Swami's NFL Pool 2018: The Root of the Week VIII

October 31, 2010

The Root of the Week VIII

I don't often drink beer, but when I do, I prefer Pacifico. So sayeth the Swami, arguably the most interesting man in the world, and so drinketh the Swami at the very moment of this posting.

My merry little band of drinking mates includes the Factor (pinot grigio), the Wench (two Peroni bottles and a dab of the pinot), and the Man of Wench (multiple Fire Rocks and a Peroni nightcap); 'tis a motley crew, but we are enjoying ourselves immensely. To all those enjoying their own bit of cocktailing on this Halloween eve, mind the Swami and the mothers of MADD, and be safe.

This week's root comes with so many reeling from a tough stretch of weeks, upsets and losses piling on top of upsets and losses. There will be few big upsets this week, not with the pool of teams so evenly dispersed: bad playing bad, good playing good, and the semi-disparities with favorites on the road, which means the participant masses are spreading themselves thin -- multiple selections on the Cowboys, Colts, Jets, Patriots, and Chiefs, plus an Oakland pick and a Redskins pick.

Which leaves the Swami.

Too many weeks this season have I caucused with the herd, too many weeks have I held close to the pack. It is time to strike out and seek new ground. It is time to be bold, and different, and a little bit wild. I will ride the arm of Sam Bradford into the Sunday sunset on the holiday of Halloween, and while scary, in the end the treat will be sweet.

That is all.

Introducing . . .

. . . Ze German, a frothy, filthy, unfiltered 'Skins-lover bringing you weekly rants from his tapestry-laden castle high upon the Zugspitze peak. There is wisdom and method to his madness, however, so pay attention -- just look out for the women and children.

. . . The Holy Light, and the best of us, a beacon of strength, dignity, and truth, and shining where there is darkness. As it was in Ezekiel, his word is his bond and his name is the law, and he shall strike down those who dare not listen when he doth speak.

. . . The Hooded Fiend, brilliant, diabolical, devious -- the smartest man you've never met, and will never have the chance. Locked away in the dungeons below a nondescript building, we only bring the Fiend out to post when the situation is most dire.

. . . El Doctor, the tall, dark, hunky, and handsome resident surgeon of Suicide. Women love his strong hands, men respect his keen mind, and Swami requires his wicked wit, but no one understands his almost unholy passion for autos and linen pants.

. . . Man of Wench, that staunch fan of all things Philly and a fine specimen of masculinity, bold enough to tie the knot with the feisty, infamous Wench. Whether at the grill or at the bar, with a healthy glass of vino in his hand he'll bill you by the hour for a taste of his good times.

. . . Master of Macabre, a delightfully sinful and sinister purveyor of doom and gloom, keeper of all things dark and deathly. It is unsure what horrifies more: his spectral air, his cadaverous crypt, his Machiavellian machinations, or his penchant for Princess and the Frog.

. . . Shapeshifter, he of the ever-changing ways, ever-shifting forms, and everlasting enthusiasm. Our newest commentator brings forth pomp, verbosity, and circumstance on scale to rival even the Swami himself. Shifty, yes, and subtle when necessary, his form is never out of fashion.