In the beginning, when the earth was young and the Big Dawg createth all the savage hordes of the world, those who were reeking and those who were of manly aroma, the league was without form and void, and a foul and flatulent mist encircleth the earth. And great was the stench of that mist, and they calleth it The Great Gas Bag of Lou. And many were the torments of this fetid vapor, for it speaketh to men in endless motivational speeches, culled from the scrolls of the prophet Tony Robbins.

And the Great Gas Bag of Lou moveth like the stale flapping of the massive armpit of the earth, from the northern wastes to the southern wastes and to every corner where people be wasted. And the Gas Bag taketh the shape of a shriveled and gnarly balloon, yea, a buffoon, and great were its wrinkles, like unto the late Irene Ryan. And it sayeth endless trite sayings, then moveth on again, and the People of the Hog, and the Yankeeish Tribes of South Bend, and many other of the world’s hordes endured the gasses and sigheth with relief when it passeth from their sickly hindparts into the air, leaveth its enduring stench, and moveth on by the four winds.

And lo, the Great Gas Bag of Lou casteth about the earth for a place to emit its foul odors yet again, and behold, it findeth that wretched waste, reviled even by the abysmal standards of Lower Carolina, yea, called COLUMBIA, for it remindeth travelers of Central America. And the Great Gas Bag descendeth to earth yet again, and speaketh the words of infomercials, and fireth up the People of the Doublewides, who findeth the stench to be fragrant, and imagineth that the sub-gaseous Skippy be a man of great wisdom.

And the people were filled with visions of adequacy, and dreamed dreams of rising to the heights of mediocrity, and they yearned to one day be average. For lo, they were Chicken People, and short were their highlight films, and many times were they grilled, fried, baked, roasted, and nuggetized by the more savage and hungering warriors of the world. But of their offseason cluckings there was no end.

Hear, O Chicken People! Prepare Ye for the Merciless Whooping of thy Feed-Plumpened Hindparts! Submit thy breasts, thighs, wings, and womanly dumplings for thy ritual basting! The People of the Dawg seizeth ye by thy chickenly nuggets and severeth thy Jenkins. Ye faceth no longer the feeble and girlish Cavalier People who mauleth thee even in their gigglesome youth.

Behold, the Great Spiked Club of Ooga shall WAIL in two days time, and it shall puncture the Great Bag of Gas, until the rumble of its hoary explosion of flatulence shall resound throughout the dung-strewn pastures of Lower Carolina, and the earth shall swallow up the Great Dead Cockroach of Williams-Brice, and the resulting winds carryeth away all the multitude of the Ten Thousand Trailer Parks of Lower Carolina.

And the People of the Dawg shall hear the merciful silence of no more motivational sayings. Amen.