Many are the hordes of conquering armies which have ravaged the earth, and great has been there ferocity, terrible has been their power, and occasional have been their screw-ups. And lo, the Big Dawg hath tanked one bigtime; behold, he letteth loose his mighty gush of yellow upon the expensive indoor rug rather than the fireplug. Behold, he hath been exiled outdoors from the Great Bowl of the Dipchip. Lamentations! Fie upon it! Good Golly Dang It! Cruel and merciless shalt be the zookly zapping of the Gator People by future Dawgly tribes, and lo, the green-mouthly-smackers shall indeed sit inside their slumlordly domiciles, combing forth their moussely mullets, picking lice from their jean shorts, and gazing into their boobly tubes to witness the FINEST HOUR of the People of the Dawg, yea, even within the Great Dome of Hotlanta, when the Dawgly Race shall be crowned supreme dictatorly despot of they who reek among the Southeastern Hordes.
And now cometh Eli the Elite, Prince of the Preseason, Heir to Archie the Archaic, Brother to Peyton the Still Waitin’, whose restless spirit still haunts Heisman ceremonies. And Eli the Elite, sayeth the wise men, wouldst be the final and greatest among them. Eli, they said, would be studly and stellar. And for this reason they sayeth it: Eli hath the coolest name, and they liketh its sound upon their feeble tongues: “Eli, Eli, Eli!” He hath his own hit tune, “Eli’s Comin’,” sung forth in ancient times by Three Dawg Night, and truly it was a song of prophecy, for Three Dawgs shall visit Eli this Saturday night, and their names shall be Pollack the Pulverizer, Sullivan the Smitemaster, and Boss the Bootykicker. And forevermore shalt his name be changed to Eli Mae, for the Three Dawgs shall seize it and Clamp-it. And Old Mist the Arch-Feeble shall retreat forth to their accustomed reaking state as masters of no one except the False Dawgs of Missed State, the people of Sherrill the Shady.
And lo, the People of the Dawg shall be removed from their Seven Days Stupor, and shall shed no more tears, but bark proudly once more, and prepare for the Great Day of Reckoning upon the Jungle Plains, where dwell the Tiger Eagles of the Much Reaking Tommy Tupperware. And thence to the Great Dome, and onward to the Thousand Year Reign of Terror of the Dawgly Peoples, when all reaking rivals shall be pursued relentlessly until these borders are clean once again, and children can run and play without the threat of encountering a Hickolian Hill Person or a Nattering Nimrod of NATS slobbering before them and emitting a great stench. And none shall be the sound except proud barking, and Munson’s mouthings, and the chittering of the chipmunk which shall provide Ooga’s between-meals-snack. Amen.