The Happy, Delusional, Rainbow-Brite World of Planet Schleck

Or Maybe My Little Pony. Or Strawberry Shortcake. Or...: yes, Frank and Andy Schleck are waxing poetic about the season ahead, and having read their interviews, my question to these brilliant young cyclists is, are you on freakin' crack? Andy, I truly believe you *will* win the Tour one day, so long's Cadel, Alberto, and basically any mountain-friendly dimwit with even dubious abilities to downhill and time-trial are all, say, simultaneously stricken with massively foul 3-week bouts of food-borne projectile vomiting starting on July 1 of the next five consecutive Tours de France--but barring mishap on someone else's part, which to be fair would never be the way you'd want to win, it ain't gonna be this year. In which case, *why* does Johan Bruyneel apparently want to screw you outta the support you so desperately need to have even a hope at the top of the podium by burning out Frank at the Giro d'Italia this year? Sure, the Giro's an easier course this season--but let's be real, if a nakedly brutal course could so viciously take out Alberto, even a routine Giro's gonna knock Frank flat on his !@# for July. And yes, it *does* also eliminate the possibility that Frank could be RadioSkank's backup GC hope should you choke in the time trials even more than usual, tho' I know you're both usually too united and gentlemanly to consider such a thing. Then again, it's RadioSkank, who gives--Johan, just let Jens the hell out the door to tear up the course and you can stick dirty doping (allegedly!) Lance in there for all I care!

Soler System: meantime, in recovery news, twee tenacious mountain god Mauricio Soler, whose very survival not so long ago was uncertain, is back riding his bike at home in Colombia, and while he may never get back in the actual peloton, I think one can say without reservation that in the hard-man standings this guy makes even Johnny "Barbed-Wire" Hoogerland and Stuey "Bend Me, Break Me, Any Way You Want Me" O'Grady look like a coupla playground knee-skinned kindergarten crybabies. Best wishes in your continued journey, Mauricio, you bad-!@#!

Money Money Money: and of course, while French squads continue to bite, Spanish squads scramble for new do--uh, delis, and even the lamer Continental teams have enough dough to lure the big boys, the superlative Euskaltel-Euskadi is dragged down to diggin' change outta the seat cushions in the team car, rendering it damn near inevitable that (1) Samuel Sanchez is gonna be sent out on the street-corner with an accordion and an organ-grinder monkey to shill for pennies from tourists when he oughta be out training for the Tour de France and (2) that mercenary pigvert Bruyneel is gonna get to buy the cream of the Basque talent pool for his loathesome squadly machinations next year, *again*. !@#dammit, people, do I *have* to start another Buy The Euskaltel Guys Some New Underwear Charity Campaign--we barely kept 'em in Garanimals *last* season!

I Feel Pretty, Oh So Pretty: finally, a big welcome back to golden euromullet Franco Pellizotti, no longer with a place at Liquigas after his two-year exile for failing to preemptively manage his blood profile, but, fortunately, being heavily courted by the morally flexible and even gaudier-outfitted Lampre. Look, he's taking his clothes off already--aw, just like old times!