Swami's NFL Pool 2018: Tuesday Taunt XII

November 26, 2014

Tuesday Taunt XII

It is really getting down to hard-to-watch time. There is no easy game this season in the National Football League, no clearly defined team who will carry a participant to victory with absolutely certainty. Brady's Pats? Rolling now but have been inconsistent. Manning's Mile High Club? Capable of laying a midwestern egg. Defending Champion Seahawks? Responsible for more losses than any other this year.

There is nowhere to run. There is nowhere to hide. Miraculously, however, most of our merry little band of remaining players made it past Week Twelve. We bid adieu, sadly, to three poor souls who held onto Saintly, Chiefly hopes.

Including DADY, the defending Suicide Pool Champion.

Week Twelve Stats
3 undefeated at 12-0
13 with one loss at 11-1
176 deceased

We have come to Marino Week, which also happens to coincide with the Giving of Thanks Day, and so on this fine evening, when the Reaper takes leave of our midst and travels round to scythe many a turkey in advance of the feast, I wish all a very, quite Happy Thanksgiving.

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.