Swami's NFL Pool 2018: Thursday Taunt III

October 1, 2015

Thursday Taunt III

Three weeks, three weeks, fourteen more onward. All from the valley of Death rode the hundred six seven. Forward, our participant parade. Arise, Swami said; into the Third Week rode the hundred six seven.

Forward, our participant parade. Was there a man dismayed? Not though we all knew most of us had blundered. Ours not to look behind, ours not to excuses find, ours to resolve our mind; into the Third Week rode the hundred six seven.

Touchdown to the right of them, safety to the left of them, the Reaper right in front of them, to tear us asunder. Battered with scythe and shell, boldly we ride and well, into another week, into prognoses bleak, rode the hundred six seven.

When will our glory fade? Not soon, after such a charge we made. Despite the doubts that lingered under. Honor the charge we made, honor our participant parade, noble hundred six seven.

And so it is and shall be told in the annals of Swami lore, the tale of the one hundred sixty seven brave souls who responded to the devastation of the Week That Shall Not Be Named and return from the edge, from the brink, from the chasm to stand firmly, resolutely, and together, arms linked, for at least another week. Onward we roll as one into Week Four.

So it is written, so it was done.

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.