Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,
Did you SEE the number of misspellings and missed words in my last email? Sweet Soloman on a Skateboard, if the only WiFi available is at a bar, it's probably wise to hold off on serious communiques until one is back to the mainland before typing.
Or one might proofread, but El C does not have the time or inclination for that. When you're living a Buffett song, up to and including white liquors AND a vicious Krugeresque cut on the heel, there's just no room in the day. Take the pearls I cast, and fill in the blanks.
So, um, make some picks this week. Before you do, don't forget to make a little drop by the Styx Marina to pay the boatman for this season's journey. I suppose I might rage and rant against the kind of sub-lamprey sludge that defers payment until after the first couple of weeks just, you know, to see if a win will make it unnecessary -- but you are my people, and I know that is not the kind of ilk that would include any of you. You know good and well that no one gets paid out until everyone pays in, and you're all well above lampreys on the evolutionary scale. I've seen you use tools to open beers.
So far, 24 people are in the game. I'd like to crest thirty so that payouts are more attractive; so put the appropriate pressure on people like Sheets and MonTony, Matchete and Coach CT, and other legacy players that have yet to respond to the siren call. Put the appropriate pressure on each other to pay in a timely and accurate manner.
But enough about the icky financial aspect of the business. Football, tailgating, chicken wings, jeans, firepits, and frolicking in an unmade bed full of gambling winnings -- these are the things that the season has brought us, and let us be joyful in them.
El Commissionero Magnifico
