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?

Matt: I certainly hope so, sir.

Bill: The fuck is that supposed to mean? Hope? Fuck hope. Can you play or not, you little shitstain?

Matt: I think I’m good to go, sir, it’s just that I haven’t started a game in almost nine years now.

Bill: You think I didn’t know that already, dipshit? I know every god damn thing there is to know about you, except for all of that namby-pamby personal bullcrap.

Matt: So what is it you’d like to know?

Bill: Well I know you can run the offense, so what I need to know is how to make you… comfortable [grimaces]. As you said, you haven’t started a game since you were in high school, so I want to put you back in that frame of mind. How did you get ready on a gameday back then?

Matt: Well usually my mom would make be a big breakfast before school. You know, pancakes, eggs, bacon. The whole deal.

Bill: Good, good. We can arrange for all that. [into intercom] Peggy, have Matt Cassel’s mother woken from her mid-afternoon chardonnay nap and fly her out here posthaste.

Matt: That’s really not necessary sir.

Bill: I’ll tell you what’s necessary around here. So what else? You want me to get that cute wife of yours off of the President’s cock long enough to give you a servicing?

Matt: That won’t be necessary, I didn’t date Laura until I was a backup at USC who never really had to play. It worked out because I had plenty of time to go to her volleyball matches.

Bill: Well isn’t that sweet. So aside from the breakfast, what else did you do on gamedays?

Matt: I’d always eat a chicken for lunch. That was one of my rituals in my old playing days.

Bill: Fine, whatever, we’ll get you some fucking chicken. Did you do anything besides eat to get loose?

Matt: To tell you the truth, one of the varsity cheerleaders would always make one of the new freshmen girls give me a blowjob right before the game. Not that I’d force them or anything, they’d be totally in to it, for the most part.

Bill: Of course, of course.

Matt: But obviously we can’t arrange for something like that now, can we? [nervous laughter]

Bill: Why the fuck not? [into intercom] Peggy, get us a young cheerleader in here doubletime. And find one with some of those DSL’s I’ve been hearing so much about.

Matt: Uh, sir, I really don’t think any of this is necess-

Bill: Like hell it’s not! Your job is not to make decisions, your job is to do what the fuck I tell you when I fucking tell you!

Matt: Of course, sir.

[Cheerleader enters]

Bill: [mumbles incoherently] So what do you think, Matty?

Matt: Well that’s not a real cheerleader sir, that’s Hayden Panettiere dressed as her character from Heroes. And I happen to know that she’s really 19 years old.

Bill: [into intercom] Peggy, get me some real ones, and make ‘em farm fresh.

Matt: Sir, I really don’t think we should be bringing underage girls in here. I could get in a lot of trouble if anybody finds out this time.

Bill: [silencing glare]

Matt: Yes sir, whatever you think is best.

[Three giggling cheerleaders enter]

Matt: Ooooh, braces over there really brings back memories.

Bill: Oh yeah?

Matt: Yeah. Now if you can get that one to puke on my lap afterward it’ll feel just like that last game day all over again.

Bill: Excellent. Oh, by the way, how did you perform in that game?

Matt: 3 for 11 or something like that. Why?

Bill: [mumbles incoherently]

Matt: I’m sorry sir, I didn’t catch that.

Bill: I said “get the fuck out of here!”

Matt: Yes sir. Come on girls, I’ll drop you off at the mall or something. Don’t worry, you don’t have to blow anybody you don’t want to, at least until you rush a sorority.

Bill: Leave them.

Matt: All three?!

Bill: Take metal mouth.

Matt: Thanks, coach!

Bill: [mumbles incoherently]

[Matt exits]

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.