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Don't think this has been posted, but its perty damn well done.

In my opinion, dead pooling is less wishing for people to die, as many of the deaths that might happen on my team (McCain, Smith, etc) will sadden me. Instead, I find it as more of a way to get more cultured on individuals. I probably would've never heard of Liam Miller, for instance, if I hadn't joined the forum cause I don't watch soccer football that much. But some of the people I read on, such as John Cocks for example, are quite interesting people, and it makes me feel more cultured. I think that gaining more knowledge on individuals with some level of fame will be able to help open your interests elsewhere. That's one of the reasons that I have decided to forgo any FFBI this time, even though last year I might've forgone someone like Sara Chivers, Ian Toothill, or Chris Betancourt...

Fuck off man. Where else can you learn about Thai guys whitening their penises? Or watch someone replace the word wand with the word penis whilst reading Harry Potter?

From the same boy as did that brilliant thing in the Trump thread, one for all the GoT fans....

So in the end, there was only one more hit after the death of King Michael, Rose Marie. Really a one pointer for the four people who picked her, with the top 2 both picking her as well, so that doesn't change the person in the lead. There are a couple of end of the year bonuses as well. The first bonus is that if you were in last place, you get to gain ten points. In this case, it's none other than our beloved Cat O'Falk (welcome back btw), who now goes from -1 points to 9 points in total. The next two bonuses aren't so friendly. The first of those bonuses is the unlucky 13 bonus. In this bonus, the person who is in 13th place gets to lose 5 points and fall back behind. In this case, the unlucky 13 bonus goes to none other than your own host, Joey Russ, who randomized team did him no good at all, and in fact, it did a poor enough of a job to make me lose 5 points. Curses. The other unlucky bonus is that you lose two points if you gained the most hits. After counting the hit number for each team, the teams with the most hits were Death Impends and CaptainChorizo, who had a total of 24 hits. However, due to the fact that they have a large enough of a lead over everyone else, this has no effect to the scoreboard at all... So with that in mind, I would like to congratulate Death Impends on winning the first annual Joker's Dead Pool with 113 points. As it turned out, King Michael was the decisive hit, as he was the only one who jokered him, which brought Death Impends a lot of points. Coming in a very close second is CaptainChorizo, who was only one point behind even though he got a lot of great hits this year. The next closest is 9 points behind, which I congratulate RadGuy in getting 103 points in total and winning third place. Here is the final scoreboard! 1st - Death Impends - 113 points 2nd - Captain Chorizo - 112 points 3rd - RadGuy - 103 points 4th - msc - 101 points 5th - Dead Cow - 90 points 6th - Unknown Man - 88 points 7th - Pedro67 - 86 points 8th - Bibliogryphon - 85 points 9th - Shaun of the Dead - 82 points 10th - RishCast - 58 points 11th - YoungWilz - 37 points 12th - Gooseberry Crumble - 32 points 13th - joeyruss - 25 points 14th - Cat O'Falk - 9 points Thank you everyone who decided to participate in the Joker's Dead Pool in 2017. Next year, a few more bonuses will be added along with another randomized terrible team from your own host, so stay tuned when the first update of the DDP happens...

Tollymore and the Mournes outside Hilltown and I drive past the studios at Corbet where they do loads of the green screen work, they are masive (70 × 250 feet ish) so you can see them from the road. 2 years ago there was a war encampment in the field next to the road. There is good money for the extras, I know of a guy got "killed" 6 times in 2 weeks and made over 3 grand!

Brilliant! You are welcome!

Decent man, we had some great nights out together back in the day.

That's very true.

Not yet but will (hopefully) in a few hours.

Rayya Elias dead. This is a People obit right now so there will probably be multiple Brit obits for her in a couple hours. Anyway, if she does get the requisite obit (if People and HuffPost aren't enough right now, anyway), shes a hit for multiple teams including mine (and a joker on my team!)

For the List of the Lost : Harry Landers, picked by @Handrejka for a couple of years in the Hitchcock theme team, died in October 2017 aged 96: http://deadline.com/2018/01/harry-landers-dies-ben-casey-co-star-appeared-on-many-tv-classics-was-96-1202236070/ http://www.derbydeadpool.co.uk/deadpool2014/celebs_L.html#landeh

I enjoy the fact that this conversation is being held in the Kirk Douglas thread, where most awkward and frankly unusual conversations happen.

