God Sez Don't Do It!

What More Do You Need?: if fear of those impotent enabler-weenies at UCI weren't enough to stop you from doping--and I can't imagine why on earth it would be--you better quit now, because the heavenly Big Guy's puttin' the hammer down, baby--yep, none but Pope Benedict himself has placed doping on the celestial no-no list. HEAR THAT CONTADOR--YOU'RE GOING TO HELL, FLAMING SULFUROUS ETERNAL HELL, I TELLS YA! Or that cow is, whatever. But hey, trading one's immortal soul for the chance of extremely pissing Lance Armstrong off when you break his 7-Tour de France-win record--seems like a worthwhile bargain to me!

Pop, Pop Goes the Weasel, the Weasel!: speaking of guys whose names begin with "Pop" (yes, that's lame--what the hell else do they have in common?), we're all waiting on tenterhooks to see how how the search results for the narcs of Lance lieutenant Yaroslav Popovych come out, and I gotta say, I'm feelin' juuuuuuuuust a tiny bit for this guy. Come on, Lance--if he did do it, you *know* he did for you, so man up and take responsibility for the absolute autocracy and total cult of obedience you created in support of your own personal glory. If you don't, and you did do it--!@#$ goin' down for nothin', Popo, let out your voice and *sing*!

Survival of the Fittest: meantime, Team Schleck is ready for its first training camp, and, unlike in the CSC/Saxo Bank years, they won't be set adrift naked'n'soaking-wet on Arctic ice floes with nothing but hex wrenches and twine for fishing equipment while Bjarne laughs his !@# off from his beach cabana in Monaco. Since you clowns *did* stupidly spill the beans to the press on where you *will* be training, though, and with Riis in some danger of losing Contador to scandal, *I'd* sure be on the lookout for stalkers dressed in winter camo settin' out snares near bike routes. I'm just sayin...wait, could that be Bjar...naaaaahhhhhhh!...

You Oughta Know: finally, we all know--especially my faithful readers here at racejunkie--that cycling info on the web runs the gamut from total crap (shut up!) to truly ethereal brilliance. And if you really wanna know where your favorite--and unfavorite--riders of all time rank historically amongst the gods and why, then on the ethereal brilliance end, this man's your source. What's more, I hear tell he can set you up damn sweet on even that impossibly ill-fitting body-wrecking cheap-!@# ride of yours. And best of all, of course, is that Gilberto Simoni's still beating the stuffing out of that backstabbing wannabe punk Cunego. So check it out, and bow to his encyclopedic knowledge and spotless analysis, you (beloved) peons!