Back up the truck and get off the lawn, kids — Jockish’s 2009 MLB Previewish is back at it, this time going south to sweet Georgia with the star of HBO’s acclaimed documentary series Eastbound & Down, Mr. Kenny Powers. We were able to secure this illuminating write-up from Mr. Powers during the early days of filming, well before the events that viewers saw in the series’ harrowing conclusion. Taste the difference!

There are some people who think that I don’t know anything about baseball because I’m a loudmouth redneck ex-closer that’s all washed up and fat and shit. One of them’s that Rick Reilly asshole. One time during Spring Training, the guy had the stones to ask me to pee in a cup one time. I said sure, and I dropped trou and whizzed into his Dunkin’ Donuts super chai mocha latte right there. Test that, fuckstick. The other one, I dunno, I think he’s dead. Fat season-ticketing son of a bitch, wearing a Lemke jersey with that warpaint on his face, screaming all sorts of wokka-wokka nonsense from the cheap boxseats, waving around that stupid ass tomahawk like it was his third pecker. Whatever. Those two no-talent ass-scratchers and anyone else with a problem can lick my balls until they taste like a Chik-Fil-A patty. And for the record I’m talking about my figurative balls. I would not even let Anna Kournikova’s hotter younger even dumber sister put her pretty little mouth anywhere on my marbles. It’s not sanitary. Hell, no nuts are! And second most of all, it’s not right. Show me in the Bible where they talk about sucking on your balls. There ain’t no Psalm about “lo, let the male testes rest gently upon thy tongue tip like a sweaty crown of thorns” last I checked. Also, my tender vittles are still very sensitive from a shaving accident I was the victim of during my minor league days that I would rather not talk about at this time, so stop fucking asking.

But I am wise beyond my years and know all sorts of shit. This mullet ain’t just for show. For one, here’s a little wisdom for all the womenfolk out there that are trying to drop a dress size or two: men love tits and ass. They don’t want to stare at your sad little raisins dangling off your bony ribs while you’re shaking that droopy roast beef all over their jalapeno poppers that they only bought because they had a coupon, god dammit. Men want something they can hold onto. Men want something they can sink their teeth and sundry marital aids into. Men want something that’s actually nice to look at to. Most importantly, men want something that other men want to look at, and then they can say when they catch your cheap pud-wacking ass taking a peak, “Stop staring at my lady’s plump and juicy funbags, asshole, they ain’t for you.” In other words, they don’t want that fucked-up twiggy lesbo Lindsay Lohan, they want the Lindsay Lohan with the WalMart-sized cans and J-Lo booty that was all up in your face in films like Mean Girls and Disney’s The Parent Trap. Not that I ever watched any of that shit. The only skinny bitch I ever let fuck me was Done Dirt Cheap, a no-good “pedigreed” greyhound that lost me five large when she came up lame at Daytona Beach. Never again, I said to myself. And it’s only happened ten other times since. And that’s just at the track.

So, yeah, I once brought it for the proud city of Atlanta, home of a lot of cool shit that I’m too cool to even talk about. But all you folks rolling in the gritty city of Georgia know’s what’s what. Like that place with the hot sluts and the cheap drinks? And that mansion with the sick dog fights? Hells yeah, boy. What what in the hizzouse! But in case you all forgot how to read, while I’ve been around the world of Major League Baseball, I was the man up in the ATL back in the ’02, getting big ass saves on the reg, and just doing the all-around damn thing. But, man, that place sank right into the soggy yeast-filled vagina after I took off. It’s like Pueblo, Colorado up in that bitch. I mean, letting that Glavine guy go after he was totally washed up and getting him to sign with the Mets, that’s some dirty next-level Keyzer Soze shit right there. But then they bring him back? I mean, I totally would’ve banged his wife, too, but come on! Then they let playa-playaz like Raffy Furcy and Andruw “Popeye’s Chicken” Jones take a walk? And they let that Mark Tex guy with all the I’s in his name that I ain’t gonna learn to spell, he fucks off to fancy-ass New York all la-dee-dah.

And now Smoltzie is pitching for the Bawstan Red Sawx? Are you fucking serious? When I was there, Smoltzie and I, we used to be tight like Jamie-Lynn Spears’ poop chute. We’d be out on the golf course, kicking back some Bartles and James, winnings skins over all sorts of overpaid corporate assbags just happy to be smelling the farts off my golf shorts, then hitting Chipper’s favorite Hooters afterwards for a little R&R. That’s Rumps and Rum & Coke, by the way. But, yeah, now my boy’s gonna be up in the Northeast, eating the chowdah and the lobstah and putting his pinky up in the air while he drinks his Samuel Adams Lager. As a great man once said, what the fuck.

