SkyNet Football 2010 Week Siete

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,

There was a little turnover in the pool leadership this week. The two seasonal winners of just a few years ago, the Fightin' Beav and Clancey Coronado, are on top of us again. (Insert obvious wink/nudge comment here.)

It's all about the Key picks -- you have to get them. That's why they are called "Key" picks, and not "Just one more thing to do before you click Submit" picks. Of course, TLAM and JRHONEY (or as we call him, "Junior Honey") are the exceptions to this rule. They are banging the Keys like Jerry Lee Lewis, but it's the rest of their picks that are holding them back.

This week goes to another long-suffering veteran player. The fans aren't booing, they are saying "Looouuuu".

Hey, kids, you need to watch "The League" on FX. Set your DVRivo to record it, catch up on episodes online at Hulu or OnDemand, and dig in. It's loosely based around a football fantasy league, semi-scripted and partially improvised, darkly clever, and NOT appropriate for your little rug monkeys to watch all snuggly next to you on the couch. There are lots of warnings before it comes on, and foul language, and there's a character named Taco. That should be enough to get you there.

Incidentally, I want a friend named Taco. If I start calling one of you that, just answer. Also, unrelated, I'm going to start talking like the lead penguin from Madagascar. Gotta keep it fresh.

In other news, apparently some wastes of carbon out in the African desert packed a couple of crates of explosives, threw a mittful of commemorative stamps on them, and put them in the mail to the US. What the hell did we do to piss off Yemen? I mean, if it was up to me, I'd say nuke 'em into shiny lumps of drippy glass Christmas ornaments just for being close to Somalia and having a name that is far too close to baby batter. Instead, they are now all up in the Al Quaida business and hiding some cat named Anwar Al-Awlaki.

What's with all the folks named Al that want to blow us up? I know some guys named Al -- good people. There's my brother-in-law's old man, and Al Roker, and the guy that took over the malt shoppe from Mr. Miyagi. They aren't strapping mother boards to toner cartridges full of Acme TNT. Two things come to mind: make all these foreign guys start punctuating their name with Adolf instead of Al so we aren't tainting the good name of decent heavy set guys everywhere, and send in some 00-prefix SEAL teams on an asshole safari.

Fire at will, boys. Fire at will.

Skynet Football Pool Week Seis

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,

I think I can get this in before kickoff of Week 7, which would be the outer limits of acceptability and a new league record for procrastination.

Flounder brought home the Week 6 bacon, and took his place at the top of the seasonal standings. With hopes that THIS is the year he can hold on to first place, he joins Prometheus, who hopes THIS is the morning that fucking eagle leaves his liver alone.

Speaking of ancient history and curious dinner choices, I seem to have found myself on the Paleo Diet. This isn't intended to be a weight loss kind of diet, as the casual observer will note that I possess the lean musculature of Greek statuary. Underneath that chiseled exterior, however, beats an overworked heart struggling to push pure sausage gravy through my veins. Those chest pains are just indigestion and some lingering soreness from bench presses, right? Well, gravy is tasty, but lower cholesterol and a decent blood chemistry improve my chances of living long enough to implement my plan to become a beloved host of reality TV competitions in exotic locations. It also improves the survival probabilities in the coming zombie apocalypse and/or the battle against intelligent machines, but that's just a bonus to the hosting gig.

This Paleo Diet is basically eating like a primitive hunter/gatherer. If you have to grow it, process it, bake it, refrigerate it, or enjoy it, you can't have it. Meat, nuts, berries, fruits and green veggies = good. Grain, beans, pasta, bread, sugar, salt, milk, cheese, and everything in my cabinet = bad. The premise is that our digestive systems evolved when you had to carve off a chunk of wooly mammoth, grab a handful of blueberries, wrap it in a fistful of leaves, and wash it down with creek water while on the run from rival tribes and sabertooth sleestaks. Your pie holes, ironically, are not for pies. We, according to the remarkably convincing lunatics that espouse this kind of rudimentary cuisine, are better off without pepperoni pizza or anything made of corn.

Bourbon, I'll have you know, is made from corn; so, Strike One, lunatics.

And peanut butter is technically a prohibited legume and not George Washington Carver's proven miracle nut? Strike Two.

And you have to eat a lot of steak? Whoa -- checked swing.

No word yet whether I get to bash people with a club or have to push my feet through the floorboard to stop my car, but I can already feel my knuckles dragging.

SkyNet Football 2010 Week Cinco

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,

Nobody at my address won this week. Week Five goes to Multiple Scoregasms, for whom this is either an amuse bouche to supplement his regular gambling winnings or something already promised to a bookie as partial payment for the continued function of his kneecaps. Honestly, I think he's going to blow it all on new visors.

