Behold the hordes who dwell across the land, and beateth upon their chests, and screameth savagely, and smiteth one another, and trampleth the entrails of their brother-hordes into the earth, and breaketh wind when and where they feeleth like it. Are they not proud hordes, the People of the Gator, and the Hickolian Hill People, the Tiger Eagles of the Jungle Plain, and even the fallen Hickolian Hill People who settleth for the bowls of the half-hindquartered? But the manliest and greatest among all the tribes are the People of the Dawg; and the feeblest among them by far are the Nattering Nimrods of NATS, the weasels of whinish whimpery, the Arch-Nerds of the Pimply-Wimpliverse. For into battle they do not run but skip, and they do not bellow but giggle, and their heads are not spiked but Spock-eared, and they hath beaten their swords into slide rules.
And lo, about them are told One Thousand Feeble Fables, and the Nattering Nimrods are symbolized by the wiley coyote which chaseth the road runner in vain. For the coyote is mangy and starving and unworthy, and it dwelleth in a desert of despair, like unto Dud-Grunt Stadium, whereas the road runner, like the People of the Dawg, sprinteth by, on its way from glory-era to glory-era. And the coyote saith, “I am an engineer! I am smarter than you!” And he fashioneth many wimpish ACME devices by which to capture the road runner, but in the end he plummeteth off the cliff, or weareth the face of scorching, or findeth himself crushed under the boulder of bulldoggery. And the road runner hurrieth on to his championship games, while the coyote is made sport of by the world’s mocking laughter.
And the Nattering Nimrods, being pimply and wimply, wail and whine and gnash their teeth, and the People of the Dawg haunteth the Nerdly Noggins of the Nimrods three hundred and sixty-five days and four seasons and countless moons, knowing their gigglesome giddiness and Tickle Pilish Poindexterishness shall always render them as the wretched rejects of their own chosen region. And their cheerwenches are frat pledges in mascara, and their color glorifieth the tee-tee of terminal illness, and their emblem is that of a despised garden pest, and their girlish warriors loseth in battle, even unto Wimply Wake Forest. And their recruiting hath been cast out into the darkest and most desolate reaches of New Jersey. And within a generation these Nimrods shall have perished from the earth, for their seed is unmanly and populateth the earth only with sickly sucklings.
But the People of the Dawg shall speed them along in their reeking elimination from the bowels of the earth, for there shall be a rambling reckoning in the Sacred Sanctuary of Sanford, where dwell the Holy Hedges of Herschel. For lo, these are Dawgs of Destiny, Hounds of Heaven, Canines of Conquest. In the Dusk of Tuscaloosa prevaileth they; in the Tumult of Tigertown prevaileth they; to the Dome of Dawgly Domination shalt they travel; and the pimply pestilence of the poltroons shall not deny them. For Richt the Righteous shall lead an onslaught of Dawgish Doom, and the brittle bones of the Bilbovians shall be shattered and ground into the earth, where even the ashes of Grizzard the Greatheart shall stifle them. And as the entrails of the Nattering Nimrods are like unto manure, great shall be their fertilization of the Holy Hedges, which springeth up from the blood of the vanquished from generation to generation. And in this way and only this way shalt the feeble Techmites provide their seed to the future, for their feeble foibles are at an end, and their stadium shall be steamrolled and converted to an Infertility Clinic as a memorial to their unmanliness; whereas the People of the Dawg shall dwell in the House of the BCS forever, and getteth the best wenches, and enjoyeth the finest grog. Amen.