And lo, the legends relate that in the Year of the Canine, the Big Dawg sendeth monsoon rains upon the foul and blackened lands of Carolina. And for Forty Minutes and Forty Commercials He smiteth the Carolinians with the plague of water, like unto a punishment. For great was the bragging forth which emitteth from the Hen Den, and loud was their clucking, and Holtz the Homely, Chickenly Chieftain, is not his cap of coachification three sizes two large? For that alone, the Big Dawg throweth in an extra five commercials.
Then the Big Dawg sendeth forth the Death angel, yea, even Pollack the Pulverizer, who ascendeth into the heavens, whereby he seizeth the fried chicken wing of Jenkins the Jinxed One, layeth claim to the spheroid therein, and redeemeth it in the Zone of Endimentation, and seven were the points awarded in blessing. Whereby the Chuckleheaded Chicken People giveth the spheroid to he who is called Pinnock the Perilous, for clumsy was his grip, and the ball poppeth out, and the People of the Dawg layeth claim yet again, and the rains vanished, for the Big Dawg was pleased. And after that day cometh many beatdowns administered upon the reeking hordes of the SEC.
But what sound, weaselish and wimpified, cometh forth from the Columbian waste? It is the sound of unmanly whining. For the Chicken People accepteth NOT their status as eternal, sub-dawgly bond-slaves to the Lordly People of the Dawg. And great is their grumbling, and cockly is their complaining, and womanly is their weeping as they poundeth their chickenly breast and cryeth out, “IF!” For if Pollock the Pulverizer ascendeth NOT, what then? And if Pinnock the Putty-Fingered fumbleth NOT, what then?
And the prophet sayeth, “Behold, SHUTTETH UP already. For did Tyson the Tentative not also fumbleth forth? Did Terence the Terrific not also droppeth forth the catch in the First Year of Richt the Righteous? The alleged brain of the Chuckleheaded Chicken People, is it not SELECTIVE in its whiny reasoning?
For behold, the day of thy beatdown approacheth. The People of the Dawg grow weary of thy wimply-wussish weaseliferous whinifications. The prophet playeth his violin whilst thou clucketh on and on about “RESPECT, cluck cluck cluck, RESPECT, AWWWWK buck buck buck. We haveth a RIGHT to chicken done right!”
And the Big Dawg asketh thee, when the Reeking Hordes of 5-7 appealeth to the 13-1 RIGHTFUL RICHTLY REIGNING REGIMENTS to respecteth forth THEM, what is up with THAT, Dudely Ones? Eh? Respecteth forth THIS: Pollack the Pulverizer, who pursueth Pinkins Son of Jenkins; Geathers the Ghastly, who pummeleth forth Dacchus the Decelerator; and the Greene Machine, even the Dawgly Attack, which catcheth up this year on the touchdowns of which thou hast helpfully reminded us, and payeth interest besides. Merciless shall be the howling minions of the Sanfordites. Great shall be the celebration.
And a new sound shall arise forth from the Columbian waste, whining, “You ran up the score!” And Lou the Motivator, he who motivateth Elks Clubs with many nuggets of self-helpish wisdom, yea, even chicken nuggets, shall proclaim, “I wasn’t sandbagging. We really DO suck!” Amen.