So, yeah, that high school reunion thing went fine. That is, it went completely as expected and to a large degree as scripted. The football players talked to the cheerleaders, the Most Likely To's chatted up the Most Populars, and the High School Quiz Bowl Team (state champs 1984 and 1985, thankyouverymuch) talked to anyone who paused long enough to squint at the yearbook photo cut out and pasted on our tiny-fonted name tags. The dinner buffet was three kinds of baked ziti, which as you know pretty much exhausts the Pantheon of ziti recipes. The DJ played the Electric Slide at about 8:30, which I found to be a little premature and bordering on ageism. Among the guests, at least two people were grandparents already, the usual statistical portion had been divorced, three people had changed so little that I suspected cryogenic storage, and there was one creepy guy that I barely remembered but I'm pretty sure was taking pictures so he could create a little murder scene diorama in a shoebox. One girl, whose most distinguishing feature in high school was a forehead big enough for truck stop advertising, looked like she had subsisted for years entirely on potato chips and chocolate bunnies. At least she grew into her forehead. Biggest shock: the surprisingly attractive and yet heavily tattooed women behind the bar were entirely immune to my wit; but in their defense, I may (MAY) be a little less Don Draper and a little more Don Rickles than I think.

At one point, the crowd thinned out and I thought maybe there had been a sudden surge in long-forgotten high school hormonal desires. I feared that a parking lot full of minivans were a'rocking with contorted consummations of ancient lusts and that people would be staggering back with random floorboard detritus in their hair and Cheerios stuck to their kneecaps. Apparently, it was merely a combination of smoke breaks, babysitter check-in calls, and famished quests for something more than ziti.

Generally, however, I found that I enjoyed myself. I had three or four conversations that surprised me with the level of honesty and humor, the blend of wistfulness and hope, and a realization that everyone seemed to have more richness and depth as if we had all aged in our own casks built of personal victories and defeats. (Well, except for that drunk guy that bro-hugged me at the buffet -- that guy had as about as much depth as an episode of Spongebob Squarepants, and half the ability to hold my interest.)

Speaking of interesting, it was nice to see the media covering something positive this week with the extrication of the Chilean miners. It was uplifting, pun intended, to share the excitement of the world watching the rescue; and to know that there are still some smart, brave people that can solve problems without conference calls, committee discussions, and calendar synching. Got men trapped in a cave? "You: get a shovel. You: start building an Escape Pod 3000, try to make it a little smaller than the hole that guy is digging, put some wheels on it, and, uh, spray it with Pam. Go." That's getting the job done.

I applaud them, particularly the miner that came up knowing his wife and his mistress had discovered each other while wailing together for his loss.

"For whom do you weep, my sister in grief?"
"I weep for Juan."
"I also weep for Juan. Probably a different Juan. Common name and so forth. I love my Juan."
"I love my Juan very much too -- he is my husband.
"My Juan is my lover of much passion and many years. Juan Ramírez."
"Come again?"
"Tuco Benedicto Pacífico Juan María Ramírez. My Juan... for whom I weep."
"Ramírez? With a Z?"
"Si, do you know him?
"Bitch, I'mma gonna cut you in the face. "

That dude is muy valiente. If that was my situation, I'd stay in that hole until my eyes turned white and my skin went translucent like a cave creature. I'd eat bugs for the rest of my life, and start calling my still-attached dick "My Precious". Hilarity does NOT ensue when you got two crazy women waiting for you and only one door.

I don't always get trapped in a mineshaft, but when I do, I take Dos Equis and leave only one woman topside.

I'm the most interesting Commissionero in the world.

Skynet Football Pool Week Cuatro

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,

I am pleased to announce a uniting… a joining… a convergence of two very special things: your money and my pants. It’s been a couple of years since El Commissionero won a week, and oh, I've missed it so. What an illicit gambling pool has joined, let no man put asunder.

Although, admittedly, it wasn't much of a victory. Nine and five on the week will not exactly get you the "1-2-3-Fo', All you 'hos get on da flo" Suite at the Bellagio, and I had to have the Patriots pound the Fins mercilessly just to get the points to hit my tiebreaker. It's not exactly dominance -- more like winning a race by a nose because of one’s Southern European genetics. I will endeavor to fill this hollow feeling with money; which, incidentally, is now available.

The accounting breaks down like this: there are thirty of us clustered around the buffet this year. Each threw in 88 units for 2640 total; so, less 90 units (at 3 each) to the website, there's 2550 big fat yeast rolls for the taking. That slices up to 120 for each weekly victor; and by the time the playoffs start, we'll have 250 left for the overall winner, 175 for the seasonal silver medal, and 85 to go back to the player earning the Oreck/Hilton/Gravity award.

