Sunday, October 11, 2009

Your Bestest Bestest Friend in the Whole Wide World; and, a Tragic Update

Or Glenn Close in "Fatal Attraction," Whatever: well, it must be awfully flattering to be so very wanted, Alberto, as now even new Brit superteam Sky has declared itself among your bevy of dashing desirable suitors, but too bad for you your psycho stalker of a Jesus-H-Christ-how-many-times-do-I-have-to-tell-you-it's-over deranged clingmeister you'll-never-be-my-ex Alexander Vinokourov professes his undying love, unreserved domestique support, and absolute unwillingness to let you out of the last year of your contract, *again.* I hate to say this, honey--in part because a huge chunk of the Kazakhs will just test poz again for blood doping next year, though even that's not gonna be the prob with the squad that'll cost you the Tour de France if you even get in--but unless you at least insisted that your gig was contingent on Astana remaining a ProTour squad--and frankly the odds of your having thought that one up seem, well, unimpressive at best, as apparently it didn't occur to half the eggheads over at Cofidis either--you seem increasingly totally !@@#$ed. Damn, is UCI so accustomed to coddling dopers that even hating Vino so much they can't help their prettiest little cash cow think a way out of this?

Hope and Glory (Except for the Italians)!: not only did the Italians manage to lose the prestigious centenary edition of their own Giro d'Emilia--with Cadel coming in fourth no less, could this boy actually reclaim his Tour podium next season?--but Tom Boonen's agonizing miscalculation in the last couple hundred yards of Paris Tours whacked another defeat on the end-of-our-fave-almost-redeemed-frat-boy-in-spandex's-season Tom Boonen. On the other hand, that was one sweet steal by the wily Phillipe Gilbert. Geez, maybe Tommeke's bizarro decision to focus on the time trial next season isn't so without sense after all!

Blood, Sweat, and Crashes With 5-year-olds: meantime, I was highly amused yesterday to see that the uber-amped little tyke in the full-face monster crash helmet that I watched careen all over the expo area all day at the Providence cyclocross festival without so much as a juice-box break was none other than the same lad who ended up in a major accident with 'cross god Tim Johnson about ten seconds after he'd just finished stomping the rest of the elite men's field shortly after Katerina Nash crushed the women's, and not only was Johnson class act enough to call the kid up on the podium and hand over his medal which the little munchkin immediately started hauling aloft like the Holy Grail to anyone who'd look at it, but this kid has a future. Trust me, if this boy remains half this jacked up as an adult as he was for about 5 straight hours Saturday morning before this even happened, he's not gonna even *need* to dope. Plus, he's got the official arms-raised podium salute down pat already. 10 years from now, you cynics, mark my words!

Shut Up Shut Up Shut *Up*!: okay, he's an ex-cheating dirtball, shut the hell up who isn't especially with that disgusting blood-doping dissembler avoidance weasel Valverde still on the road besides which he would've retired by now anyway with a pack of equally scrimy drug skanks still polluting the roads. And I almost wasn't gonna post it, which I haven't for a freakin' week, because it just about broke my heart. But as a lesson to the rest of you two-wheeled disgraces on the declining value of respectable omerta and the increasing currency of some fake whining redemption song, here's what's become of Vuelta a Espana king (go to hell, all he improved in inordinately creepily last time was the time trial) we still love so stuff it Roberto Heras:Aiiiggggghhhhhh!

Take Your Filthy Hands Off Euskaltel-Euskadi, Ya Greedy Grasping Bribing S.O.B.!: and, in a last lament o' the day, I know he and Markel Irizar both have the triumph-over-testicular-cancer connection (and it's a great triumph to have, of course), but can Lance !@#$ing Armstrong get his glommy nasty vulgar Donald-Trumpesque dough-dripping mitts off Samuel "Holy Crap He's the Olympic Gold Medalist!" Sanchez's domestiques already?! It's like watching a decaying pervy Robert Redford money-grab the wifely virtue of Demi Moore in "Indecent Proposal" for heck's sake. Look, you already purchased we love Levi Klodi and damn near everybody else who ought to be running a team of their own to chew up and spit out like greasy gone-stale no-name potato chips--can you !@#$ing leave the broke and wholly helpless Euskaltel with, if not Haimar Zubeldia, some shred of dignity and even a passing, miserable hope for next season? !@#$%!

Condolences: troubled shooting star Frank Vandenbroucke has died in his hotel room in Senegal at age 34, reportedly of a pulmonary embolism. After racking up an impressive palmares including Liege-Bastogne-Liege, followed by a doping ban, struggles with mental health, and drug and alcohol problems, Vandenbroucke had recently declared his plan to post his blood values online in his effort to rehab his image. Whatever any of us think or thought of him, let's let him rest. Condolences to his family friends and squad.

6 comments:

Cristi said...

I have never, ever, in a million years seen someone who can so completely string together so many adjectives, metaphors, and cliches and yet somehow still keep it amusing. You put the pundits of verbosity to shame ;-)

Jim said...

Can we say "run on"? Gee, take a breath.

Rosemary said...

Cristi and Jim....you must be new here.

PJ said...

Your posts are brilliant, funny, clever. You deliver hard news with a light touch that's very original and potent. Keep it up. I check this site almost every day and am never disappointed with your take on what's going on.

Cristi said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Cristi said...

Run-On!?! Without run-on, where's the irony?