Disney animator Ruthie Tompson is on BBC Four right now, interviewed as part of a documentary. Looks and sounds great for a lady turning 108 in July. Edit: Don Lusk also interviewed on it. Turning 105 this year and looks great too.

*makes mental note to use passed for all Crowdsourced hits*

I'm not getting a team together yet. I'm hoping for a bye and then the opportunity to steal picks from other teams. (It worked last year).

We can arrange that ;-)

Happy New Year peeps. I decided to forego booze and thus found myself on Dartmoor walking this morning. All alone. ‘‘Twas good for the soul.

This has cheered me up no end; thanks guys. Deathray, loony bin is fine; that's what I call it.

Nothing wrong with R.E.M. Automatic was a fine album, and Monster has its moments. They've got a lot of drudgery but hey... Travis sing "Why does it always rain on me" and the next line isn't "is it because I live in fucking Scotland?" for shame.

I have 39 Travis songs on my iTunes. And some R.E.M. I'm 21 years of age.

What was he saying? Congratulations on not flying United?

Deathlist alternative 'Fairytale of New York' Enjoy. T'was New Year's Eve, babe. In the Dead Chat. Grim Reaper said to us, can't face another row. So then I read a thread; the tale of Dickie O' I turned my face away and dreamed of years ago. <riverdance / fiddle> We had a Notapotato and Slave to the Grave and Josco and Godot and Iain and Dave. When Tempus and Winsdor and Banshees kicked off It seemed like the admins had had quite enough. "You're a dick, you're a twunt", "you're a mad insane c**t" "You're all post-whores" said StarCrossed, then someone was banned. The threads got quite heated, some posts were deleted, The trolls and the guests also got out of hand. The mods and admins shook their heads and begged them, "please behave" As the list was going up on New Year's Day.

More a story than a song.....The Gift, by The Velvet Underground Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin, and he to Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful. But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear. Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn't understand how she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile. She needed him, and he wasn't there (Awww...). The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers' Parade was scheduled to appear. He'd just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha. There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they cared enough to write. It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck him. He didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself parcel post, special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a medium sized cardboard box just right for a person of his build. He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, perhaps some midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as going tourist. By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the package "Fragile", and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam rubber cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marshas face as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off. Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about it though. After it was over he'd said he still respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didn't love her, he did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo - but that seemed many years ago. Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through the porch screen door and into the kitchen. "Oh gawd, it's absolutely maudlin outside." "Ach, I know what you mean, I feel all icky!" Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face. "I'm supposed to be taking these salt pills, but," she wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like throwing up." Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she'd seen on television. "God, don't even talk about that." She got up from the table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue vitamins. "Want one? Supposed to be better than steak," and then attempted to touch her knees. "I don't think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again." She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the telephone. "Maybe Bill'll call," she said to Sheila's glance. Sheila nibbled on a cuticle. "After last night, I thought maybe you'd be through with him." "I know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place." She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. "The thing is, after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all I didn't really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him. You know what I mean." She started to scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth. "I'll tell you, I felt the same way, and even after a while," here she bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to!" Now she was laughing very loudly. It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang the doorbell of the large stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had gotten out of her mother's small beige pocketbook in the den. "What do you think it is?" Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room. "I dunno." Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the center of the carton. "Why don't you look at the return address and see who it's from?" Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the vibrating footsteps. It would be soon. Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. "Ah, god, it's from Waldo!" "That schmuck!" said Sheila. Waldo trembled with expectation. "Well, you might as well open it," said Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the staple flap. "Ah sst," said Marsha, groaning, "he must have nailed it shut." They tugged on the flap again. "My God, you need a power drill to get this thing open!" They pulled again. "You can't get a grip." They both stood still, breathing heavily. "Why don't you get a scissor," said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs, and when she came back up, she had a large sheet metal cutter in her hand. "This is the best I could find." She was very out of breath. "Here, you do it. I-I'm gonna die." She sank into a large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end of the cardboard flap, but the blade was too big and there wasn't enough room. "God damn this thing!" she said feeling very exasperated. Then smiling, "I got an idea." "What?" said Marsha. "Just watch," said Sheila, touching her finger to her head. Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat, and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood quite upright and walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her knees, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath, and plunged the long blade through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through the cardboard, through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun.