As anyone with a pulse is painfully aware, Teets Francona will be releasing his “tell all” book next week, detailing his years at the helm of the USS Bellhorn.

On the heels of the Bobby V Experiment and The Worst Finish of My Lifetime, this tome will likely represent yet another jagged nail for the hearts of Red Sox ownership. But since they are all filthy rich, they will probably just chuckle, push away from their crumpets and freshly-ironed copies of the Wall Street Journal, review their online sportsbook winnings and order their minions to keep shoveling dollar bills into large crates marked “Mike Napoli.”

As revelatory as the book threatens to be, it probably won’t live up to my Jenks-sized expectations. In my world, the definitive Francona book on his years managing the Red Sox would include the following chapters:

Curt Leskanic’s Ass Prints in the Jell-O and Other Things You Didn’t Want to Know About the Post-Game Spread

No Hair, Don’t Care. At Least the Local College Girls Didn’t

Youk’s Jock Strap and the Importance of Owning a Fully-Functional HazMat Suit

“Hazel, think you can help me get my sofa into the back of this van?”

The Perils of Falling Asleep on the Team Bus While Kevin Millar Has a Hot Glue Gun

Cesar Crespo: Apparently a Real Person

The Long-Term Effects of a Pantsless Julian Tavarez on Human Eyesight

Helping Trot Nixon Fill-Out an Application to Join The Avengers and Other Things I Was Afraid to Tell Him Didn’t Exist

Tobacco Juice’s Lonely Travels Through the Large Intestines: An Illustrated Guide

Mark Bellhorn and the Chinatown Ladies Problem

Tonight I Told That Renteria Kid That Even His Parents Hated Him. And I Don’t Know Why.

The Passion of the Kottaras

Yes, the “No Weapons in the Clubhouse” Rule Applies to Crude, Homemade Shoulder-Mounted Flame Throwers and Other Ways Josh Beckett Ruined It for Everyone

You Can’t Un-see Paul Byrd’s Balls. But With a Little Therapy, I’m Getting There