My Fantasy Team Sky Press Conference

Dave Brailsford: Good morning. I've called you all here today to address the ongoing controversy surrounding Team Sky, namely, how the !@#$ did we ever think giving Richie Porte his own team bus was gonna help him win the (aide bends, whispers in ear)--oh right, that doping/Jiffy bag/motor !@#$.

First, I'd like to say--well, !@#$, at least we're not as bad as Discovery was under Armstrong, right? (aide bends, whispers in ear) We are? !@#dammit! Uh, second, I'd like to say that there is absolutely nothing suspicious about throwing a black bag over a team employee's head, dragging him into a windowless van with 6 to 8 jack-booted thugs in face-masks, blasting thumping Euro club dance music at top volume for 14 hours so he can't hear where he's going, then dumping him in a filthy London alley with an unmarked package with a note to deliver it an unused Victorian-era mailbox in Bull!@#$-on-Liarsville.

Owain Doull: I just wanna reiterate that we're all 110% behind Dave Brailsford. When Brian Cookson commandeers a tank and !@#$in' squashes him with it, ha ha!

Chris Froome: Uh, I think I met that guy once. Maybe.

Jess Varnish: You know, for months I've been testifying quite credibly regarding British cycling that-- (Brailsford interrupts angrily) Hey, lassie, didn't you see that "He-Man Woman-Haters Club" sign on the door?! We said, no girls allowed!

Dave Brailsford (continuing): Third, I'd like to comment on the entirely spurious allegations that Team Sky uses motors on its bicycles. A, that button Froome keeps pushes on his top tub is just a buzzer to ask his soigneur to kindly bring him a hanky to wipe off the urine that was just thrown on him and to fetch a refreshing gin & tonic. B, that's not a "motor", that's a pile of wires connected to a generator connected to a ring-tailed lemur we've hopped up on 50 ounces of cocaine then crammed in there with one of those hamster wheels to artificially increase the riders' speed going up the climbs. Plus, the blazing orange color showing up on UCI heat-detectors means it's really *cool* and *non-motory* in there, not *hot* from a *motor*.

Finally, I want to affirm Team Sky's unimpeachable commitment to clean sport, including the unrestricted use of tramadol, bogus TUEs, kenacort, cold medicine, malaria remedies, medicinal herbs, stimulants, downers, cough syrup, cortisone, menstrual-cramp tinctures, rhino tranquilizers, very strong tea and crumpets, liver-crushing quantities of wood alcohol, and, of course, giant boner pills. I told you it's all in the training and nutrition! We also use (aide drags him away from microphone, into hallway) gummy bears, like Sagan! And Easter candy! Marginaaal Gaaaaaaiiiiiinnnnssss!

It's Yer Smack-Talk, Scandal, 'n' Road-Race Roundup!

Na Na Na Na, Hey Hey Hey, Goodbye: look, there's no doubt Oleg Tinkov's brought a lotta, well, liveliness and publicity to the staid ol' sport o' pro cycling. But in the last coupla years, bravado and showmanship has deteriorated into vengeful malevolence and, let's face it, just bat!@#$ *crazy*. So it's with great delight that, after two years of Oleg publicly slagging dispirited Grand Tour superstar Alberto Contador as a lazy, talentless, over-the-hill never-was, I report that Alberto finally broke his diplomatic silence and came down like a bolt o' lightning on Oleg's sorry pissy head for his last race for House Tinkoff in Abu Dhabi: yes, the new Trek-Segafredo signing posed with his jersey zipper witheringly undone and the logo ergo squashed to the side for his official team photo. From Contador, that's like pinning Oleg down and scrawling "I'M A GIANT !@#HOLE" on his forehead with permanent marker and tattooing "KICK MY !@#" on his back in humongous Pippo-sized ornate script. Take *that*, you crass oligarch !@#$er!

Millenium: okay, it's actually "just" the 100th edition of the beautiful Giro d'Italia, but I'm sure *hoping* it'll last at least another 900 years, and the organizers of what looks to be quite a mountainous, smashing centenary edition can--after prematurely kidnapping Froome, Contador, Dumoulin, Nibali, Aru, Purito and Chaves and smuggling them to an undisclosed location in the race organizers' basement--breathe a sigh of relief that they won't *quite* be monstrously treated as a second-class race to the crappy Tour this year of years: yes, wee Nairo Quintana claims *he's* now interested in the Giro-Tour double that even Alberto failed to accomplish, which either means (1) he's aiming for the Giro-Tour double or (2) he doesn't think he can win the Tour de France against Sky's stoked-up android Discovery army, and wants at least to be able to claim--without an asshat team boss like Oleg disparaging the measly accomplishment--that he bagged a truly history-making Giro. Whatever the hell gets you there, Nairo--but am I the *only* one in a spitting rage because the Giro deserves so much better?

To Catch a Thief: meantime, in a grim glimpse o' the future for even stellar pro cyclists, 2002 Vuelta a Espana champ Aitor Gonzalez was arrested for robbing a cell-phone store, making, well, probably dozens of cycling fans to shake their heads in sorrow at what becomes of a former sporting hero after the pedals are unclipped the podium babes step off and the cameras go home. Helpful career advice: you'll make a *lot* more money, and suffer a boatload less consequences, if you forget the mask-on-your-face-and-finger-pointed-in-yer-pocket-like-a-fake-weapon trick and become a monumentally stupid no-questions-asked mystery-package courier for a giant untouchable World Tour team. Thank you Aitor, no charge, always glad to help a roadie in need!

Moto-!@#$er!: and, what would UCI's vaunted campaign to run over--uh, protect--as many cyclists as possible be without one last bit o' carnage to screw a great athlete's off-season? Yep, Ashleigh Moolman-Pasio busted her hip just in time to jack her winter training when some careening twit didn't notice a 5-foot-tall-plus woman in bright spandex riding a, y'know, entirely unexpected *bicycle* in a *bike race* the eejit was *working in.* Get well soon Ashleigh--and get a !@#damn drivers' license that's worth something, you incompetent !@#clown!

When Pigs Fly: finally, it's nice to see that British trackie Jess Varnish, who got completely unjustifiably slammed as a disgruntled !@#$ cyclist after accurately raising that British Cycling technical director/total doping apologist Shane Sutton is a low-rent misogynist pig, was finally vindicated this week after an internal review confirmed that, yes, Shane is a few grunts short of being qualified to wallow in a barnyard manure pile. What was that you told her to do Shane? Oh right, now that you're too old to ride, head off into retirement and start having babies--or maybe for their theoretical sake, better not, jerk!