For Now, That Is: yep, the verdict is in: Alberto Contador is officially banned from the sport til he hits puberty next year, and if he doesn't give Andy Schleck back the maillot jaune nicely he has to go straight to bed without any dessert. Burn! I gotta say, though, I *am* quite sad. If he tested poz 'cause he doped--zero sympathy. But if he *didn't* dope, and is getting busted over some stupid zero-tolerance policy that doesn't even consider whether someone did anything actually wrong, it's a year-long waste of a brilliant talent. And while both options suck, I'm sorry to concede--and I feel your pain here, dear reader PJ--it may well be option A at work.
Oh, and y'know that scene in "Alien" where that giant gooey face-sucker glommed itself onto some poor sap and rammed its tongue down down his throat until a little alien spawn burst out of his stomach in a big pile o' guts and went skittering across the floor? Yeah, that, except now Andy Schleck sez that whole slutty make-out scene with Contador on the Tourmalet was totally staged and not a truly authentic expression of his love at all. Oh, like post-break-up disses even *count*, Andy--and that's *before* you heard the news today!
As to Contador's threat to quit the sport if he's found guilty--no word yet, but I imagine his (1) manager-brother Fran or (2) attorney is tyin' his scrawny little bod to a chair and dope-smackin' him out of *that* righteous hallucination as we speak. The official word: due at Contador's press conference on the 28th. Screw that "I'll retire" bull!@#$--"I've made a principled decision to fight on," anyone?
Finally, let's take one last look at our wee little hero in his glory days, before the Spanish cattle association, the Schleck brothers, Denis Menchov, Pat "Dick" McQuaid *and* (worst of all) Alexander Vinokourov have a chance to go all hired-goon on his pretty, doomed !@#:
Blinded By the Light: yep, good news for the fairer members of the peloton: according to the head of a WADA-accredited lab in Germany, cycling's go-to snarf-o'-the-moment Clenbuterol is 20 times more detectable in brunette hair samples than in blond ones. Contador, if you got snipped, there's your basis for appeal--you've been framed, framed by your own hypersensitive hairdo, I say! Me, I'm thinkin' that there's gonna be a surfeit of Goldilocked riders just flocking to their nearest asthma-drug dealership for a truckload of the near-undetectable good stuff. Don't even think about it, Ricco' you little weasel--we're already *watchin'* you!
Law and Order: speaking of poor Alberto, rumors are a-swirlin' that, as the Spanish cycling fed tries desperately to strike that delicate balance between "totally gutless" and "just baaaaaaaaaaarely passin' the smell test", our boy is gonna get a 1-year ban as soon as Thursday, which effectively means that, as both sides inevitably appeal--and whether Contador actually doped or not--he's gonna be slumped over in his Laz-y-Boy serial-drinkin' Bud Light and suckin' down nachos in front of the TV come July. Bjarne Riis, of course, is taking it well,while, in an excess of caution, and out of due respect to the cycling prowess of his pal, Andy Schleck has reportedly been training extra-hard in case Contador does show up to try to steal his Tour de France: Good luck, Alberto--and I still do hope it ain't so!
Yer Nut-Kneeing Heartbreak o' the Week: no, not Cav denting that handsome face--though it's close--but am I the only one howling like a milkbone-deprived Basset hound whenever I read a perfectly nice Tweet from Robbie McEwen thanking his--aiiiiggghhhhhh!--RadioSkank teammates for a job well done? Aiiiiggghhhhhh! Oh, Robbie, how I miss those happy, lighthearted days of yore when you threatened to "fill [Armstrong's] face with [your] fist..."
No, Not Armstrong at his Press Conference, the Tour Down Under: yep, it's our first big crashes of the season, as the sprinters hit the deck in two big balls o' spandex, titanium, helmets, and egos, wily Ben Swift gets the stage 2 win, general god Robbie McEwen snags the overall lead, and a tougher'n nails Cav stoutly sticks it out with a blood'n'guts head to finish the stage. Damn, guys, can't you just go back to safely punching each other into the barriers like you usually do? Here's how it unfolds--and feel better Cav!