Thank God Chipper is still keeping it real. Sometimes, I think he’s the only goddamn ballplayer they still got in that joint. Everyone else is either too young, too old, too shitty, or a starting pitcher. OK, I wasn’t going to say anything about this, but fuck a starting pitcher, and here’s why. One: when they’re doing good, they act like they don’t need the bullpen to actually close out games for them. Like whoop-dee-shit, you got the first 7 innings out of the way, and then leave because of your “pitch count.” Poor baby, let me get you a Flintstones chewable and some Massengill.

Meanwhile, me and my boys, your Mike Gonzalezes, your Rafael Sorianos, your Mike Fucking Stantons and Esteban Fucking Yans, we’re all down in the trenches, picking up after your lazy shoulder-icing ass. And if we make a mistake, which is only human and happens to everyone? Well, then, fuck you, Mr. Famous Rolaids Closer Fireman, you’re a clubhouse cancer and shouldn’t be allowed to say anything in response to the world-famous soft-tossing “chicks dig the longball” bitch that couldn’t get the job done his damn self. Even Smoltz, man, before he became a Powers-esque closer, that dude would whine like a little teabagger when it came right down to it. You know, let he who is without sin try getting an 0-2 slider by that fucking Brad Ausmus with a guy on first, am I right? It’s easy to ride my ass when you’re riding the pine. Man up and throw a fastball past the other team’s second-best pinch-hitter with two out and two strikes in the ninth with a four-run lead on the line, and then talk to me.

What I’m trying to say is someone better tell Derek Lowe growing a trimmed neck beard doesn’t help hide any of that chin fat, and won’t make him suck any less than he’s about to for the next four fucking years. I don’t know that Vazquez guy — what is he, Cuban? Viva la revolution, homes! I dunno about that Swedish German guy either, that Bjorn Bjorg djude. Should I be getting him some wood clogs, or should I be on the look out for Panzers and nihilists or some shit? As for that import they brought in: Kenny Powers ain’t gonna ever domo that arigato. Ever since the Seibu Lions straight-up clowned and disrespected my ass during that so-called “workout,” this man only buys American, be it North or South or good old Middle American. Besides, sushi just makes my bowels all stupid.

You know, all those fancy so-called experts are probably gonna waste your time, talking to you about the development of the infield prospects, or how weak their outfield is, or what Brian McCann means to them as a lineup anchor. That’s all college English for, “I have no idea what’s going on in the world today.” Well, Kenny Powers sure as shit knows what’s what in today’s fast-paced world of technology and sex. And what this Braves season comes down to is two things — my boy Chipper keeping his hammies loose and his dick clean, the bullpen getting healthy, and my other boy Jeff Francouer. Those three things, those are the keys to the fucking kingdom.

And let me just say this about my boy Francouer. He is a goddamn Ball Player, and that is with fucking-A capital letters. The sooner someone in that Braves front office figures this out and leaves him the fuck alone, the sooner they can get back to winning some goddamn ball games again. Even the dumbest writer fomerly of Sports Illustrated can see that it’s all the tinkering and messing-arounding that’s fucked the poor kid up. He was great when he came up to the Big Show — why mess with that? There’s only one other player I’ve ever seen in my vast baseball experience that’s possessed that same combination of athleticism and intellectualism and sheer male sexual charisma. I called him Whole Grain Oats, because he’s both good and good for you. But you know him as John Fucking Mabry. Look it up.

I know, it’s all popular to try and force players into doing what they can’t do because of some stupid book Joe Morgan wrote or whatever, but that’s just dumb. The only book any of you shold be reading that’ll help you with baseball is You’re Fucking Out, I’m Fucking In, by former and future Major League Baseball great Kenny Powers. Visit your local online auction store, check out my state-of-the-art website, or call my soon-to-be-established hotline 1-976-FUCK-OUT for deals on that and other priceless Kenny Powers memorabilia, including bobble-head dolls, toilet seats, ceramic condom trays, and photocopies of the unfinished manuscript for Kenny’s 2nd book, Fucking You Sideways: A Baseball Life In Reverse Negative, signed by Kenny Powers and various semi-professional adult entertainers. Fuck a Snuggie and buy my shit!

Former MLB reliever Kenny Powers hit 43 batters in his five-year career.