[Slow fade in to EXT. – a shabby rowhouse in South Boston.]
[Cut to INT. of the shabby rowhouse. Beer cans litter the ground, as a man lies passed out on the floor, snoring.]
[A second man enters through the front door, gingerly stepping around the mess.]
[Pan to a shot of the unconscious man, snoring loudly, as a small notebook lies open to a page spilling over with words. The second man enters the room, and picks up the book. Squinting hard, he brings it close to his face as he looks over the surprisingly elegant handwriting.]
Wins are meaningless. Losses are meaningless. Sports are meaningless. Life is meaningless. Existence is meaningless.
A perfect season is no longer possible. Tom Brady’s ride into the sunset just got that much more difficult. Even another Super Bowl win won’t satiate his needs now – or mine.
Vengeance can only take you so far. After a while, the pursuit of vengeance becomes dull, like the blade of one’s sword after slaughtering every last enemy.
No, the only pursuit that will burn endlessly with passion is that of perfection. Without perfection, one can never be a master of a craft. To claim otherwise is for fools and layabouts, weak individuals who have never amounted to anything in their lives.
This is why we, as Patriots fans, should never lower our standards ever again. The precedent has been set. A Super Bowl is no longer enough. Multiple Super Bowls is no longer enough. Soon, even a perfect 19-0 will no longer be enough. No, the goal of perfection is control. Complete domination in the pursuit of perfection is the most beautiful concept imaginable.
And that is why it is time to rise up and think beyond the confines of a child’s game. Yes, the ultimate goal in the pursuit of perfection is a perfect world. And that begins with the confines of New England. Indeed, what we have here is a shining model to the rest of the planet on the potential of what can happen if we allow white men to…
SULLY: Jesus. A fackin’ diary? What ahh you, a queeah? You get fackin’ dahk aftah a Ravens loss. Maybe back off on the Sam Adams a little?
TAWMMY: [stirring surprisingly quickly] FACK YOU, YOU FACKIN’ FACK! LAMAHHHH EMBARRASSED US AND I WANT SOME FACKIN’ ANSAHS NOW.
[He pauses, putting hand to forehead]
TAWMMY: OH, WAIT, FACK. MY FACKIN’ HEAD.
[TAWMMY leans towards an empty chip bag, spews hard in it, and fumbles for his dip can to pack another lip]
SULLY: Not now, chief. You’ve had a laaaaaaawng night, bahd. I think you need a little sleep and a little watah.
TAWMMY: BUT WHAT ABOUT OWAH FACKIN’ REVOLUTION? HOW AHHH WE SUPPOSED TO RALLY SUPPOAHT FOAH A MOVEMENT BASED ON PERFECTION IF SHIT ISN’T FACKIN’ PERFECT ANYMOAH?
SULLY: They nevah should have sent you to fackin’ college.
[TAWMMY slumps back over, falling back asleep, murmuring to himself]
TAWMMY: LAMAAAaaahhhhh… [snores]
[SULLY grabs a mouldy blanket and drapes it over his sleeping friend. As he leaves, he pockets the diary left open on the ground.]
SULLY: [Muttering to himself] Not a bad writah, though. It’s fackin’ borin’ and I ain’t get a fackin’ wohd of it, but it sounds smaht, probahbly. Maybe he’s gonna get one a’ dem Penthouse columns one day? Or work for dat Bill Simmons guy? Eh, fack it. Gotta stop doing boring-ass diary Unabombah shit, and he’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine. Gotta stop sweatin’ the small stuff so much. Heh.
[SULLY heads out again, gingerly clambouring over the mess once more, whistling “Sweet Caroline” to himself as he heads out the door.]