Yer Doping Excuse o' the Week: and, I see the usually preternaturally-calm Lance Armstrong has gotten noticeably pissed over the Sports Illustrated doping allegations, including the claim that Italian authorities found texts and emails at Yaroslav Popovych's pad linking RadioSkank to notorious Dr. Michele "Ferrari? Oh, you'll race like a Ferrari all right!" Ferrari as recently as 2009. Leaving aside the fact that poor slavish acolyte Popo has had to run screaming for his life from Lance, more problematic, it seems to me, is the latest Ferrari link, which collusion Armstrong has in the past of course excused as being totally unrelated to anything more illicit than simple verbal training tips. Um, am I the only thinkin' this sounds an awful lot like, say, Valverde and Basso claiming they only saw Dr. Eufemiano "Gyno to the Male Stars" Fuentes because "I just didn't feel...you know...fresh?" Next week: Alberto Contador announces "it wasn't the steak, it was that crack-whore, clenbuterol-snorting side dish that did it." !@#$in' carrots!
Aussie Aussie Aussie Oy Oy Oy!: yes, cycling fans, after a long winter's layoff of rest, relaxation, and ludicrous doping appeals, it's the moment we've all been waiting for: we're back in business at the fabulous Tour Down Under! Sure, Armstrong's gonna hog all the press coverage for no reason, but for my money, what really matters is, who's taking the big game in the battle between Mark "the Jaw" Cavendish and BFF Andre "!@#$-Race" Greipel? Me, I'm sad to say the winner's clear, though Greipel can always hope that Cav'll get himself relegated by some spectacularly unnecessary act of wankerness and then still mock him for weeks for not even deserving the win. Oh, Cav, so young, so raw--where's the vicious finesse of a Robbie "Head-Butt" McEwen when this sport needs it?
Signed, Sealed, Delivered--I'm Hosed!: well, Contador, good luck with that appeal to CAS, 'cause the righteous protectors of due process over at UCI have already overruled any Spanish attempts to free your doe-eyed cow-doping carcass by declaring you the inevitable winner of a two-year ban. Way to keep the illusion of justice going, UCI! Y'know, if he *didn't* dope, you guys are just pathetic political frauds too cowardly to protect your once-beloved Next Lance Armstrong from an unfair result while you desperately look for another scandal-free pretty-boy to cover you with second-hand glory. And if he *did* dope, you've once again lost all your credibility from the one time you *didn't* act like rider-snuggling sycophants by tainting what should be a just proceeding with your venality. Can't you guys go back to doing something really dignified, like gutting the careers of hard-working third-tier unknowns for taking an illicit Advil for strained groin muscles?
You Suck, Tour de France!: all right, so Tour organizers ASO are indicating that Team Geox--home of 2008 Tour de France winner we love Carlos Sastre, and, much as it galls me to say it, that also-deserving Vuelta-thieving stealth-ferret Tour podium-finisher Denis Menchov--isn't gonna get an invite to the Tour de France this year, not because of anything having to do with Geox's stellar pedigree, or Sastre and Menchov's obvious qualifications to ride the race, but because, basically, French teams, despite some individually noble work by a coupla natives in recent years, blow, and it'd hurt their effete pate-slurping feelings and make the French look lame by not inviting them. What?! This is the Tour de France, not some pansy-!@# Barney the Dinosaur feel-good self-esteem exercise for uncoordinated helicopter-parented toddlers !@#dammit! If you want French teams to get a spot at their own damn Tour, then suck it up, let the French guys who aren't biting teach the squads some lessons, and make 'em earn their place like a big-boy squad. Free dear little Carlos you selfish goons!
