The Twins are down in Florida, getting ready to play baseball.

I AM excited, of course. It just feels like all us Twins' fans got a Christmas tree out, and we're trying to pretend the packages that look and feel like bags of tube socks aren't really tube socks.

It's gonna be a tube socks year, folks.

Need to make it a goal to at least TRY to remember the names of the starting pitchers. Think I might try cue cards.

Two crappy seasons behind us. Someone has to be mad in that clubhouse. We're free from Danny Valencia now, can't they trade in the swagger for chips on their shoulders?

I'm talking scrappy, and not the cute, non-threatening Nick Punto kind. I'm talking Mike Redmond legging out a triple with what was left his aging body and acting like he totally saw it coming the whole way.

Just, you know, scrap that can occasionally hit the ball.

And like that my good mood is gone. How tough can a team be when your star player always walks up to a song that sounds like the level end of an unpopular Nintendo game and the stadium PA celebrates each victory by blaring an arena rock anthem that's as exhilarating as a paint-by-numbers of the "one" side of a die?

I don't want to be a hater, but everything coming up tube socks and bad rock in my mind.

Awesome. I spend the whole entry talking about Chris Parmelee AND misspelling his name. They don't tolerate that well in the cut-throat, manly land of Parmelee, I'll bet.

Okay.