Thrills! Spills! Chills! Yes, It's Springtime in the Peloton

Te-rain in Sp--Uh, Italy--Falls Main-ly On the Pla-ain: yep, it's not only your fabulous spring racing, but it's also your Tour de France preview, baby, as Tirreno-Adriatico roars off tomorrow with big cheeses Contador Cadel Purito and Froomey staring down and psyching out their Tour rivals, Cav and Sagan plotting mutual destruction, and Cancellara--well, just hoping to get *something* out of his !@#$ experience at RadioSkank in this lifetime. Good luck there Alberto--and Froome, try not to rub the whole "suuuuuure, you don't want to defend the Tour" thing in Wiggo's face too much! Here, yer Tirreno dreamboats macho up for the cameras:

Let Them Eat Cake: and wow, despite Bernard Hinault continually slamming his country's entire current cycling generation as a pack of lazy talentless babyfied thumb-sucking wuss-weenies, the French *continue* not to blow this week, as not only did shock-victor Blel Kadri bag the Roma Maxima (before Pippo Pozzato erroneously celebrated his own win behind) out from under the Italians, but, at Paris-Nice, upstart FDJ rider/French champ Nacer Bouhanni grabbed both a wholly surprising stage win *and* the leader's jersey before a miserable bloody (but fortunately not so serious) next-day crash-out. Get well soon, Nacer--heck knows these guys need you! Tomorrow: a lumpy sumbitch puts on the hurt, honey! Meantime, I stand by my (hopeless) belief that Tom Boonen is merely stealthily *pretending* to be screwed as he desperately works to get his form back in time for the cobblestones. Yeah, keep yappin', wannabes, he'll still kick your !@# at Roubaix!

It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To: last but not least, in "Ah, JAYSUS already!" news, Sports Illustrated has scored the next desperate image-rehab victim-playing interview with Lance "I Won't Talk to the Press Anymore" Armstrong, this time, apparently, in which Lance is gonna tell all about that time those bastards Floyd and Tyler stole his sports drinks from the fridge in his private jet, and how if he'd only be granted the kind of pissant punishment reserved for laterne-rouge nobodies who are six seconds late to sign-in--which is already way, way harsher than he deserves--*and* he received a groveling knee-scrapin' apology from his lowly-nobody witch-hunt persecutors, he'd generously forgive Travis Tygart for *everything.* Gee, thanks, Lance--I'm sure those guys are just sittin' at home waiting for your benediction!