King Carlos I of Spain

Unbe!@#$inggoddamnlievable!: Carlos, I apologize like the abject undeserving defeatist roadkill that I am. I could barely even bring myself to watch you today knowing that Cadel the Tick was gonna eat you alive in the time trial, and frankly, though I find him boring to watch in every other discipline except this one, I could not remotely find it even in my poisoned biased heart not to wish him exceedingly well for his sheer tenacity. But despite your brave first time trial, I *still* underestimated you, figuring he'd spit you out like a dugout lougie at this heinous distance. And yet you triumphed. Your website proved your well-earned supremacy right, little Sastre--yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

By the way, to the local wisenheimer tifoso-o'-cynical-gloom who suggested today that Sastre's recent improvement in the time trial reminded him suspiciously of I-still-love-so-go-to-hell-Roberto-Heras' similar trajectory of drug-fueled self-destruction in the last disreputable skankfilled year of his career: bite me! Carlos' has been a long, slow, incremental improvement--damn, now that sounds like an IV drip at work--bite me!

Talk is Cheap (and Dr. Eufemiano Fuentes' Services Ain't): speaking of Bjarne "I Was Happy to Win the Tour Doping, But For Everyone Else I'm Against It" Riis, a German (I think) newspaper is now reporting that Bjarne and Frank Schleck have been more than casual acquaintances of our fine Op Puerto mastermind Dr. Fuentes, which allegation is sure to be met by a blizzard of nasty lawsuits, for which one hopes at least as to we love big Schleck they go down in multimillion-euro flames. Alright, Bjarne, like it matters if you've been an enabling systemic-team-doping rider-corrupting weasel--say you haven't gone and tainted the flawless Schleck brothers!

Don't Try This At Home: sports fans, it's bad enough that something like my lame-!@# career has to interfere with contemporaneous six-hour personal viewing of the Tour (and of course far worse that it jacks my beautiful Giro and Vuelta), but if you value watching the achievements of others over getting your couch-spud rump off the couch you're glued to and doing something personally as highly as I do, for God's sake people do not attempt to move to a new home during the decisive individual time trial of the Tour de France. Still, I did manage to see dear little Sastre smoke the Alpe d'Huez, and after that, well, it's all just gravy anyway. And as to next year--well, I see Astana just sacked Vladimir Gusev for "irregular blood values"--good luck getting that invite again next year Alberto, and please Klodi and Levi just get the hell out of there before everyone exhausts their grand-tour headliner budgets!

Last Loser Prediction o'The Day: okay, folk(s), everyone on every stage I've ever rooted for (except my hardly-dared-to-dream-of-it big pick) has blown. So for the Champs-Elysees, I'm going for Robbie "Head-Butt" McEwen, because, of course, I've never had to feel sorry for the smug little !@#$%^& before. But I still really hope Thor Hushovd thwaps you aside like a gnat Robbie!