don't call it a comeback... okay, no, go ahead and call it a comeback. that's totally what it is.

I can't shake it, baby. I love this damn game.

Alright, alright, alright…

I know it’s been a minute since you heard from the Can.

I’m sure you’ve heard by now and you’re probably wonderin to yourselves, while you sit around watching old games of yours truly with a  big Oil Can foam-finger on your hand, livin and dyin with every screwball thrown and screwball tale thrown around about the man, thinking well where has the Can been for the last little while and why isn’t he coming on slingin lingo to speak some truth on the stories floating around out there about him making a comeback.

Well, here I am, my friends, ready to launch. I’m fresh from a 60-minute bullpen session. I’m feelin loose. I’m feeling lean and mean, man! Damn, if I don’t feel a day over 40…

Oooh, my shit got more snap, crackle and pop than a bowl of Rice Krispies, baby!

Yeah, so pitchers and catchers reported to spring training a couple weeks ago and you know, spending all that time up in Iqaluit this summer, freezin my bag off, you coulda told me baseball was eradicated like the plague or like ozone layer holes or something man, cause I woulda believed you. There weren’t no kind of games goin on around town that I could get in, and shit, Herbiberous didn’t even have a damn television, so I couldn’t even watch the games. I had to figure out how to use this internet thing and half the time I just got distracted from the boxscores by some…. hmmm…  pretty gals.

(How you think my pitchin arm got so strong? I’m kidding, I’m kidding, kiddies. The Can gonna keep it PG, for ya. Okay?)

So I bounced and you know, when I got out, I hit up damn near every ballpark I could. Little league joints, fat old baldies reliving glory days, Triple A, Double A, Single A, lower-case ‘a’, man I even spent a night in Philadelphia and you know, I really missed that shit. 

I ain't kidding. I checked everything, man.

And I got to lookin at myself in the mirrors of washrooms when I was pissin after sippin some Natty Lights, and thinking, this is it for the Can. Now or never, man.

I mean, over the years, I kept in pretty good shape. Especially up in Iqaluit (I think the cold preserved an old veggie like me or something). And you know, the game of life has kinda been rigged against the Can for a while. Like I been stuck in jail and can’t roll doubles, but you know, when I think about it, shit has never got cold enough to congeal the Oil in the Can, baby.

So that’s where this whole thing takes it seed, man. Just those days away from ball. And back to this business about a comeback. I’m as brutally serious as Bonds is a juicer. I’m more devoted with my pitchin than Roger Clemens is to his story. I’m 49 years of age and I’m feeling like a young Cassius Clay. Man, that’s what I feel like, an old boxer getting back into the ring. I know this game. I grew up on this game.

I’ve been throwin like every day for the past six months. Against a barn at first in East Pro, R.I., where my boy Bill “Spaceman” Lee got me on a strict herbal regiment. Man, ask the Spaceman how serious I am. 

The Spaceman knows more about herbs than a phone sex worker.

Ask Mike Stanley. He’s been catchin me now during the sessions. He’ll tell ya I still got it…

Shit, ask Herbiberous. He’ll tell ya about the time I whipped a orange at his unsymmetrical, gangly head. I didn’t hit him or nothing, just brushed him back. He drank the rest of the O.J. and I can’t let that slide. Ooooh, you gotta see my slider, the bottom falls off that thing faster than it does from a fat chick on Slim-Fast. Or a liposuction booty...

And that’s how it go, man.

All I want is 15 minutes from a damn big league squad. 15! Gimme my 15 minutes. Y’all done gave that Sully dude who landed that jet in the Hudson his 15, and he’s got no style or pizzazz and damn if he know how to throw a 90 mph fastball.

Dude just looks uncomfortable, man. Probably folds like a bullpen chair under pressure though.

Now give Can his…

And just to set the table for all them haters out there making light of the Can’s quest to kick it in the bigs one more time.

I’m 49, but I ain’t dead yet. I ain’t once touched a Performance Enhancing Drug, (and that’s on and off the field. For real, ladies…) You know, with the way pro sports is these days, I think they should hold a damn parade for the Can. They should pray I get back into the bigs. What else y’all gonna write about? The Yankees payroll higher than a small country GDP and that’s GAWD DAMN PATHETIC… If I hadn’t announced this shit, you’d all be talking about A-Rod’s steroid thing again, or talking about some player turning down $20 mill to play a kid’s game or some depressing shit.

This is for real. This ain’t about no payday. This is all play day. Give me my 15 minutes.

Like I said, this ain’t about money, man.

P.S. But Scott Boras, get at me, dog… Where you at? Manny ain’t goin nowhere.

And if you're thinking this is all some bullllshitttt, then check this next shit. I was throwing more heat than a spore shooting horny cat. Yeah, I'm reachin'.