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

September 8, 2012

The Root of the Week I

Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests, compatriots, colleagues, competitors, and friends, I bid you welcome to another great and glorious year of the Suicide Pool.

It is customary at this time for the host, yours truly, to wax poetic on the wonders of football and the delights of gambling degeneration, the perils and pleasures of weekly team selection. It is customary, but not required, and despite this being the first week, this week I will not.

There are some of you who are new to the Pool, and thus have not had the benefit of my dialogue-ing ways, nor have you come to understand those things in this life I hold most dear. It is quite simple really.

Family. Friends. Fish.

There are many of you, however, who know this deep and soulful truth. There are many of you, any of you who have found the Suicide Pool in past years, who know of my Beloveds, the Miami Dolphins.

And yet you pick against them.

You pick against them, and risk the Swami wrath, and so I shall lay down one of my infamous, diabolical, delicious soothsayer curses: let it be known emphatically at this time that no veteran participant of the Pool who has chosen to ride the Texans in Week One will find themselves standing at the end, when the dust settles, when the champion is crowned. So sayeth the Swami. You have brought this upon yourselves.

Let us now move on to more pleasant topics. For those who are new, there are two staples of the Suicide Pool blog: the Root of the Week and the Tuesday Taunt. In the former, the Swami lays down his weekly pick in advance of Sunday play, as well as the trending popular selections. In the latter, he taunts all those who perished the weekend prior. The Swami* loves chaos, and relishes it.

In classic Week One style, we've got multiple teams on the docket: Texans (boo), Lions, Eagles, Bears, Vikings, Panthers, Saints, Ravens, Seahawks, Jets, Patriots, and Falcons, among others. In other words, the situation is ripe; not all will move unscathed to Week Two. Where does the allegiance of the Swami lie, you ask? Methinks the Big Kitties chow down on the Lunchables of St Louis.

And so, without further ado, I declare this season of Suicide officially open . . . and they're off.

That is all.

*The Swami promises to only sporadically refer to himself in the third person. It shall only be doled out in small doses.

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.