Looks like some pencil-necked pussy has seen it fit to name 10 teams that could use my services. Truthfully, the list of ballclubs who "could use" my services numbers about 12 million (and I'm not counting Mongolia's Triple-A clubs). So it would be easier to make a list of about 5 worldwide teams that don't need my services. Otherwise this blog will be all about my favorite dietary supplements, and I don't talk about that shit unless I get paid:

1. Zurich Greenbacks: First, I don't play in mountains with the Sounds of Music and shit.  Besides, those Euro-trash honkies who play for the Geneva Vaginas or whatever would intentionally walk me all game long, and I didn't crank out 15 reps of 535lbs on bench yesterday so I could stand at first base and wait for a pinch-runner. Get Rickey Henderson on the phone, you no-army-havin' Nancys.

2. Kabul Rock Lizards: There are two kinds of terrorist training grounds in the Middle East -- the kind with the DH, and the kind without.  Kabul would trade me straight over to Islamabad, and I ain't about to sign that many motherfuckin' leases. 

So Roger Clemens (hereafter: "Pigfucker") was allegedly having an affair with a teenage country music star back when Pigfucker was 28 and the girl was 15.  Nice.

I wonder if the honkey-lovin' press is gonna bend Pigfucker over the way they did me. Probably not. They'll probably lightly cornhole him with that short, skinny media dick that they save for pretty-boy celebrities. That would figure.

But let's pretend they're not pussies. How about another "Game of Shadows," you media rectal warts?  How about an intricate narrative of his abusive, philandering behavior. A lotta noise was made when news that I bought my mistress a house in Arizona was broken.  Will the Houston Chronicle be doing a Sunday pullout with a similar story?

Maybe Pigfucker built a treehouse for his little yodeling Lolita. Maybe inside that treehouse he introduced her to OxyContin, while he injected steroids into his ass, all the while thinking it was Vitamin B-12.  Pigfucker: "Whoops!  I just blew my load on your geometry homework!"

Here's a little peak into MY life.  Everyday, it seems people ask me the same three questions:

1. Are you a champion of Civil Rights in baseball, or just a champion for Civil Rights?

2. Did you ever put Jeff Kent in a Special-Forces-like choke hold for sitting on your locker-room recliner? and

3. Have you been working out?

The answers to all these are, of course,"yes," and "what the FUCK do you think?"

Lately, I've been getting a new one. "Barry, are you pissed that the SF Wax Museum took your body down to the basement?" Hell, no!  I told those crackers to get rid of that abomination. Why?  I'll tell you why:

My 762nd home run ball, the last one I hit in 2007, just sold for $376,612. That's a cool $600,000 less than what the bastards thought it'd go for at www.scpauctions.com. I know what you're thinking: "Barry's probably going to put his massive head through a Sheetrock wall like the Incredible Ebony Hulk, and then terrorize downtown in ripped jean shorts!  Hide your white women!" 

First of all, enough with the steroid jokes. If I want to break Sheetrock, I'll use my fist like any other ordinary person with anger-management problems, 300% testosterone and pending federal indictments. And if I want your white women, I'll just ask, and they'll come, won't they?