Swami's NFL Pool 2018: The Taunt at the End of All Things

January 21, 2013

The Taunt at the End of All Things

We come to it at last. The end of all things, the end of the season, the end of 2012 Suicide. We have no homoerotic hobbits lying on rocks amidst cascading molten lava, so instead we must make do with memories of the dulcet tones of Mr. Vin Scully, whose words are so apt for the moment.

"In a season that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened."

So much action in the Conference Championship weekend, and much carnage along with it. The Falcons dropped three and the Patriots dropped one, and four participants -- including two dogs and the last two remaining undefeateds -- find themselves stranded on an island of no picks, and must settle for 7th place.

And yet . . . and yet . . . there will be a winner --- or winners, as the case may be.

Upon analysis of the Suicide Pool spreadsheet, the following two possible scenarios have been determined in the Suicide Pool for the big prize:

Ravens Win -- A five participant split-pot would ensue, with Mumsy, G-Pa, Shiner, CB, and Monkey sharing the top prize.

49ers Win -- Festivus Monarchus would claim his crown, and the mantle of sole title-holder.

Upon analysis of the Second Life spreadsheet, the following two possible scenarios have been determined for the booze-bracket title (where four fell by virtue of Pats or lack of picks):

Ravens Win -- Shapeshifter is the one and only winner.

49ers Win -- Wishful Thinking is the one and only winner.

It seems eight lives will hang in the balance come Super Bowl Sunday, when the brothers Harbaugh face off. Either way, when the dust settles and the champions are crowned, it will be seven long months to our next Suicide adventure.

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.