You Suck, Schlecks!: meantime, bad enough that I actually like the Schlecks, and frankly would forgive them damn near anything short of puppy-kicking because Jens Voigt deigned to go with 'em, but now they've earned my undying enmity by smack-talking about Carlos Sastre and essentially calling him a complete troll. Wah, wah, he expected you to work for 'im--why didn't you guys settle it on the road if you could have taken him out and bagged the 2008 Tour so easily? Needless to say, I am exceedingly irked that now I have to actually root for Menchov to come up behind you clowns like a Predator drone and take out your Tour-win dreams in a blaze of sizzling sauteed unimaginative-team-kit spandex. Look, Andy--remember that you haven't actually done this yet?
Nut-Kneeing Heartbreak o' the Week: finally, this win's for LL Cool Sanchez, who's already denying to the Spanish press that he had recent, hot'n'heavy contacts with infamous Operacion Puerto and Op Galgo perp Dr. Eufemanio "Gyno to the Male Stars", and indeed never knew the man at all, which, given that if I'm not on crack I seem to recall him and a passel of fellow Liberty Seguros cribmates cheerfully receiving mystery skin patches from close Fuentes pal Manolo Saiz, seems both blindingly stupid and breathtakingly implausible. Fine, so Contatwerp goes down for Clenbuterol--you *have* to go down for a mere dipwad lack of discretion in doping providers? Aiiiggghhhh!
How Do You Say "Weasel" In Spanish, Again?: yes, in an exceedingly early win for the Master Evasion Move of 2011 Award, as the Spaniards invite WADA and UCI to essentially rule on Contador first to head off being kicked, stomped, thwapped, beaten and set on fire by outraged Spanish tifosi should they actually be forced to dope-ban a national icon, and UCI huffs hysterically that they can't do anything on "procedural grounds" to avoid being forced to dope-ban a photogenic international cash-cow, all parties have now managed to punt this hot little potato by Pat "Dick" McQuaid's claiming the thing's suddenly so damn complex they don't know *when* there's gonna be a ruling and, as a result--oops!--poor little Alberto may not be at the Tour by--not by any of our actions, you understand--mere default. Nice try, you spineless wussmeisters--if the Second Coming goes down, everyone's still gonna blame you anyway! Ah, I *love* the smell of napal--um, hypocrisy in the morning!
It's the 2011 Vuelta a Espana, Baby!: in far more important news, of course, the route for the 2011 Vuelta has been announced, and if you can't climb like a monkey, honey, you might as well stay home and cry like Mark Cavendish after a, well, win. Even better, the race is taking us into the Basque country, which means that screaming orange-and-black clad fans will be there to whack Nibali off his--that is, vociferously encourage we love Igor Anton and Samu Sanchez onto their inevitable and cleanly-earned podium perches. Aupa Euskalteeeeeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllll!
Dirty Deeds and They're Done Dirt Cheap: over in the Italian peloton, meantime, odious bottom-dweller Riccardo Ricco' is claiming that it's possible to win the perfect Giro without cheating--which it possibly is, except for him--and Danilo "Il Killer" DiLuca, who recently redeemed himself by smashingly calling in an actual priest and confessing his sins to a room full of actual schoolchildren, has scored a possibly-free gig with Team Katusha, who are still apparently a bit iffy on risking a Giro invite over 'im but will allow him to desecrate the holy Vuelta instead. Oh yeah, forget that weak, old-school "kissing babies" Ivan Basso crap--call in the exorcists and first guy whose head spins around projectile vomiting while tied to a bedstead gets forgiveness for Satan's unwanted actions and a spectacular Grant Tour return! Look, here's poor sweet Danilo just last week:
Which Don't Explain at All Their Boring As Hell Team Kit: yep, as no doubt every damn one of us gets ready to unleash an entire season's worth of uber-lame cat metaphors at every irrelevant opportunity, Frank 'n' Andy've formally announced their new Leopard-Trek squad, so cower, suckers! Sadly, for a sport that routinely dresses up its macho-men to look like the Little Mermaid, they've shown no sartorial stones whatsoever, bagging what could've been a truly gratifyingly eye-scorching leopard-hooker team kit in favor of a sedate white-blue-and-black. Dammit, first the argyle's gone from Garmin, now this? Anyway, here's the press conference:
and the bike porn:
The first big test of Team Leopard: an injured-as-usual we love Stuey O'Grady still beats the crap out of everyone at the Tour Down Under later this month. Do 'em proud, Stuey!
