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How Do You Like It, How Do You Like It: well, that's now put a hideous 70s-era soft-porn song in my head, but even more disturbing than both that and Alejandro Valverde's stealthily positioning himself since the Vuelta as a stage-race-winner-without-a-stage-win in a brilliant if entirely hopeless attempt to somehow escape the notice of even the most dimwitted of cycling narcs is a surely very nice Velonews reader's impassioned plea to see more Lance Armstrong coverage in the magazine. With all due respect, ma'am, are you !@#$in' *nuts*? Every sports journalist in this country has already got the One's face tattooed on his !@# and the only TV coverage you're ever gonna see here is of whatever race Lance is using as a nose-picking exercise ahead of the Tour this season and I guarantee you he'll still be getting more air time than not only the actual winner of the race but also if the greatest cyclists of the 20th century simultaneously popped back from the dead climbed onto a bunch of Bianchis and personally beat the crap out of Tom Boonen on the pave'. Please, please don't make this sick slimy orgy any worse, dear lady--can't ya just buy a photo spread of him suckin' on his latest sweetie in People magazine instead?

When Nature Calls: gee whiz, is Team Sky off to a rocky start, as controversy continues over whether the peloton intentionally dope-smacked the squad at the Tour of Oman by leaving poor team leader Edvald Boassen Hagen swinging in the breeze at a nature break by amping up the pace in a gross breach of gentlemanly urinary etiquette. Was it a cold attempt to put these obnoxious upstarts in their neophyte place? Revenge for earlier feed-zone imbroglios? If so, why was Sky putting on the hurt for their own boy as well? These and many other crucial questions can, one hopes, be answered in the future without a bunch more graphic details, or even better, on the road, as Sky's early-season perceived arrogance and the other teams' ongoing retaliation could make it a welcome distraction from the sexier, more profitable, and distinctly more annoying Armstrong/Contador rivalry. Come to think of it, keep wanking about everyone else, Sky--this could really help make this season more bearable!

Sign Simoni !@#dammit!: meantime, as if Damiano Cunego didn't already get on my nerves enough, *two*-time Giro d'Italia champ Gilberto Simoni is *still* waiting for those lazy anal-retentive slugs over at UCI to gack up their inevitable ProTour license to Lampre, which, he promises, is the only thing keeping him from formally inking a deal and riding his final Giro, in which he will, I dearly pray, ride up behind that traitor wussmaster troll Riccardo Ricco' and kick his scrawny needle-pricked posterior off the side of Passo Fedaia for the little weenie's complete taking-for- granted of Simoni's magnanimous mentorship. Dang, UCI, half the teams you already approved are either more incompetent or drugged-up than the boys in bubblegum pink and turquoise, and you're freaking out over some stupid accounting problem? Pony up for heck's sake you hypocrites!

I Guess Fashion Week Ain't Going So Well: finally, despite extremely jazzy graphics and a Who's Who of dope-soaked Euro flotsam, Rock Racing still couldn't score a Continental license over such dubious outfits as Team !@#-End of Nowhere and How Do You Ride This Thing Again?, leaving Floyd Landis, already having what one imagines to be an unpleasant week indefinitely postponing any travel plans to the Land of Effete Bitter Crybabies Actually Pissed About Something Else Entirely, officially hosed. On the plus side, while Rock's jeans remain a disgusting poseur ripoff, those fearsome-yet-dazzling Halloweeny neon skull jerseys are likely to go on big hackin' sale. Back off that clearance rack, beeyotch--$5 sez that team kit's *mine*!