It's Kuurnage, Kuurnage I Tells Ya!: yes, the early season perma-snoozeathon of perfectly flat roads (though some pretty exciting sprint finishes) is over, the fast men are kickin' back, and it's time for the hard-men o' the cobbles to come out to play at Omloop Het Nieuwsblad and Kuurne-Brussels-Kuurne this weekend and the upcoming big-!@# Classics, which means (1) Tom Boonen is ready to !@#$-smack every wanky naysayer who dissed 'im last season (this includes you, Lefevere!); (2) Thor Hushovd's finally gonna take Roubaix (shut up! go to hell! bite me!); and (3) Philippe Gilbert's gonna leave pretty much everyone else in the peloton crying into their beers like guys when that pilot "Goose" gets killed in "Top Gun." Me, I love underdogs, so I'm rooting for Tommeke--that is, at least til he starts seriously winning again!
Well I've Had/The Time (Trial) of My Liiiiiii-iiife: and, it's exceedingly bitchin' to see smashing comic-con fan-boy/aero-king Dave Zabriskie tearin' up the tarmac at the Tour of Langkawi, which so far as I can tell means just one thing--yap, yap, one of the best riders of his generation, yap, legacy, yap, papa's gonna be gettin' himself a whoooooooooooole lot of new action figures! You go, Dave--and nice ride! >
Mario "The Chest"'s Words o' Wisdom: man, not only does one of the most legendary sprinters of all time look mighty dashing in his birthday suit (and, y'know, is one of the most legendary sprinters of all time), Cipo also generously provided some surprisingly sage advice for disgusting worm-weasel/aspiring barkeep Riccardo Ricco' on a companionable ride together: get a respectable freakin' job already! Oh my god, I didn't realize my Dad was Mario Cipollini! Anyway, no word from the boss on whether Ricco' is gonna drop his quest for revenge, redemption, and new and exciting ways to poison himself doping--but I ain't gonna let that little clown mix *me* a drink if I ever happen into his little pub, that's for sure!
Show Me the Love!: finally, let's all have a colossal contemporaneous moment of silence and general karmic flow of good wishes for poor Saxo-boss Bjarne Riis as he gets ready to go before the power-drunk blood-lusting hypocrites at UCI to grovel for his ProTour license, not because he clearly acted like a monster tool by driving away the perfect Jens Voigt to the horrid RadioSkank, but because by betting the entire farm (get the "cow" reference? what a knee-slapper!) on Contador, he's just about hosed a whole lotta awful nice domestiques, mechanics, and assorted other team minions outta the rewards, and dubious glories, o' the highest ranks of the sport. Dang, Bjarne, that kid hypnotize you with those pretty long eyelashes or what? Snap out of it!