This weekend, I will face a deeper and more fearsome challenge: my 25th High School Reunion. The general consensus is that it's not that big a deal; and that the passage of a quarter-century makes it a relaxed, welcoming, and cordial environment that is the exact opposite of high school. Nonetheless, I have a ponderous sense of dread. Maybe it is that this is a step directly back into the circumstances of my formative years when fear and uncertainty ruled the day. I mean, the last time I saw THAT guy, he was a defensive end making sure everyone went the right damn way on the one-way staircase; and the last time I saw THAT chick, she was a cheerleader looking past/through me to one of the faster, stronger, or more facially-symmetrical males in the tribe.

Despite John Hughes' great efforts to demonstrate that inside every kid is a rebel/warrior/prince/poet, and despite every scar and every score that I earned in the years that followed, it feels like I'm going to be right back in 1985 again. If that guy or that chick tries to talk to me, I bet my first reaction will be to blurt out several five-syllable words and throw up on my shoes.

I'm not much for small talk in large rooms, either; but I have to remember that I've become something that I never expected to be: comfortable.

HEY IT’S YOU ... (glancing down at my nametag) ... CHRISTOPHER! HOW YA BEEN, MAN?" (Offers handshake, which awkwardly converts from straight handshake to semi-vertical handclasp to very uncomfortable bro-hug)

Hey ... (glancing down at his nametag... Hello, his name is... what? Is that Jon or Jason? Can’t quite tell, damn the tiny font -- too late, locked into manual greeting ritual and must …get… timing right) ... you! Call me Chris, it's shorter and more accurate.

YEAH, CHRIS. MAN, WHAT YOU BEEN UP TO?

For all 25 years? Well, I wasn’t in prison, so it’s been kind of varied.

HA HA HUH HA. YOU’RE THAT SMART KID, RIGHT? DID YOU BECOME A DOCTOR?

No.

GOT THAT ENGLISH AWARD, DINCHA? YOU, LIKE, A WRITER?

No, although I did once describe a bathroom as being so disgusting that it looked like a blind epileptic tried to ice a chocolate cake in there. That one was well-received.

OH, I BET YOU WAS ALL OVER THAT INTERNETS, YEAH. GOOGLETUBE, WAS THAT YOU? YOU A DOT.COM JILLIONAIRE G6-FLYING MUTHAFUCKA?

No. I was not involved in the Googletube project.

AWW NAW, I BET YOU GOT YOUR OWN COMPANY AND GET TO TRAVEL AROUND AND GET PREMIER PLATINUM MILEAGE UPGRADES AND WHATNOT.

No. Let me skip ahead for you: I steal.

S' COOL. YOU WAS KIND OF A SKINNY KID, USED TOO MANY BIG WORDS. DID YOU EVER GET LAID?

Yeah. Twice on the way over here.

YOU USED TO HAVE BIGGER HAIR. WHAT HAPPENED?

The stores quit selling gel. And mousse. And someone pointed out it looked like a mullet from the back and the front.

SO, WHATCHA BEEN UP TO, ANYTHING?

Well you know ... (glance down to his nametag, still can’t read his penmanship) ... dude, I spent a few years in college and grad school, had jobs I hated and jobs I’ve liked, been with women whose names I never knew and to places I will never forget. I’ve seen the sun rise over a mountain in Wyoming and over the horizon in Nicaragua. I’ve seen the sun set on the lives of too many people that I wish had more time to share with us. I've got a wife so awesome that we ought to fight crime together on Thursday night prime time. I wrecked a couple of cars, saved at least one life, gained muscle mass and alcohol tolerance, and been getting better about asking questions instead of answering all the time. I’ve won several times, lost a few more, and learned something every time.

I guess I’ve been doing pretty well since High School. If nothing else, I’ve learned that testing yourself is good, and a little change is nothing to be feared.

It's great to see you. (execute flawless bro-hug) I see a girl that doesn't remember ever seeing me, and I'm going to go ask her how Jenny Craig is working out for her. Later, champ.

Maybe it won't be so bad as I think.

SkyNet Football 2010 Week Tres

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,

Week Three goes back to Clancey Coronado, who is dominating this pool and making it look easier than playing Rock-Paper-Scissors at a Hitler parade.

While the ducats pile up on her side of the bed, the rest of us move one step closer to poverty, hopelessness, and voting Democrat. Where's mine?!?! I mean ... at the risk of going all Kanye here, "Baby, I'm really happy for you, I'ma let you finish, but my research was some of the best of all time!"

**If you are at all familiar with the Clancey Coronado response levels, you will know that if I were to interrupt the payout process to kick it Kanye-style, then it would not be met with any blinky-eyed Disney character response. We'd move past both Response Level One (disdain and disregard) and Response Level Two (withering verbal disembowelment), and into some form of Response Level Three (Wolverine-clawed rage-fueled frenzy). For future reference, at Response Level Four, somebody is going to end up in a box -- sorry about that, short-lived (literally) girlfriend in grad school :| . Pray you never see Response Level Four, which will have to be described by archeologists that can piece together what happened from the ash layers and pottery shards.

