I had a feeling it would come down to this.
As many discerning football fans already know, I’ve been moonlighting from my duties at Mulligan’s Spew to roll down to Gillette Stadium once a week and offer my exquisite talents to Tommy and Billy Boy. Practice shmactice and playbook shmaybook, me and the Tominatior have an almost supernatural chemistry. I can’t tell you how many times he’s left tearful messages on my voicemail begging me to reconsider my position as the Modern Day Shakespeare and concentrate on football full-time. Ol’ Bells himself was outside of my window with a boom box over his head just the other night, and even Robert Kraft sent me a lifetime supply of macaroni and cheese.
And now their prayers have just been answered.
After a testicle-numbing loss to the fish-smelling Fins, I’ve finally had enough. While I haven’t agreed to start bothering with silly trivial things like practicing or learning the plays, I have nonetheless decided that I will carry the entire team on my mighty back and into Super Bowl immortality. With Scarface Hernandez going on a mindless killing spree and Rob Gron-ow-ski doing his impression of Samuel L. Jackson from Unbreakable, the Pats tight end-heavy offense needs a new Sheriff in town to set shit straight. And I’m about to go Clint Eastwood on the whole league–minus the senile arguments with furniture.
So buck up you silly geese. With me, Tommy, and Billy Boy Three Musketeering this shit, ain’t no stopping our golden-paved march to our
fourth sixth Belichick Trophy. And if you don’t believe that, then my name isn’t Matt Mulligan.