The First Book of Ooga – Clemson – 8/29/2002

Behold! These are the prophecies of Ooga, the wholly holy, highly hunky and hefty honky, the hunkering hermit of the heavenly hedges of Sacred Sanford, he who endureth yet again months of drudgery, of feeble girlish baseball, of accursedly wretched reruns, with no recourse but to thinketh up h-words for his opening sentence.

And lo, doth not the off-season maketh the oracle ornery? Doth not the months move forth as slow as the wit of the Chattering, Cheating Chair-Stackers of the Hickolian Hill People of Knoxville? Doth not the off-season grate on the prophet’s nerves like the giggling of pen-pocketed paeons of the Nattering Nimrods of Nats? Doth not the glacial speed of the eight months anger the Hunkerer’s blood like the prattling press conferences of the Zealous Zig-Zagging Zookster of the Mulleted Minions of the Unspurritized?

But lo, good tidings of great joy! For even now, on winged footsies, the season approacheth, and Richt the Righteous coacheth, and the Defense encroacheth, and Van Gorder reproacheth. And the People of the Dawg cometh forth with foaming jowls, discarding forth the putrid pansies of past appetizer games, instead calling out into the eastern wilderness, “Sendeth forth thy Clemson for a clash, as we clamor for a clobbering! Sendeth the Dithering Doofus Danny Ford, for we kicketh not his hindquarters for several years, and we kind of misseth it!”

But above the trudging tumult of the tractors cometh a reply, that Danny Ford hath thrown his last cap, hath chewed his last chaw, and fumeth on the sidelines no more, but goeth forth to speaketh at lodge meetings and accepteth plaques from women’s groups. So the People of the Dawg crieth out to the wilderness again, saying, “Sendeth a fitting warrior, worthy to lead the Clueless Clem Kadiddlehoppers of yore into bloody carnage!” And the voice cometh back yet again, saying, “Duh, shore thing, We sendeth a fresh baby Bowden with nice hair, just taketh not our cows, and leaveth us our farm equipment.”

And the People of the Dawg snorteth in contempt, and spitteth a big loogie, and it floodeth, yea, the whole Anderson area, even unto the Piedmont, even unto the famed trailer parks of suburban Greenville. For the Clueless Clem Kadiddlehoppers, have they not become a feeble race, wimpish and unmanly as befitteth ACC competition, yea, even as the Nattering Nimrods of North Avenue? And the Great Dawgly Warriors maketh quick work of them, even unto ESPN, even unto the corny corps of the corrupt and corseted Corso. And they shall be rained upon by the Gall Stones of Golston and the Pillaging of Pollack. They shall be Mussed by Musa, and the Greene Machine shall mow them down, while the Shock Jocks shall Rock their Flock.

And lo, Ooga feeleth better, lo, even unto midseason verbal form, and blessed shall be his SAT score. And long shall the People of the Dawg sheweth forth their exploits on the holy highlight reel. Amen.

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