Swami's NFL Pool 2018: Bills

December 16, 2016

The Root of the Friday Taunt XIV

'Tis a double post this fine Friday evening, as is usually the case when the post comes out late. 'Tis the season for so much to do and so little time. We begin with a spin traveling in a world of my creation, as we discuss one single solitary individual who once ascended the heights, and now has fallen.

My friends, El Hefe has left us. He of shoot-from-the-hip faith went prospecting in the hills with them there forty-niners, and found only one good reason to take a knee: his second loss. We bid him adieu in 40th place.

As for the rest, little change. Everyone else was successful. The Lions and Bears threatened to make the Reaper work a bit, oh my, but proved as anti-climatic as the Wizard himself.

And so we turn our attentions from the Taunt portion to the Root portion, given that the weekend is upon us already and my schedule is fuller than John Stamos' house -- which brings us to the three lovely ladies getting their groove on up top.

Can you pay my bills? Can you pay my telephone bills? Can you pay my automo-bills? If Sexy Rexy pays my bills maybe then in Week 15 we can chill. Until then, like Lunchmoney Lewis, I got bills.

That is all.

October 21, 2012

The Root of the Week VII

Yet another week is upon us with choices galore, and none of them good. The masses are moving in different directions entirely, some having already struck gold with the 49ers, others riding bareback on the Colts, still more pledging their allegiance to the Patriots, a bold handful going rogue with the Raiders, several Cheeseheads, a pair of Giants, a Boys-lover, a Texans-taker, and one entire family hibernating until Monday with the Bears.

As for the Swami and the Factor and the Spawn, we also have divided our interests: the young ones feel a little Lucky, what woman doesn't love Tom Brady, and I have decided to be the only participant, Second Life or otherwise, to back the resurgent Bills.

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.