(After another ignominious playoff exit, many Twins players have fallen off the radar. Carl Pavano ,with his uncertain future, is no different. That's why TwinkieTown is proud to showcase this exclusive Q&A with his mustache, or Pavstache as it's come to be known, on the current state of the facial hair in the 2010 MLB playoffs.)
TwinkieTown: First of all, Pavstache, I'd just like to say thank you for a great season.
Pavstache (lights cigarette, takes a sustained drag): Much obliged.
TT: What have you been up to since it ended?
Pavstache (takes sip of lukewarm black coffee, sighs): Thinking, mostly. Thinking about that waitress in Anaheim. Thinking about when me and Sweet Drew tried to sneak that moose past airport security in Toronto. Off-season gives you a lot of time for thinking.
TT: Guess so. Can't help but notice that you've waxed yourself.
Pavstache: yeah, figured I'd give it a go, see what happens. Sweet Drew says it makes me look like I could get away with some arsons. He says that about a lot of things.
TT: To the subject at hand, have you been watching the Championship Series so far?
Pavstache: off and on, mostly. Hard to get into it after the way we went out, but they're on my radar, yeah.
TT: Well, I'm going to rattle some names off here and see what you, as a sentient, talking mustache, think of their facial hair.
Pavstache: Go for it. (drains cup of coffee, lights another cigarette, absentmindedly dials a rotary phone)
TT: Jayson Werth.
Pavstache: That is one shaggy bastard, isn't it? I wish he'd trim it up a little bit, in all honesty. Maybe they could get Mike Schmidt to talk to him. That was a mustache you could set your watch by. Don't know if I should tell you this, but one time, me and Schmidty's mustache picked up a couple stewardesses--
TT: I think "flight attendants" is the preferred nomenclature.
Pavstache: Bleep that politically correct horseshit. We picked up these stewardesses, got a couple jugs of Mogen David, some Frampton Comes Alive, and I tell you, it was magical, man.
TT: Moving on, Brian Wilson.
Pavstache: You know what I heard? That guy, he went to Billy Mays' funeral--
TT: The dead informercial guy?
Pavstache: Yeah, him. Wilson goes to his funeral, and when no one's around, plucks every single facial hair off the deceased. What you're seeing out there is Billy Mays' beard applied with a generous coating of spirit gum.
TT: That can't possibly be right.
Pavstache: I'm just sayin' is all.
TT: Last one, Sergio Romo.
Pavstache: Holy crap, that one's majestic! How old's your mom?
TT: Excuse me?
Pavstache: Your mom, what's her age?
Pavstache: Put her in front of the TV the next time Romo comes in. Boom, menopause reversed.
TT: That's just disturbing.
Pavstache: Hey, the mysteries of nature are what they are, friend. I say go with it.
TT: Uh-huh. In closing, I have to ask: where do you think you'll be Opening Day 2011?
Pavstache (stubs out cigarette, leans back in chair, ponders the question for nearly a full minute): You know, I'm just going to go where the four winds take me. If I stay in Minny, that's great. Me and Sweet Drew, we've got this gravel pit just outside of Cokato, and we're thinking of starting our own paintball league, only instead of paint, the balls are topped off with gasoline. You're going to want to stay away from the random flash fires Drew's gonna set, I tell you what.
TT: That can't be legal.
Pavstache: Well, the fires won't be "random" so much as "everywhere, all the time," either. Besides, we've got the money to keep the Finns around there quiet. Cash buys a lot of silence with their people.
TT: If not here, where?
Pavstache: honestly, and I don't even know if they're interested, but Seattle's always appealed to me. The cold, hard rain, the coffee, the whole gray sweep of the place. Fits me like a glove.
TT: Thank you for your time, Pavstache.
Pavstache: Likewise. (Pavstache gets up , puts on his rumpled jacket, fishes a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes out of his pockets, fires up another smoke and ambles away, whistling "Baby I Love Your Way.")