and take thy cheer-wenches captive! We plunder thy tailgates, seize and consume thy barbecue to the very glowing coals, and make of thy chubby, chortling fanboys a great rump roast to feed unto our possums for fattening, that they might be a worthy sacrifice to the Big Dawg in the offseason. Thy melting fanboy cellulite shall sizzle in our campfires, for thy Brut cologne createth an odious stench which offendeth our nostrils, and even the possums may disdain it. But now thou art owned by two masters, the Zookian Gator People and the Princely People of the Dawg. Truly art thou doubly enslaved, and a snickersome jest to manly warriors everywhere. Bow before us. Do our bidding. Listen again to our Hobnail tapes, and watch unto the skies for Boss Bailey to land again upon thy hogly head at any second.
And now the prophet must speak of the Vandified Varlets of Gnashville. Has it not been said of olde, even by the prophet, that these are a curious and feeble lot; they who have puny bodies and giant bespectacled heads, who dabble in the ancient sorcery known as Olde Money, and who eat many things not hunted and skinned as is favored by the manly races: QUICHE eat they, and three-bean salads, and foul casseroles and sandwiches derived from eggplant and wenchly things which grow in the gardens, with no bleeding red meat in many of their meals; and they are clothen in the mantles of the Yammering Yuppies, are these Vandified Varlets, and they drinketh wine coolers and readeth Architectural Digest and can name forth lo, every variety of imported cheese. Sonatas hear they, and cantatas, and they lust after fat opera singers resembling Fulmer the Foul with pigtails and a Viking Hat and they attend no goat sacrifices but SOIREES, and their wenches make DEBUTS rather than little firstborn male warlords. Yea, they are like the Nattering Nimrods of North Avenue except with class.
But lo, it is also true that they are the France of the SEC, and they surrender even more quickly. The People of the Dawg feel sorely strange about marauding through such a peculiar people, and spoiling forth their manicures, and spilling forth their Spritzers. It seemeth almost unfair. But ARE WE NOT the Dawgly Race?? ARE WE NOT on a Mission to be the most Manly in the Land? Thus the People of the Dawg shall feast, even upon the wimpish which prefereth Chopin and cannot defend themselves. And we shall shred the pages of thy GQ magazines and stuff them down thy gullets, as the Great Band of Redcoats plays something by Rachmaninoff to make thee feel more comfortable. But thou art not Maninoff. Only the People of the Dawg are Maninoff. And the People of the Dawg shalt Rach on. Amen.