Oh, Great: Least Favorite Uncle Wants to Tell You All His Terrible Twins Opinions at Thanksgiving Dinner

Lou Hennessy · November 27, 2025

Image courtesy of Purple Wolf Graphics

Just as you ready yourself to guzzle down your gravy-soaked plated paean to colonialism, Uncle Donny plops himself down beside you. He knows you like the Twins, and that you’re keenly plugged in to the comings and goings of the club. And now that he has you cornered, he’s going to tell you all of his ill-informed, sometimes problematic thoughts about your favorite club.

By the end of the meal, you’ll be begging to talk about something less divisive, like religion or politics.
In no particular order, here is a list of items that your least favorite uncle will throw out over the next hour or two. Pour yourself another drink. Lord knows Donny has.

Players are too soft in today’s game, and it’s because they didn’t drink out of the garden hose enough when they were kids. Maybe a little lead in their system would stop them from getting plantar fasciitis and “a little bit of brain damage” when they get hit in the head with a 95-MPH fastball.
The injured list was created by communists. “To be honest, we pay too much attention to lists these days,” he shouts, as you wince at where this conversation could possibly be heading. “The only list we should concern ourselves with is my Christmas list. I’m asking for the same things I do every year. A poster of Sean Hannity to hang in my garage, and a kit to make my own beef jerky." Has Aunt Lorraine still not gotten him that poster, or is he using the damn things for wallpaper?
Target Field should have a Fleet Farm on premises. “Why do we need seven different bars in the stadium, when real Americans get lit in the Salvation Army parking lot before coming in? What if I want to buy a socket wrench, a 20-pound bag of bird seed and some chocolate-covered peanuts that were packaged in 2016?”
The pitch clock is an abomination. “Stupid kids these days just want the game to finish earlier so that they can get home to their Rugrats.” That program aired its final episode in 2004, and besides, Hey, Arnold! was better.
The Twins should fire Derek Shelton (yes, already) and hire Doug Mientkiewicz to be the new manager. “Dougie Baseball has forgotten more about baseball than the brain wizards upstairs have ever known. He would’ve gotten my vote if I had one,” Donny says while pouring gravy directly from the boat into his mouth. “In fact, I wrote him in with my vote to be the Mayor of St. Paul. Screw you, Carter!”
The Twins should trade Byron Buxton (he calls him Brian Buxton) and sign Luis Arraez to play shortstop, moving Brooks Lee to center field. “Arraez never misses time (don’t look that up) and Buxton can never stay healthy for more than 60 games. Lee should have no trouble in center field because he’s athletic and his dad coached him to have good fundamentals.”
Hitters are too focused on what he calls “launch velocity.” The ball doesn’t go as far if you hit it too hard. In high school, he was taught to swing slow, because slow is smooth and smooth is fast.
The Twins were right to trade away players with hyphenated last names. “Pick a lane already!” Donny shouts while slapping the table, scaring the children sitting across from him. “The smartest thing ‘Failvey’ ever did was trade Isiah Kiner-Falefa and Christian Encarnacion-Strand. Simeon Woods Richardson should be next. I know his name doesn’t have a hyphen, but it’s so long that it looks like a rainbow on the back of his jersey.” Trust me, you don’t want to hear his opinion on rainbows.
Birds aren’t real. This isn’t Twins-related, but it does catch your attention. His birder phase doesn't seem that long ago; this feels like an about-face.

As you finish your meal and start making your way to the front door for a Minnesota goodbye, Donny pulls you aside.

“Hey kid, thanks for listening to your grumpy old uncle. I know we don’t see eye-to-eye much anymore, but it means a lot to be able to catch up with you at these things every year,” he says as he gives you a rather tender one-armed side hug and sneaks a crumpled piece of paper in your hand. “This is for you. Enjoy it, and let me know if you ever want to throw rocks at the Union Pacific trains that run behind my condo.”

You unfurl the paper in your hand. It’s a coupon for a free car wash that expired three years ago.

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