Ooga the Hunkering Hermit, Spiked Bludgeon Hobbyist, Dealer of Double-Dawg Devastation and 6-Time Grand Champion of the Northwest Georgia Stinky Breath Tournament, HATES Dawg off-weeks. Generally he ends up sacking, raping and pillaging some peasant village on the order of Lavonia or Cornelia. No one but recruits from our short list makes it out alive. Then he orders a pizza and smites the delivery boy. But it’s just not the same as Saturday Between the Holy Hedges.

This weekend Ooga crept out by the highway with the sole intention of weeping, wailing and rending his garments. But he saw a northbound caravan and his curiosity got the best of him. The hermit hopped the back of an SUV packed with chattering yuppies and clung to the underside for two hours. The strength required was no problem for Ooga, but the smooth, jazzy sounds of Kenny G wafting through the floorboard nearly provoked a savage rage in the prophet.

When the vehicle came to a stop, Ooga found himself surrounded by mountains--and scores of yuppies, a veritable fighting brigade of them! He nearly screeched in manly panic, but realized a wise warrior would avoid drawing attention to himself. He had to blend in (a challenging task given his ground-length beard encrusted with spilled bites of chipmunk and pepperoni). Luckily, the yuppie hordes were prancing to and fro exclaiming about the colors of the leaves, bantering with pumpkin and apple-sellers and screeching whenever they found a barn with Coca-Cola painted on the roof.

Ooga felt he had never been in the presence of such mindless insanity, even at a Clemson home game. Worshipers of dead leaves! His mind struggled to comprehend it. Finally failing to ascribe any reason, he smote 47 of the yuppies and hung them from the trees they chattered so much about. This lifted his spirits a bit. Just then another caravan came through--heading south. Ooga was all too pleased to leap onto a vehicle. This time the sounds he heard were more of the type that brought him comfort--manly oaths and cursing. But the voices, though coming from men, were like those of weak and silly girls. Ooga noticed all the cars were driven by gold-clad girly-men in glasses with many facial blemishes, and they looked VERY sad; many were sniveling--not weeping as a manly warrior does when his city has fallen, but sniveling. The most puzzling thing was that, though these were obviously NOT the People of the Dawg, many were barking; at least he kept hearing "Roof, roof." And all along the road little gold flags had been discarded, and all of them looked less than a year old. Gold sweaters and hats, too, were being flung aside as if the wearers suddenly resolved to abandon that color and go into hiding.

It was a peculiar weekend for Ooga, as off-weeks always are. He is now gladly summoning the Dawg gods for his weekly prophecy.
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Ooga and the Saga of the Baker Man
Posted by saxondawg on 5:25 PM 10-Nov-99

And lo, there came to the Brown Plains an evil sorcerer, for he was a dealer in white powder which gave forth dreams and visions; and many there were, among the Chicken People, who needed all the dreams and visions they could get; for they were soon to be toppled forth by the Big Dawg from their status among the Top Ten Hordes of all the land; and the dealer (whose name was Baker, for he was often known to be baked) took flight and entered the forbidden land--the land of the Big Dawg's End Zone. It is written, the People of the Chicken shall never enter this Promised Land. And lo, he ran toward the Big Dawg, and taunted him forth. And this is blasphemy! And the Big Dawg did, henceforth, enter the Baker's own End Zone, and leaveth tooth marks beside; and biteth his butt further in four overtimes. And great was the rejoicing of the Dawg Nation.