Dead Cows Tell No Tales: meantime, the Spaniards have announced they need extra time to dig through the massive wad o' documents in the Alberto Contador case to find an iron-clad, WADA-proof justification for letting that guilty little rat Contatwerp off the hoo--I mean, to reach a fair, thoughtful, and just determination in the controversial yet reasonably-disputed Tour de France doping matter. Lookin' forward to that objective decision, boys--but probably not as much as your golden idol Alberto is! Lucky for him his tainted dinner's no longer around to swear a cloven foot on a stack o' Bibles that it got off the drugs months and months ago thanks to his concerned barn-mates' last-ditch, tv-crew-recorded "Intervention"....
Hear, Hear!: over in racing news, the pro cyclists' union has released a key poll of its members in favor of continuing the use of race radios. Me, I'm conflicted--sure, it turns the riders into puppet automatons jerked around on strings by the brain trusts in the team cars, and kills the excitement and unpredictability of the riders actually thinking for themselves to shape a race--but really, can't we all think of at least one or two guys for whom that might actually be a benefit? Ah, well, thrills, shmills--so long as Jens gets let off the leash whenever he wants it, you can keep the dog collars I suppose!
Free Franco o' The Euromullet!: finally, I see former King of the Mountains Basso-rival Franco Pellizotti is at last ready to sue the pants off everyone for completely screwing his 2010 and 2011 seasons, and considering that clearly he has the flowingest locks in the peloton, in addition to being let's face it the least of that smashing seedy entity's problems, I say, unless you can prove something other than that you were really, really, desperate to nail anyone higher-level in the UCI rankings than--um, who *have* you nailed so far?--and until you can show he actually *is* on the juice, you really oughta let 'im ride. I mean, that writhing little ferret Riccardo Ricco' gets a team gig, and Pellizotti's left out to dry? You *suck*, UCI!
All right, cycling fans, since my own personal capacity for virtue is severely limited, and of course what's far more important is our beloved pro cyclists' ever-sterling, ever-gracious demeanor both on, off, and cheating on the way to the bike, it seems to me it's up to us highly-qualified guardians of sporting morality to call for a brief list o' New Years Resolutions for the Peloton:
1. Lance Armstrong: I will retire. Really, *really*, REALLY retire. Because frankly, the rest of us are ready to beg McEwen to personally head-butt our skulls off our shoulders and bouncing into a ditch at 35,000 k an hour if you don't. Now let Levi Leipheimer ride, dammit!
2. Christian Vande Velde: I resolve to stay fully upright on my bike for at least one full Grand Tour plus the attendant and necessary pre-race training rides. Because the karma gods owe me one--who *doesn't* want me to win, or hell even make it off the team bus to the sign-in, in one piece?
3. Mark Cavendish: I am studly. I am even pretty. And I am undoubtedly the greatest sprinter of my era. But I am also a raging, obnoxious, ungrateful, tantruming whine-weenie with a total disregard for the sensitive feelings, respectable talents, and personal physical safety of others. And while that is while racejunkie loves you, Mark, and I hope you keep me at least intermittently entertained thereby, you also resolve to shut the hell up about how evilly oppressed you are by the Man by being paid barely a penny to go down into the deep, dark, airless coalmines of Appallach--um, yeah, RIDE A BIKE. Look, honey, most of us *do* work for the Man--shut yer yap about it already, alright?
4. Alberto Contador: okay, to be fair, Ivan Basso successfully milked that batted-eyelash-and-charming-smile thing from an idiotic excuse his own momma wouldn't buy on sale to a spectacular second Giro and, if he can pull it off against the drug-stoked rest of you freaks, possibly to his once-preordinained Tour. But you--if you even get to ride this season 'cause Bessie over-huffed the good stuff--you, boy wonder, resolve to cut that stupid arrogant "pistolero" crap whose smug untainted time has certainly passed. Ya basta!
