A wise man once said, “It ain’t over ’til the kind-of-hot former stripper and Oscar-winning screenwriter sings.” Well, our season preview won’t be over until we hear from Hollywood’s new it-girl, Juno scribe — and Entertainment Weekly columnist — Diablo Cody.

Hey there, home fries. It’s me, your girl Dizzy D, lost and found in Tinseltown! Things have been wacky for me lately, what with the whole Juno dealio and the sudden fame and all. But even though I’m a LaLa Girl now, don’t flip your powdered little wigs — I still got the mad love for Minnesota in my heart. And that goes double bubble for my yummy little Twins. (Not THOSE yummy little twins, you horny toads — the baseball team. Durrr to the maximus.)

A bunch of people say my fave rave Twinnies aren’t gonna be all that google this year. But, um, okay, “they” also said I shouldn’t start stripping just to get material for a book, and that it was irresponsible to spend a whole movie trashing reproductive rights workers, and that my talk show appearances shouldn’t be the most interesting thing about my career as a writer. Luckily, I never listen to “they.” Who are “they” anyway? Have you ever met any of these “they”? And would you know if you ever did? OMG, whoa, just torqued my own cheese there.

So I feel no compunction about totally “Feeling Minnesota” this year. Who else is there? The Indians are cursed because of their racist Native American logo, the White Sux are a big fat mess, the Royals are more like the Peasants, and the Tigers…well, okay, the Tigers will be pimpin’ like Snoop. But the Twins can at least snag a wild card or something like that, and if that ain’t something to root for then wiggle my web and call me shakey.

Let’s start with Superchunk Hunk LeFunk, Ronald Clyde Gardenhire. Dude is totes sex on wheels, and I defy you to find any red-blooded American female or shemale who ever sent email who would disagree with that home truthiness. You know what’s hott-est about him? He’s paid his freakin’ dues, is what. Eleven years as third base coach before he got his shot! Is that the living balls or what? That’s the kind of general you go to war for. Not that I am into war, whatever.

It’s pretty claritin that our strength is our hitting. Justin Morneau? More like Justin More-yes! Joe Mauer? More like Joe More-er! Okay, that’s all I got on that q-tip. But we have a lot of other awesome babesicles too, cleancut gangstas named Brendan and Michael and Carlos and Craig and Mike. You know why I love Mike Lamb the most? Because if you say it fast it sounds like “My Clam.” Haha I am jesting about my own vag on a baseball website! Go me!

Okay and also I am loving Delmon Young like a fat kid love cake. I identify with D-Youngster; we’ve had very similar journeys. Sure, he wasn’t born a little rich girl named Brook in a nice suburban Chicago suburb…or was he? Dun-Dun-DUUUUNNNN!!! Okay, no, he wasn’t, that was just me. But both of us have had to suffer a lot of slings and arrows, and both of us are just walking around now all VINDICATED like the sun shines out of our asses and/or ladyparts. Plus, if I was a guy, I would completez be named Delmon. Having him run around the outfield will almost make me forget my dear sweetheart Torii Hunter. Almost, but not quite.

Speaking of catastrophic losses, let’s talk about this summer’s Johan Santana shazbot. He was a golden god — I actually felt worse about losing him than I did about my own recent sorry-honey-gotta-go-fame’s-on-the-other-line MOST AWESOMELY FRIENDLY DIVORCE OF ALL TIME. Couchboys are a dime a dozen, but Jindsey Johan is all that and a $5 bag of sea salt and vinegar Kettle Chips with jimmies on top. We will never see his like again. Well, maybe on TV during the playoffs.

But that’s no reason to be all emo like fat girls at the mall. In fact, now we get the chance to see what our other hurlers can do. I don’t really know any of their names, or whether or not they are like superduper good or just kind of pretty-good-with-benefits. But that doesn’t matter, does it? All I know is that if they are on the Twins and they are throwing the ball, the other team better be scurred. For serious.

I just also wanna drop some science about the constant rumors and innuendoes in re the Twins blowing town: SO not gonna happen. I know Carl Pohlad. I understand Carl Pohlad. Hellz bellz, I have lapdanced Carl Pohlad. So believe me when I tell you that that guy is going all kinds of nowhere…except maybe over Viagra Falls in a barrel. Sure, he’ll bitch and moan about his tragic lack of sponduliks, and he’ll be all shady about the Metrodome, but don’t fall for that — inside, he’s just a cuddle-bunny, looking for the love he was denied as a child. Aw how adorbz! Of course, it’s possible that I just have major daddy issues, but don’t worry your pretty littles about that, Curly Sue.

Okay, gotta bolt like Frankenstein’s neck, meeting the rest of the Junoverse (Pagey, Jase, A-Jan, J to the Kizzle, Livvy, Rainn-dawg, the whole sick crew except maybe Jennifer Garner who is a stuckup twunt j/k luv ya) for some hella ironic bowling and then probably ironically watching some porn or disaster movies or something. It’s gonna be a whole bangbus full of gorgeousness. Don’t you wish your girlfriends were hot like us? Aren’t you jealous of how cool we are?

Oh yeah: go Twins!