Dopes Suck

Or Dopers, Whatever: all right, kids, we haven't even made it to the Tour of freakin' Qatar yet, and already either "a few" or 30 or so of these peloton clowns--including one allegedly "top" rider--are about to get busted via the UCI biological passport for blood doping. Now, I don't doubt for a moment that most of these boys naturally have the oxygen-carrying capacity of a twelve-pack of world-champion yodelers, or the inherent endurance of Tom Boonen on a week-long party crawl, or the ruthless bodily efficiency of a school of piranhas at an underwater barbecue, or inhaled a litter of equally-athletic embryonic sibs when they were themselves barely big enough to register on an ultrasound. But for the rare, rare specimen of a cyclist who might just try to sneak one past the narcs, I must ask--what the !@#$ are thinking, you brainless egomaniacal teammate-hosing tool? Is it the lure of glory? The dough? The hometown rock-star status and endless access to besotted bike-lovin' jailbait? The DS swearing to break your worthless sponsor-draining legs off if you keep jumping away when he's trying to make you hold the IV so he can jam a needle in your !@# and a testosterone patch on your works (no, never that!)? Damn. One day, *one* day where I can believe in one of you doofuses. Is that really too much to ask?

Giro? What Giro?: gee, Alberto, you can really tell from Lance's comments after the Tour Down Under how truly gobsmacked with excitement he is to be aiming "primarily"" at the Giro this year, seeing as he was all over how bitchin' his form is ahead of--um, the Tour de France in July. Boy, he's one eager-beaver domestique for you, though, ain't he? Lucky that's all he hopes to accomplish in France this year! Y'know, not to presume to advise you on how to manage your career and all...but, GEEEEEEEEETTTTTTTT OOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUTTTTTT!

Tour Down Under Roundup: speaking of one of the most bitchin' races of the season (did you go, randie?), there's one thing that truly stood out, besides the mighty glare of Lance's fabulousness, Stuey O'Grady's smashing second in GC, and Allan Davis' endless series of stage wins and Phoenix-like rising from the ashes of Liberty Seguros--yep, Robbie "Simoni of the Sprints" McEwen's crybaby wanking about someone else, as usual. This time, it's poor Graeme Brown, who not only lammed right into him with his handlebar while our righteous good sport was generously giving him an ultra-wide berth to help him out, but who had the audacity to unclip and damn near bring them both down, ruining Robbie's inevitable triumph over some no-talent no-name Italian guy. Graeme, though, took things politely in stride, merely pointing out that the commissaires didn't think there was anything amiss, which is not only diplomatic, but, considering the rabid McEwen's tendency to bushwhack his rivals at close quarters, probably the sensible thing to do as well. Now, stop snarling, Robbie, no need to literally chew up your rivals and spit them out...

Not a Piep: and, it's a sad, permanent farewell to drug-snorting stage-thief Leonardo "I Didn't Do It! No, Ricco' Made Me Do It! No, I'll Get a Lighter Sentence If I Say I'm Really Sorry I Did It!" Piepoli, whose two-year ban seems unlikely to result at his advanced age in a return to the riders' ranks, tho' I imagine he might score a nice modest paid interview or two if he plays it right and, say, outs anyone interesting up the supply chain. Start posting photos of you cuddling the wife and bambini and call for the paparazzi while you help some underprivileged tots, pronto, you hear me?

Takes a Lickin' and Keeps On Tickin': finally, it seems that after umpteen farewell six-days, Erik Zabel's really calling it quits this time, and while one can hardly blame him, I gotta say, the sprints are gonna be a long shot lamer this year wondering if he's gonna pull off an increasingly rare yet still seductively possible win at an age when most ex-cyclists are disconsolately gorging on Doritos, descending into drug-fueled downward spirals, or lugging some upstart twerp's dirty laundry down to the hotel basement as a one-shot junior DS. Come back, Erik--I mean, you *are* part Bionic Man, right?