KSK Exklusive: Andy Reid's Blueprint for Beating the New England Patriots

A lot of commotion is being made about Andy Reid possibly having creating a "blueprint" with which teams can defeat the Patriots. What sounds like an already tired media construct turned out to be true and KSK has secured a copy. Messrs. Billick, Tomlin, Mangini, Cameron and Coughlin, start your cribbing.

Fig. 1: Throw a bunch of inside routes. A football field has a width of 160 feet and you can use all of it. After all these years, the game still holds surprises. Also, Junior Seau's bones defy carbon dating.

Fig. 2: Two words: familial strife. There's a reason Tony Dungy and I have almost closed the deal. Good dad? Fuck you, go home and play with your kids. I have games to get tantalizingly close to winning but tanking in the end. And if I like skimming off of Garrett's stash, all the better.

Fig. 3: Find scrubby QB who once beat Brady with an AFC East team. I got Mr. McFeeley. Find your own. Maybe trade for Sage Rosenfels, whatever. Drew Bledsoe isn't going anywhere. Really, he's been hanging out at the same Sbarro since May, nursing the same half-Barq's, half-pink lemonade. Fucker is sick.

Fig. 4: Sign Devin Hester. Convince Pats to hire Mike Shanahan.

Fig. 5: Tell Wes Welker that to truly be scrappy, he must eat more scrapple. Titter heartily as his lightweight heart explodes after two servings.

Fig. 6: Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.

Fig. 7: Let your coordinators be your guide. Keep up the creative blitzing, Jim Johnson. Hey, Brady got sacked! How brilliant of me to let you dial that one up.

Fig. 8: Dress more slovenly than Belichick. It fucks with his mind more than sleeping with unmarried women.

Fig. 9: Order a bunch of pizzas for the Patriots that they don't want. Eat pizzas anyway.

Fig. 10: Remember how quiet Gillette Stadium was? Not a coincidence. Sure, it just seems like it's filled with a bunch of spoiled, thin-skinned bandwagon fans who were aghast about not being up by 31 points in the second quarter. Really, my flatus can change history.

Fig. 11: You know, I didn't actually defeat New England. Why is everyone so interested in this thing?

Fig. 12: Threaten to raise Asante Samuel's kids for him.

F--k This. I’m Gonna Be A Cop.

Okay, guys. Let me run down the injuries for you. Westy tweaked his knee, but he’ll be re-evaluated tomorrow. Dawkins is fine. Sheppard is fine. Donovan plans on practicing all week. He should be good to go. We’ll update you on everything on Thursday. As for the Bears loss, it’s just one of those things. Sometimes things like that happen and you just have to…

(buries head in hands)

Ugh. Look I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. Every week, I come in and give you assholes the same vague answers to all your same stupid questions. Aren’t you tired of this shit? I am. Jesus, it’s just the same thing over and over and over again. And it’s not like it’s any better around here if we win. Shit, even when we win, 90% of the fans just want to talk about why we’re gonna fucking lose the next week.

Honestly, it’s all just a bunch of bullshit. I do my best. I really do. And sometimes, we end up having a nice season. Other times, things get fucked up and we have a lousy season. It happens like that. Don’t you people fucking get that?

I don’t need this. I sleep on a goddamn cot five days a week. I watch 80 hours of videotape a week, only 5% of which is hardcore pornography. All the videotape plays are just blending together at this point. And it’s fucking TAPE. Lurie’s too cheap to digitize this place. I still have to use a goddamn overhead projector in meetings. I barely see my kids, and now everyone’s calling me a shitty dad just because I tried to work hard to make them proud.

I’ve had enough of this shit. Fuck it. I’m gonna be a cop.

I’ve always wanted to be a cop. I know I’m an okay coach, but this mustache was fucking made for police work. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to pull some 17-year-old shoplifter over and give him a cold taste of justice. If he’s wearing an Eagles hat, then all the better. I like winning football games, but that can’t even compare to taking out some juvenile delinquent’s knees with a nightstick. BAM! Finally, coach gets to do a little hitting of his own.

You know what I’d really love to do? Go on a stakeout. God, that just sounds like the best. It’s just you and your partner (I named my imaginary partner Bobby O’Neill), hanging out in an unmarked Ford Taurus at 3AM, drinking some coffee and munching on bear claws. That would be fantastic. We could have really deep conversations about life, and how our wives don’t understand “the job”, and shit like that. And we could rip on each other too. I could be like, “Nice shirt, O’Neill, you metrosexual assbag.” And he’d be like, “Fuck you, you fat lazy shit.” I can’t get that kind of camaraderie with Mornhinweg. He’s an idiot.

I wouldn’t even have to go out in the field. I could be the dispatcher. I’d be a great police dispatcher. Look at me. Don’t I just look gruff? I could get all bossy on the radio. “Attention all units! We have a 187 in progress! We need backup! NOW!” And if any beat officer gave me lip, I could throw it right back in his face. “Don’t tell me you’re 15 blocks away, McSorley! DO YOUR JOB!”

Cool.

I could wear one of those Sipowicz shirts, too. You know, the button down short sleeve shirt? I hear they’re really breathable. Looks great with a tie. You wear one of those shirts and munch on a bran muffin, and no one’s gonna fuck with you. That’s some major league respect.

I’d love to put a suspect in the box. Just grill the shit out of him. Threaten him with bodily harm until he cries out his confession. And if he tries to “lawyer up”, then I could really start to turn the screws on him. Or I could bring in Bobby to finish the job on him. Good ol’ Bobby. He’s not afraid to bend some rules in the name of the law.

If I could be a cop, then I could finally get my family back. My kids would respect me. And citizens wouldn’t complain about how I do my job, because I’d have a gun on me. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to carry a gun on the sidelines. Maybe Donovan would hurry the fuck up at the end of the game for once.

You know what? I’m gonna do it.

Screw you guys. I’m joining the force. Next time you see me, I’ll be in my Ray-Bans. You better watch your ass.