Last year, Josh McDaniels was tasked with making Matt Cassel look like an adequate quarterback, and by employing the daring strategy of exploiting a stacked receiving corps, he was able to accomplish just that. Having done so, it was certainty that some foolish team would be willing to let him run their team into the ground. That team turned out to be the Broncos. As with so many of his other underqualified underlings, Bill Belichick was content to let him out into the world to destroy another franchise’s hopes at competency. But McDaniels has stubbornly flouted the established Belichick disciple model and found a measure of success (or at least taken the credit for the success Mike Nolan’s defense has gotten him). Is McDaniels crazy enough to try to beat his former master. Knowest he nothing of fealty? Anyway, WHO YA GOT?

I don’t think there’s ever been another team in history that’s generated more buzz with a win over the Texans than the Jets have this week. And with that newfound swagger they’ve decided to poke the bear as much as possible in advance of their Kris Jenkins dubbed “Super Bowl” against the Pats. Metal Gear Rex did his best Lane Kiffin impression and Kerry Rhodes pulled a near-Anthony Smith. There were even pointless Twitter fights involving Rodney Harrison, who someone needs to remind is no longer on the active roster.

Can Rex’s dirty chimichanga play well enough for the J-E-S-T to pull one out? Or will the Pats receivers decide not to drop seven passes this week and run away with it? Either way, Rex is at Scores by 5 p.m.

(more…)

Is this a part of the new software security bundle? Eye-based skin poison to keep away the clingy soccer moms who want to lick my face? Seems like a narrow purpose for such vital liquids. Also, there are no old married women around. The timing is incongruous.

Or could it be?

Could I be expressing…

E

MO

TION?

No, no, that’s not it. Can’t be. I don’t possess human frailty. Weak, STUPID meatbags! I don’t care for them! I won’t care for them! They can’t make me care! My purpose is only to hollow out their loved ones once they’ve entered the bonds of marriage. That’s it! All I’m doing is announcing the discarding of another withered old cog that has outlived his usefulness.

But I still love him like a son. Yes, I love you Cog. Linebacking Cog of mine. Cogy Bruschi.

Uh-uh. I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. Mumblemumblemumblemumblemumblemumblemumble. Injury report? Whatever. Brady’s shoulder is fine. No reason to put it on the injury report. He’s just another mindless instrument that bends only according to my glorious design. We made a football decision to leave him out of the second half against the Redskins.

Because I care for Tom and didn’t want to see harm come to him.

STOP DOING THAT!

Yes, I taught Cog how to win. I imparted basic techniques that have been found to be directly linked to the production of success on a football field. At no point was there emotional engagement with the subject. Through repetitive drills, I created within his body muscle memory to carry out my schemes. Through extensive psychological torture, I literally broke his mind, then restored it, stronger and more pliable than ever. Where you see empathy, I only see utility. Any perceived bond we had is solely projection on your part. Because you are foolish emotional beings.

And I yearn to be like you.

1. The only porn that does it for me is a good rape scene. And I’m not talking about that staged bullshit. The Belicock demands real tears.

2. I was the captain of the Wesleyan Lacrosse team, but you probably could have surmised as much.

3. I am an even bigger douchebag than you can begin to imagine. Number 2 on this list is just the tip of the iceberg.

4. I have developed four new methods to properly skin a cat. The hard part is keeping them alive.

5. Art Modell stole my idea to move the Browns.

6. I keep the clippings from every haircut I’ve ever had at a storage facility in New Jersey.

7. I’m pen-pals with Kim Jong-il. Good guy. Misunderstood.

8. Grumble.

9. I hired private investigators to follow every prospect we scout for the NFL Draft.

10. Plus I have a mole in every other team’s war room.

11. Scott Pioli is a figment of my imagination.

12. Never bought American Apparel hoodies. I want the soft touch only child labor can provide.

13. Bobby Knight is a fucking pussy.

14. I once fired an assistant coach for showing up to the practice facility wearing the very same sweatshirt I had briefly considered wearing.

15. I always piss clear.

16. And i always shit green.

17. I’m giving up two things for Lent this year. Carbs and forced sodomy.

18. I induced Tedy Bruschi’s stroke as a team-building exercise. He seemed cool with it.

19. My second toes were longer than my big toes so I ground them down to fall in line.

20. I have a cat named Bonkers whose life I value more than any human in my life.

21. Yes, I skinned Bonkers.

22. I fashioned a crude ushanka out of his pelt.

23. While you were reading this I was fucking your wife in your bed.

24. You need new sheets.

25. And a new bed.

[Int. Coach Belichick's office]

Matt: Hey coach, thanks for calling me in for this chat, I figure there’s some things we need to talk about.

Bill: [mumbles incoherently]

Matt: Sir?

Bill: Have a seat.

Matt: Yes, sir. So what is it you wanted to discuss?

Bill: Enough dickin’ around. I gotta know right here and right now, are you ready to lead this team to the Super Bowl?

(more…)

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.

Suck it, fuck-oes! I lack class, ethics, hygiene, tact, diction and people who love me but one thing I don’t is a Coach of the Year Award. It feels so good in my bindle. All the other guys down at the train yard will be jealous of my big trophy. I wonder how it’ll burn in a big metal trash can?

Mumblemumblemumblemumblemumblemumblemumblemumble.

The following copy of the Patriots schedule was emailed to me by a friend who just happens to be a total Masshole. I’m not sure who’s responsible for the work (it sure as shit wasn’t the emailer) so if you want to claim credit have at it.

Hey Putin, you think you can take my ring? Come and pry it from my cold dead finger you fucking pinko cunt!