In the words of the immortal Al Swearengen, "bloodletting on my premises that I ain't approved I take as a ****ing affront. It puts me off my feed."
Make no mistake, Week Eleven was a bloodletting, like some medieval doctor strapped 24 participants to a chair and took out the needle and the knife. It hurt, bad, and our numbers are nearly halved: 17 of the 26 one loss teams went down to defeat, and dropped below the line --- including yours truly, and the bells you hear ringing in that far off place sound the knell of the Swami himself.
The undefeateds took it even harder on the chin, with seven of ten taking their first loss. We now have only a trio of unscathed souls: Pillow Connoisseur and Shiner, both veterans of the pool, and the Spawn of Swami, my own flesh and blood --- who happens to be a 9-year-old girl.
And so we arrive at Week Twelve, noticeably thinner, with pressures mounting and good options dwindling. When the majority take the Redskins, you know your good options are dwindling.
To those who remain, in the words of Al Swearengen, "pain or damage don't end the world, or despair, or ****ing beatin's. The world ends when you're dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man ... and give some back."
That is all.
