Swami's NFL Pool 2018: Tuesday Taunt XVII

January 5, 2012

Tuesday Taunt XVII

We've got our Big Three*. It seems everyone these days wants to put one together, so why not the Suicide Pool.

The Dis is dead, done in by the men of Mile High in all their Tebowing glory, leaving a trio of participants alive as the regular season comes to a close.

Which answers the question we posed some time ago: would we make the playoffs for the fourth straight year? Clearly, the playoff strategy must be considered, even in years of such devastation, so for those who lost while maintaining said strategy, perhaps there is a measure of vindication to be found.

And so we come to Wild Card Weekend, with a slate of four games from which our participants may choose: Bengals at Texans, Lions at Saints, Falcons at Giants, and Steelers at Broncos. Still big dollars on the line; there is no room for error.

Good luck, Big Three, and may the best man win.

That is all.

*With apologies to the First Roman Triumvirate, the original Big Three is shown in the photograph above. And yes, it's a sand sculpture.

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.