I was at Target Field today, enjoying 55 degree constant drizzle and getting my feet soaked in deep puddles whenever I walked to and from my bleacher seat. The front row collected all the rain from above. The game wasn’t that bad, though. The loud know-it-alls behind me (there’s always some) actually weren’t brain-damaged, Carl Pavano got a few called strikeouts, and my friend enjoyed Joe Benson’s mullet. During the 7th, after two successive Twins relievers walked in bases-loaded runs, and onetime closer-of-the-future Glen Perkins gave up the fifth two-out run of the inning, I decided I’d had enough of my hands going numb and left early to avoid traffic . . . running headlong into the traffic leaving the Vikings game.

So . . . I thought this would be a good a time as any to address the fine art of insulting Drew Butera, who will presumably be catching at least 20% of Twins games next season.

We all know Butera can’t hit – his career BA is lower than several active pitchers’. But how does one express this in the most appropriate manner? Let’s try some examples.

Drew Butera sucks. Concise, with good subject/verb agreement, but a little too vague. “Sucks” at what? The implication that oral sex demeans the performant is phallocentric and probably homophobic as well. Besides, Drew has a good throwing arm. Improve.

Drew Butera, while better at hitting that 99.999% of baseball fans, is, as a batter, well below the average skillset of major-league baseball players. Although he might be a terrific friend and family member. Accurate, but no fun. We need more spice.

Drew Butera’s loved ones hide their heads in shame when he comes to the plate. This might be true (it would certainly be advisable on the part of Butera’s immediate circle), and it has more visceral impact. But it’s unverified and could be wrong. Possibly someone Butera dumped is eagerly watching his at-bat, longing for the inevitable GIDP. Vindictive exes should not be encouraged.

Drew Butera makes me long for the days when Denny Hocking or Nick Punto were batting ninth. Now we’re getting there. Remember how annoyed everyone was when Ron Gardenhire posted his “getaway day” lineup of seldom-used scrubs? That’s been the 2011 Twins scorecard almost every day this season. It’s almost inconceivably depressing, and making Hocking or Punto look good by comparison is the special gift of a sub-.160 hitter. But something about that true, Drew experience is lacking. Let’s try to capture it.

When Drew Butera hits, I lose all faith in humanity and the concept of a merciful God. Perfect! Evokes the sinking feeling one has knowing that, inevitably, Butera will grab a bat, and baseball rules prohibit teams from saying “we forfeit, it’s an out, let us just get back to playing defense already.” Instead the team and the fans are subject to the unspeakable torment of actually observing Drew Butera make feeble swings at a pitched leather ball. Occasionally, this happens when a random blindfolded hack might avoid a fielder’s glove and actually be of importance to the worst team in MLB’s American League. In any and every case, it’s a soul-crushing experience, one best reserved for punishing serial kitten molesters in Hell.

Anyhoo, that’s how you learn to write like a Twins fan who is still returning circulation to his toes.