The Vast French-Wing Conspiracy

Courage Under Fire: so Lance's paralyzing fear of the notoriously violent skinhead French cycling hooligans has now plastered even the non-cycling press, with one dear football-fanatic colleague sprinting into my office yesterday to break the news and expressing deep and sincere concern that our fragile saintly hero is about to be taken out by a blizzard of pelted broken Champagne bottles and kicked to death by a crazed mob of jack-booted ultranationalist baguette-chomping Tour-obsessed bike thugs should he dare to show up in France and ride up one of those big mountain things. Y'know, let's cut the bull!@@#$, shall we? Leaving aside the distinct possibility that your impressive ego simply demands that ASO debase itself by begging you to come to their party like a desperate-to-score frat-house senior to a buzzed 'n' lonely freshman, you're just plain afraid that Contador's gonna beat your !@#--or worse, clearly earn the right to beat you on the road in front of everybody, and thus humiliate you even worse--so you maybe want a face-saving out. Hey, I can respect that--if only you'd cop to it. But as it stands, you sound not like the best Tour de France rider in history, which you are, but a, well, sissy. Because realistically, all the French fans are gonna do to you is complain how one of their own boys hasn't won their home Tour in like 100 years, and that you obviously doped to do it (not like it helped Virenque, but I digress). And all the French press and race organizers are gonna do to you is complain how one of their own boys hasn't won their home Tour in like 100 years, and that you obviously doped to do it. Damn, Lance, isn't that what you've got that slobbering overeager pack of legal attack Dobies perpetually on the payroll for? Suck it up and ride the thing, or don't, already! Of course, if you're still feeling vulnerable for no valid reason, you might try these guys--no armored bike shorts, unfortunately, but a nice Calvin Klein jacket at least for your evenings out after a long day in the saddle...

(Michael) Balls of Fury: and, I see that mere days after ex-Ullrich uber-enabler Rudy Pevenage successfully convinced the German narcs that while the Janster did meet repeatedly with Dr. Eufemiano "Gyno to the Male Stars" Fuentes, it was simply to discuss training techniques, the Patron Saint of Ex-Dopers over at Rock Racing has taken Rudy on as Directeur Sportif, which means not only that there's no reason this disgusting publicity ho can't hire Roberto Heras while he's at it, but that while the boys on the squad may not get much help with say a broken collarbone or strained hamstring from the team doc next season, they're sure as hell covered when they start having problems with their menstrual cycles. I'm sure they're resting easier tonight, Michael!

Dear Miss Manners: first, Bjarne, you hose we love Dave Zabriskie. Then, you jack the peerless Bobby Julich. And now, apparently, you've even gone and insulted dear little Carlos Sastre, whom you apparently decided not to call and congratulate after he bagged you a podium finish in the Vuelta after he'd already brought the team the Tour de France you were expecting Ivan Basso to get for you. What's left in the repertoire of acting like a coarse pig to those who least deserve it--dissing Jens? stealing candy from your own baby?--y'know, there's still much to adore about the brilliant CSC (say it ain't so, Frank!) and their disconcertingly talented head honcho, but somebody get this man an etiquette coach, pronto!

Who-the-Hell's-Gonna-Domestique-for-Floyd-Landis-Watch: nothin', and even freakin' Patrik "Compared To Yours My Palmares Blows" Sinkewitz has snagged a gig with some Czech outfit while Floyd languishes unsupported. Dammit!