It's hard to work up much hate for Vandy. It calls for a little creativity, or maybe a visit to the past. What follows are the words of Ooga the prophet, hunkering hermit, from about twenty years ago when he offered forth weekly prophecies of Dawg games. He is still depicted in my avatar, and a small number of you might remember his words, which are basically in the form of KJV Old Testament Trash Talk. It will be a WTF moment for those who weren't around the Vent in those days. Here's what the Hunkering One had to say about the Vandified Varlots:
And now the prophet must speak of the Vandified Varlets of Gnashville. Has it not been said of oulde, even by the prophet, that these are a curious and feeble lot; they who have puny bodies and giant bespectacled heads, who dabble in the ancient sorcery known as Olde Money, and who eat many things not personally hunted down and skinned as the manly races do it:
QUICHE eat they, and three-bean salads, and foul casseroles and sandwiches derived from eggplant and wenchly things which grow in the gardens, with no bleeding red meat in many of their meals;
and they are clothen in the mantles of the Yammering Yuppies, are these Vandified Varlets, and they drinketh wine coolers and readeth Architectural Digest and can name forth lo, every variety of imported cheese.
Sonatas hear they, and cantatas, and lusteth they after fat opera singers resembling Fulmer the Foul, with pigtails and a Viking Hat and attend they NO tractor-pulls but instead SOIREES, and their wenches make DEBUTS rather than little firstborn masculine warlords.
Yea, they are like the Nattering Nimrods of North Avenue if they knew the ways of etiquette.
But lo, it is also true that they are the France of the SEC, and they surrender even more quickly! Even at the coin toss, they come with their petitions of surrender. The People of the Dawg feel sorely strange about marauding through such a peculiar and spastically feeble race, and spoiling forth their manicures, and spilling forth their Spritzers. It seemeth almost unfair.
But the hell with that, sayeth the prophet. ARE WE NOT the Dawgly Race??
ARE WE NOT on a Mission to be the most Bodaciously, Bearded-All-Over Manly Race in the Land?
Thus the People of the Dawg shall feast, even upon they who prefereth Chopin, nibbleth on Grey Poupon, and cannot defend themselves with properly sharpened weapons. And we shall shred the pages of thy GQ magazines and stuff them down thy gullets, as the Great Band of Redcoats plays something by Rachmaninoff to make thee feel more comfortable. But thou art NOT Maninoff.
Only the People of the DAWG are Maninoff. THOU art Manilow. AMEN.
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And now the prophet must speak of the Vandified Varlets of Gnashville. Has it not been said of oulde, even by the prophet, that these are a curious and feeble lot; they who have puny bodies and giant bespectacled heads, who dabble in the ancient sorcery known as Olde Money, and who eat many things not personally hunted down and skinned as the manly races do it:
QUICHE eat they, and three-bean salads, and foul casseroles and sandwiches derived from eggplant and wenchly things which grow in the gardens, with no bleeding red meat in many of their meals;
and they are clothen in the mantles of the Yammering Yuppies, are these Vandified Varlets, and they drinketh wine coolers and readeth Architectural Digest and can name forth lo, every variety of imported cheese.
Sonatas hear they, and cantatas, and lusteth they after fat opera singers resembling Fulmer the Foul, with pigtails and a Viking Hat and attend they NO tractor-pulls but instead SOIREES, and their wenches make DEBUTS rather than little firstborn masculine warlords.
Yea, they are like the Nattering Nimrods of North Avenue if they knew the ways of etiquette.
But lo, it is also true that they are the France of the SEC, and they surrender even more quickly! Even at the coin toss, they come with their petitions of surrender. The People of the Dawg feel sorely strange about marauding through such a peculiar and spastically feeble race, and spoiling forth their manicures, and spilling forth their Spritzers. It seemeth almost unfair.
But the hell with that, sayeth the prophet. ARE WE NOT the Dawgly Race??
ARE WE NOT on a Mission to be the most Bodaciously, Bearded-All-Over Manly Race in the Land?
Thus the People of the Dawg shall feast, even upon they who prefereth Chopin, nibbleth on Grey Poupon, and cannot defend themselves with properly sharpened weapons. And we shall shred the pages of thy GQ magazines and stuff them down thy gullets, as the Great Band of Redcoats plays something by Rachmaninoff to make thee feel more comfortable. But thou art NOT Maninoff.
Only the People of the DAWG are Maninoff. THOU art Manilow. AMEN.
