One of the more grating and oft-repeated mantras by the Patriots and echoed by the media has been the “humble pie” that head coach Bill Belichick feeds to his squad of cyberkinetic douchebots each week to putatively keep them grounded and keep them from taking the competition lightly. And it’s surely a potent elixir, as those reticent, ever-respectful Pats would never speak ill of another team.

As with many of New England’s strategies, including those stolen from other teams, it’s a closely guarded secret at the Belichick compound. Thankfully, because the latest soccer mom he banged was able to swipe it off the door of the minifridge he sleeps against in a dark alley, we’ve obtained a copy.

Ingredients:

  • Tom Brady Yankees hats (2)
  • One (1) of the whopping 19,000 season tickets the Patriots sold in 1992
  • Substance provided by Rodney Harrison that totally isn’t steriods, we swear
  • Blood extracted from Randy Moss’ girl, by hand (2 cups)
  • Blood extracted from Randy Moss’ girl, by knife (1 gallon)
  • A sprinkling of Bruschi stroke medication to enhance flavor
  • Ectoplasm from Donte Stallworth’s alien friend, Nicco
  • Comments on blogs by obnoxious fans after wins (somewhere in the millions)
  • Construda (but only on obvious non-passing downs to keep the defense honest)
  • Letters from stupid teams inquiring about Josh McDaniels (3)
  • Sand from Brady’s vagina (3 tablespoons)
  • Undigested gristle from Vince Wilfork’s stomach
  • Pink Red Sox hats (23,000)
  • Mumblemumblemumblemumblemumble (mumble)
  • 3 cups of skin cells (white)
  • Piece of Wes Welker’s “coon stick”
  • Piece of the Ben Coates jersey that Benjamin Watson sleeps with
  • Piece of actual Revolutionary War soldier’s uniform, provided by Junior Seau
  • Asante Samuel route-jumping goggles

Preparation:

Push “record” button on camera.

Heat in wood-burning stove, preferably one from Logan Mankins’ isolated cabin in the woods. Anything that doesn’t run on Volektricity.

Cook for 45 minutes, during which advise team, “We’re 17-0, men. But let’s not get too full of ourselves. You’re nothing more than a bunch of worthless automatons designed to execute my flawless game plan. I fucked all your wives last night.”

Have Richard Seymour grab you an iced tea. Kneecap defensive coordinator Dean Pees with crowbar if it’s not sweet enough. Stare fondly at picture of father in formal Navy attire while remainder of team looks on uneasily.

Remove pie from oven. Allow to cool on Chris Hanson’s scrotum. Serves 53.