Say, who is THAT handsome fellow? Let me just say it for you ladies right now: yes yes yes yes yes! That lack of chin! That 6-year-old’s face on a grown man’s body! That bizarre white crease across the face! If you’re monitor’s steaming up from the inside, I apologize. I didn’t mean to turn you on. The sex just emanates from me naturally, like a Reykjavik hot spring. Do you detect a hint of Fritos? And Coors Banquet Beer? You sure do. There’s hasn’t been a secret identity revelation this dramatic since shy little Mark Hunter turned out to be Happy Harry Hardon.

You know, when I started this whole blogging thing, I had only one modest goal: to get cursed out by a Pulitzer-prize winning author live on premium cable, and to then have the opportunity to call him a horsefucker in retaliation. And that goal has now come to fruition EXACTLY AS I HAVE BEEN PLANNING FOR DECADES.

So there’s no stopping me now. People, I come to you today not just to reveal my incredibly boring last name – my father said it was a variation on the Scottish McQuarrie, then he said it was Dutch, then he freely admitted having no fucking idea where it came from – but to reveal something much, much bigger. Something big, and hard, and thick. And soon to be readily available for public viewing. People, excuse me while I whip out…

MEN WITH BALLS

That’s right. A book. By me. That Little, Brown & Co. paid to publish. Suck on that, Louisa May Alcott!

If you thought the earthquakes in China, the tornadoes in Missouri, the cyclones in Myanmar, the wildfires in the Southwest, and Jimmy Fallon taking over Conan O’Brien’s show were ominous signs of some sort of looming global catastrophe, the release of this book on October 27th will no doubt confirm your fears. This is the book that will make every other sports book ever written look stupid and gay by comparison.

I haven’t read many books in my life. But I have always felt a great deal of pride after finishing one. I’m always like, “Holy shit! I read a WHOLE book! And didn’t even skip a page!” That’s why people keep books on their bookshelves at home. They’re like little reading trophies. Well, this book will instill no such pride. Suffice it to say, I have composed the 250-300 least challenging pages of text ever devised, featuring:

-100% all new material
-No recycling
-No rehashing
-Copious drawings of penises to break up long passages of text
-Endless use of the word “Fuck”
-An unreasonable amount of groundless bile and mean-spirited invective
-NO FUCKING CHILDHOOD SPORTS MEMORIES OR ANY OF THAT SENTIMENTAL BULLSHIT

I tell you, you will not find a finer compendium of hastily assembled dick jokes out on the open market. Can you get this kind of humor from Lewis Grizzard or Erma Bombeck? FUCK AND NO. The first copy editor to review the book quit after five pages because she was so utterly repulsed by it. The second copy editor added a note to the text, telling me she was a Red Sox fan and not a racist, and that there ARE non-racist Red Sox fans out there (she’s lying, of course). Needless to say, this book makes a FABULOUS gift for people of all ages, especially small, impressionable children.

So prepare yourself now. Because on October 27th, the Balls will drop.

NOTE: That announcement out of the way, a couple more notes about me from a simple Google search:

-I’m an award-winning ad writer. Take that credential and suck on it, Wilbon. Third place at the Tampa Addies for a Human Resources brochure means I KNOW MY SHIT.

-You’ll also find many of my old amazon.com product reviews. I gave four stars to a Sigur Ros record I’ve listened to three times total. I also used the word “angular” in a review. No, I don’t know why.

-One time, I was featured in a Peter Gammons mailbag!

Very exciting stuff, indeed.