With two hours at the computer, pages of notes surrounding me, I had higher expectations. I had highlighters and whatnot. Did you know (and it must be true because it's on the world wide interwebs) that "DETROIT is 22-2 with revenge vs a division opponent off a fav loss; GREENBAY is 6-72 off a fav loss,"? I've got no idea what that means... but it seems very powerful. It would be nice to spend a little less time in the McDonald Playland Jumpy Ball Pit of Statistics and trust my gut: dogs don't have to win, they just don't have to lose as badly. I just really thought that the favorites would roll this week, like they did in 2009.

But hey, if wishes and hunches were sit-ups and crunches, we'd all be underwear models.


Get back out there.

SkyNet Football 2010 Week Dos

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution

This late note can be blamed entirely on me being busy driving the skiploader full of crap at work. Seriously, does it matter whether the new IMS FAQ includes references to the cert environment settings for tax lot selection? When I was little, I did not dream of a joy like the Monster.com ad this has become.

Plus, today is the Fightin' Beav's birthday, and I had to wait for a full pool shoutout about nice she looks for her age.

This pool thing, I tell you... Another week is in the archives; and that means 8.5% of my (our) opportunities for winning are now swirling seaward down the American Standard.

Two weeks down, fifteen to go -- time to ramp up the research on your favorite handicapper sites, decide which expert from cbssports.com you will copy, consider if the Bill Simmons picks are worth considering, or (and this is where most roads lead) configure your autopick selection to "Random" and recognize that you simply cannot predict if those goatfuckers will ice the kicker with a time-out to force a rekick that flies farther right than Glenn Beck on the starboard yardarm of the USS Missed It By A Mile. Stupid +2.5 line...

Plus, can you really outthink Vegas? There's a whole lot of little machines there that go "Boo-DOO-loo-da-loo, Boo-DOO-loo-da-loo... Tink-Tink-Tink-Tink-Tink", and the winners aren't the ones paying the power bill. They know stuff in Vegas, like, how to set the line at +2.5. And how to predict total meltdown by the Pats, and how the Panthers quarterback will totally go shit-in-his-hat stupid before being replaced by some kid that looks like a Himalayan cat.

Seriously -- Clausen and a Himalayan Blue Point? Look it up: smooshy-faced wussies with infuriating looks of indignant disdain. Mark my words: Panthers go 5-11, PSLs come free with any new house purchase in the Metrolina area, and Clausen shatters his feeding dish because he couldn't discern real bits of tuna in it.

This week's ill-gotten stack of Hip-Hop Honey Bait -- a term I prefer to "booty", but still not as much as I like "victory biscuits" -- goes to Mr. Bubbles. I was able to delight him with the news around Wednesday or so, because he cared neither enough to make picks nor to check to see the results. This does not make me feel good about my two hours poring the interwebs for team news, but at least I knew that I had a well-defined reason for being wrong instead of "Ehh, home teams do good."

It wouldn't be a message from El Commissionero without some mention of the sacrifices yet to be laid on SkyNet's altar. I observed earlier this week to a player, however, my sense of urgency at chasing SkyNet participants is slightly below that of my concern about whether Justin Bieber will be a safe driver because of the risk that his hair might fall in his eyes. Breaks down like this: many are the tales of checks wending their way through postal routes, and that's all good in the various 'hoods from whence they were mailed. The officefootballpool site, however, wants their Per Player pound of flesh by the first of October, so if units are not in hand by then, you are killed off. That's the long and Kevorkian short of it.

So, to sum up -- skiploader, clock's ticking, Tink-Tink, good job Autopicks, pay or die, and I got to run.

Your El Commissionero Magnifico

SkyNet Football 2010 Week Uno

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,

Week Uno is in the books and Clancey Coronado draws first blood. That is both a metaphor representative of the first victory of the season, and the corporeal results of her very insistent demands to be paid. The House of Commissionero rang loudly with shouts of great joy after Monday night's games, followed very closely by a request for a full accounting. It's like being in business with Paulie Cicero.

And on that point, thirty-one souls are sailing with SkyNet this season. Over half have made their respectful donations, and I have no reason to suspect the rest are not rushing forward with fistfuls of crumpled lunch money even as I type. If everyone ponies up as planned, my first draft cipherin' and calculatin' says we're looking at a 120 weekly and 300/200/85 seasonal unit redistribution.

The first standing rule of SkyNet still applies, however: No one gets paid out until everyone pays in. Winners make great enforcers. So ... pay. There are some things you don't want in your face, like Dee Snutz and Multiple Scoregasms. You could lose an eye, most of your dignity, and the ability to distinguish yourself from a Kardashian.

Good luck,

El Commissionero