Swami's NFL Pool 2018: Thursday Taunt XV

December 20, 2012

Thursday Taunt XV

There is a statement to be made, as per the usual, with the photographic choice attached to this post. No, there are not the skid marks left on the bodies of those deceased, nor those left in the unmentionables of those who narrowly escaped defeat this past weekend (ahem, the Raiders, really?).

Rubber, meet Road.

Yes, this is the time of year when the rubber meets the road, where the seriousness of Suicide events casts long shadows and consumes all manner of thought for those who remain.

Six took losses in the Suicide, with four perishing for the final time. We are down to three undefeateds---including the Mad Dog, who has strung together successive successful seasons---and fifteen one-loss participants, including perennially successful Chuck Dis, CB, and Back Nine Ben.

The Second Life saw two-thirds (67%) of the group bite the bullet, or eat the pavement as the analogy goes for this particular post. We're all squared up in Second Life---no undefeateds remain, with eleven battling out for the scraps of Suicide.

Choice and consequence, and the checkered flag in sight. 'Tis the season.

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.