The Zook Book of Ooga – 10/31/2002

Behold, hear ye well this Declaration of Dawgly Domination, all ye lands! Give forth thy tributes of sullen, submissive surrender. Send forth thy sacrifices of fine, plump possums, goats, and tender woodchucks for the great Dinner Pail of the Dawg. Send forth thy gifts of various and sundry bodacious cheervirgins for the prophet’s Party Palace of Dawgly Disco. Prepare ye a way to the Dome, which shall be rife with Dawgliness, barbarian brazen barking, wild and warlike woofity-woofing, and rude and rowdy ruff-ruff-ruffing. One Hundred is the sum of points inflicted in the previous pair of brutish beatings, and One Thousand is the number of years the Dawgs shall reign, and One Hundred Thousand is the number of the People of the Dawg which shall descend upon Alt.Hell Stadium, for One is the number of battles the Dawgly Warriors must win to claim their rightful legacy as Dawgly Dictators of the Eastern Waste.

And lo, here stands the Big Dawg, shining in glory, for his many wimpish and womanly whiplings, do they not lie at his feet? Here be the Chickenly Chuckleheads, the dunderheads of doofus-ish delusion; here lie the Tidish Tuska-losers, probation their prickly prize; here lie the Hickolian Hill People, the reeking orange hordes of Fulmer the Foul and Casey the Half-Shouldered and Double-Mouthed, the cellar their destination; and here lie the Enfeebled Bottom-Feeders, the Vandyish and Kentuckian tribes, though they, too, shall surely taste victory over the Hellbound Hill People. All are our slaves. And yet, what heareth the excellent, hair-tipped ears of the prophet? Boasting from the Mouthly People of the Gator? They who know the pain of LSU’s foot far up the hidden havens of their hindquarters? They who have tasted defeat at the unmanly hands of Old Mist? The Gator, is he not a creature of five teeny weeny little limbs and one flapping, mammoth mouthly orifice? Yea, Spurrier the Spurious, the Visered Vizier, has he not skedaddled forth to the reeking hordes of the NFL? Are they not led by Zook the Zero, he of the Zucchini Brain?

Let it be proclaimed forth that Rex the Regurgitator shall scramble forth in panic, one painful step slower than Pollack the Pulverizer. The People of the Dawg shall open a Great Can of Jonathan upon him, and he shall be buried deep within the bowels of the earth, and of Boss the Brutal. Gilbert the Goremeister shall bring forth the Industrial Sized Pail of Pain, and distribute forth generous servings. And the Greene Machine and the Shock Jocks shall invade forth the End Zones, and pitch their tents there, and accumulate many points in honor of Damian the Deadly, who giveth of himself in battle, and who is greatly to be honored among all the People of the Dawg. And once again the barking of victory shall resound at the Cocktail Party, and no more shall the People of the Gator steal forth glory from their superiors, who have enslaved them through all the aeons of history. And the People of the Dawg shall continue their march to worldwide Dawgly Domination. Amen.

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