I Hate Bill Belichick

It takes a special kind of human-being to not only perk my interest - I am lazy, thus, I do not care - but to also force me to put the time and effort into hating them. And not just, "Oh, yeah, him, pshhh, yeah, he/she fucking sucks."

NO. I mean really, really, HATE.

Most of the time, when someone falls into this category for me, he/she/it needs to have done something truly scarring to reach such a high level of abhorration. There must be some connection that makes me shiver with rage when I think of this person. My stomach must boil. Upon hearing this person's name, I must seek out a poor set-of-ears to listen to me as I bitch and moan and verbally-castrate said person until I'm reduced to tears like a sleep deprived three-year-old.

One such person who does this to me is Patriot's Head Coach Bill Belichick.

A while back, I put all of my hatred into a letter that ended up being used in this Drew Magary column on Deadspin. For those of you unable to click through, here's a summary (or the whole thing, with minor OCD edits):

I fucking hate Bill Belichick. I hate his stupid fucking child-molester-haircut. I hate his stupid fucking sweatshirt that probably smells like an unwashed taint. I hate him and his fucking infidelity and the Long Island trash he fucked to establish this infidelity.

But none of this seething hatred comes from any sort of envy of the New England Patriots organization. While, yes, I do hope Robert Kraft loses all of his money in Ponzi scheme and ends up sucking-off truckers for loose change in the bathroom of a highway rest-stop, this is beside the point. I fucking hate Bill-fucking-Belichick because of the way he resigned from the New York Jets back in 2000 - my team.

Don't get me wrong, I understand that the Jets (minus one year of their existence) have exhibited retardery at its finest - a band of losers hell bent on doing dumber and weirder shit than what happens in Charlie Kaufmann's wildest fever dreams. But Belichick's ambush? Not cool. Who - besides, I assume, Pat Summerall - resigns from a job by handing in a cocktail napkin? It was humiliating. And cowardly, might I add. I was seething. If I had access to a hatchet and a penchant for violence, I would have gone down there that day and scalped that stoic fuck right in the middle of his resignation press conference. But nooooo, I'm too much of a pussy, so instead I stared at the TV in disbelief, and then drank myself into an alcoholic coma.

So, in short, fuck Bill Belichick - I hope he drops dead on his birthday while assembling a bicycle for one of his illegitimate kids.

Sooooo, I think that just about sums it up my feelings for the son-of-a-bitch. Could I go on? Could I draft a 7,000 word essay detailing each and every way I hope his body fails him in the twilight years of his life? You bet your fucking Toyota Corolla I could! But I'll save you the time and just let the above rant suffice.

But I do have one hope, and it's that he slips quicker and quicker each season that goes by, tarnishes his legendary status, turns to heroin for relief, blows his bank account, contracts Hepatitis C, develops dementia, and ends up eating vegetarian jambalaya at a shelter by the time he's 65.

That's not too much to ask, is it?

The Mission Statement

The Hate Parade exists only because my therapist says I need some sort of mental release, something to help vent the anger that will eventually boil my blood and force my heart to tap-out in melodramatic fashion. Meditation is stupid and acquiring a new hobby is too time-consuming. And since using a chair leg to destroy my computer monitor or torching my desk with gasoline and a Zippo lighter are not viable options, well, here you go, you jerks.