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

SkyNet Football 2010 Kickoff

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,

The opening kickoff of Football Season is about eight days away, and the Envelope of Financial Loyalty has about four donations in it. None of them is mine, so once again I wave gleefully from my glass house at all the black kettles out there. Being responsible for the payouts more so than soundbite commentary, however, my money is already in the bank.

SkyNet may be weakened with the age and the economy, but it's not dead. A couple dozen (ok, 22) of the faithful have already committed their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor to the prospect of having El Commissionero Magnifico memorialize their victory with a customized logo on the website.

And the money.

It's not all about the money, but a 2x3 picture lampooning your team name is not a straight up exchange for sacred honor, am I right?

(Incidentally, I have contacted the Half-brothers, Stepsisters, and Acquaintances of the Revolution that perch precariously on the fence, and have questioned both their heritage and physical prowess in respectful but stern tones. Feel free to prod them.)

But, the way I see it, usually through the bottom of a Double Old Fashioned tumbler of sturdy weight, it's time to revisit the awesome power of a SkyNet Football Season. You've competed in the past -- heIIfire, some of you have taken home some victory biscuits from this thing! You know what's it's like to commit to the study, the research, the stringent training; to have the wind at your back, whipping through your kilt and blowing your hair about as you raise your sword aloft and yell, "UNLEASH THE UNDERDOGS OF WAR! ... um, except for the Colts, they'll cover."

If you are going to be in this thing, then pony up the 88 units because you crave the fight, you know the teams, you know the games, and you know that this is your year.

And, deep down, because you want the kilt and the sword.

88 cash, at your earliest convenience,
El Commissionero Magnifico

PS. I'm out next week. Indulgences will be granted.

PPS. I changed the tiebreaker rules. Total game wins now trumps key picks. It's the Montione-Morris Resolution.

SkyNet Football 2009 Kickoff

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

SkyNet Football 2009 Invite

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,

You know the drill: pay money, make picks, watch season fritter away without a win, promise to do better next year.

Well, it's "next year" already. So raid your couch cushions, your car ashtrays, the need-a-penny-take-a-penny cups at Kwik-ee-Mart, and the nearby tables of inattentive waitresses.

Despite the breadlines, battered fedoras, and getting some of that free guv'ment gravy, the recent economic downturn has had no effect on SkyNet's demand for your tribute.

Got to be in it to win it. Got to pay $88 to be in it. You can make the algebraic link.

As duly self-appointed representative, you can pay me. Soon, por favor. The opening kickoff date is barreling down on us like Kate Gosselin on a chance to give a quote to Entertainment Tonight.

El Commissionero