Swami's NFL Pool 2018: The Root of the Week XIV

December 10, 2016

The Root of the Week XIV

'Tis an early Saturday post on this fine Saturday morning, as the Swami is out of commission this evening and away from any semblance of wi-fi. If I am eaten by an African rhebok and can no longer run the pool, I apologize. You'll be fine.

That strange feeling in your chest? It is pressure, the pressure that comes with surviving this long -- Week the Fourteenth -- and knowing that one false move ends the big dance. Only a few have the luxury of a spare loss waiting in the wings, the majority are dancing on just one leg.

There are no great choices. It seems Detroit will be a popular pick, at home this week, although it is a divisional game and the Barkley Bears have shown a little life of late. The Swami, however, will turn to Julio. When in doubt, Julio. What would Julio do? When life gives you lemons, Julio. Why did the chicken cross the road? Julio. How are babies made? Julio.

Julio is the answer to every question this week. The Dirty Birds for the road win.

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.