Here we go again.

Get ready for the obligatory good cop, bad cop routine surrounding each broadcast mention of Your Three-Time World Champion New England Patriots.

Be prepared this week for every total sports network anchor to have an angel overlooking one shoulder and a devil perched upon the other. (Makes you wonder which one will be Mike Ditka, doesn’t it?)

They love the Patriots. They love the Patriots not.

You can’t count them out. You can’t expect them to keep winning forever.

Tastes great. Less filling. All. Nothing.

It’s no wonder the average, mild-mannered consumer is compelled to drunken debauchery and downright stupid behavior in their team’s name. Any effort to stay an informed, dutiful fan leaves you emotionally drained.

On one hand, it is disturbing that the model franchise in professional sports needs a marketing and promotions department in the midst of a double-digit postseason winning streak.

Did the Patriots not just fricassee Potential’s Team, a.k.a. the Jacksonville Jaguars, in a fashion that made last autumn’s Bonny Eagle-Mt. Blue high school championship mismatch from hell look like Texas-USC? After all, the Jaguars won a dozen games in the same division as the Indianapolis Colts, and last time I looked at the memo, the NFL just renamed the Super Bowl MVP trophy after Peyton Manning.

Then again, the Patriots’ defense also exploited a rusty, limping and largely unproven quarterback, Byron Leftwich, who makes the lead-footed Manning resemble an Olympic hurdler.

Well, regardless of which perception is reality, the Denver Broncos are next in an AFC Divisional Playoff that will be played one mile closer to God than Foxborough.

Denver might benefit from any resulting divine intervention. Jake Plummer is their quarterback.

Let’s assume the Patriots escape that road trip on a Rocky Mountain high. That presumably would set up another staredown with the Colts, who are something like 1-70 against the Patriots since 2001.

That sound you just heard was the collective growling of Richard Seymour, Willie McGinest and Asante Samuel’s stomachs.

Beelzebub wants you to know that the Broncos are almost unbeatable in the rarefied air, and that Patrick Pass would be a 1,500-yard back in their offense. Some combination of Mike Anderson, Tatum Bell, Ron Dayne, Curtis Enis, Ki-Jana Carter and Mark Van Eeghen put the Patriots in a three-touchdown hole in the regular-season meeting before Mike Shanahan had Plummer put the ball in the air a few times just to keep it fair.

Ol’ Scratch also would like to clarify that the Colts’ one victory versus New England since the signing of the Magna Carta came two months ago in Gillette Stadium, and that Manning and Friends were unstoppable as the Internal Revenue Service. The Jan. 22 audit would unfold in Indianapolis, where the Colts haven’t lost since Jim Mora’s last post-game meltdown.

Your best defensive player (Tedy Bruschi) was in physical and occupational therapy less than a year ago and is presently hobbled by one of CIA director Bill Belichick’s non-specific “leg” injuries. Your best healthy defender (McGinest) is a 34-year-old who was given up for dead as a third-down, pass-rushing specialist five years ago.

Yes, chimes in The Ghost of Super Bowls Future, but the Patriots are steeped in tradition, immersed in intangibles. They live for January. If Tom Brady were a golfer, you’d be a fool to give him a mulligan.

New England and Brady spotted Pittsburgh and Ben Roethlisberger a 34-20 rump roasting last Halloween and let the Steelers have the glory of going 15-1 and securing home field advantage throughout the postseason. We all saw how that reunion turned out.

Tradition is wonderful, retorts His Evilness, but it only guarantees you a spot in America’s living room every winter if you’re Dick Clark. In the NFL, tradition only carries you so far. Compared to almost every other team in the playoffs, the perpetually overachieving Pats are on the short end of a talent gap that could be exceeded only by Denzel Washington joining the cast of “The Surreal Life.”

And on it goes, this week-long parade of artificial arguments designed to keep ESPN in business. Artificial, I humbly submit, because 80 percent of America south and west of Bristol, Conn., believes that Denver, Indianapolis or even Pittsburgh would make mincemeat of the reigning champions away from The House That Brady Built.

Are they insane? Ask them what percentage of their week’s wages they’re willing to pony up against the Patriots and we’ll find out.

What’s scary is that there is a shred of truth in the logic espoused by both the apologists and the front-runners.

The Patriots have shown a knack for surviving bombshells that would have left a lesser franchise in the Reggie Bush Sweepstakes or trading their coach for a fourth-round draft pick. But common sense tells us they have no greater immunity to Father Time or Murphy’s Law than the Cowboys, 49ers and Steelers’ would-be dynasties before them.

The bell’s going to toll on this era of exultation someday. Sooner, not later. So, if you’re a Patriots fan, should that handicap your enjoyment of next Saturday night? Or the following Sunday afternoon? Or two Sunday evenings after that?

No, not at all. Just don’t forget to punctuate your pre-game shopping list with antacid. And a good set of earplugs. Your remote control can’t outrun the devil.

Kalle Oakes is a staff writer. His e-mail is [email protected].