5. Jeannie Longo: I'll pull over to the side of the road midway through the French nationals to enjoy a leisurely lunch with a nice white Burgundy, loosen up afterwards with a long massage, stop by Chanel for a three-hour fitting for a new blouse and perhaps peruse the new handbag collection for awhile, so that my young competitors don't feel *so* bad when I *still* nick them at the line by a good 5000 meters, *again.* So genteel!
6. Tyler Farrar: I resolve to win the green jersey and at least three flat sprints at the Tour de France. Not because I work hard, or want it, or even deserve it, but just to watch Cav cry like a squirming red-faced colicky baby in Paris. Sweet!
7. Floyd Landis: look, with all due sympathy, there's no redeeming yourself at this point to either your wounded former fans or the Lance freaks who moronically blame you for his own actions. I hereby resolve to cooperate quietly with the narcs to get back at every equally-culpable sonofabitch who so unfairly didn't go down in flames with me, I mean, redeem this beautiful sport from its own cesspoolian excess, and to otherwise put a plug in it and relax into pleasant obscurity. Please!
8. Philippe Gilbert: I resolve to take every single damn Classic this year except we love Thor Hushovd's. Cancellara my !@#!
9. Cadel Evans: I resolve to take the Tour this year even though I'll lose 80% of my domestique firepower before that selfish publicity whore Armstrong even remembers he's not actually racing. And as usual, I'll do it with class, so I won't even say, Schleck, your sorry butt is *mine*!
10. Last But Not Least, the Whole Disgusting Lot of You: My grandma snorts dope, I think it's a great idea to order unregulated crap off the internet from untraceable third-world crap-sellers, my DS told the team chef to buy steaks from the diner next to the AstraZeneca plant, I had no idea the drug I took for my bull!@#$ Therapeutic Use Exemption could help me if I mainlined it by the cooler-full at the start line--yes, you clowns, dumb as we are, we've heard it. Now come up with something original--and no, Pat "Dick" McQuaid promised he'd only test the peloton for EPO this season doesn't count!
Now, I figure we've got at least til the end of the Tour of Qatar before the first--well, probably the last--of these resolutions hits the skids, but tifosi, we can always hope. And if I missed any I oughtn't have, I imagine you'll fill me in on my failures. But hey, if you can't trust the very participants in this noble, glorious, morally superior sport to ride clean, fair, and all-round magnanimously, who in the world *can* you believe in? Happy New Year to all in our dear peloton--now don't !@#$ this up!
Yeah, You Heard Me: well, folks, it's darned near the end of 2010, and while the Spaniards've still got a handful of days left to test positive for something new and dazzling and Johan Bruyneel has plenty of time left this year to jack over Levi Leipheimer, I say let's take a preemptive look ahead to what is sure to be a thrilling, inspiring, and periodically slime-ridden 2011! Ergo, yer Year in Preview:
January: team-camp wrap-up! Team Schleck bags backwoods-survivalist Saxo Bank bull!@#$, heads to luxury beachside spa for facials, hot-rock massages and manscaping; Landis appears at Tour Down Under to accuse Armstrong, kicked senseless by specially-trained kangaroo posse mysteriously let loose in his hotel room; Contador found guilty of doping, Spaniards punish severely as promised by overthrowing parliament, King Juan Carlos, installing Alberto as absolute dictator, and decreeing him winner of next 13 Tours de France. It's good to be the King!
February: Boonen decides this martyr crap isn't working, hits dance clubs with sycophants and pile of blow, takes Tour of Qatar by 23 minutes. Woo-hoo, let's party (again)!; Christian Vande Velde severely injures arm in freak Valentine-making mishap; Jens Voigt attacks on team training ride in Luxembourg, becomes first man to reach lunar orbit on bicycle using Mount Everest as launch ramp.
March: time for the Classics, baby! Alberto Contador wins Paris-Nice again, nearly disqualified after doping poz til cleared when Bjarne Riis comes up with prescription refi--um, receipt for tainted Altoids; Cavendish snags Milano-Sanremo after grabbing entire sprinter field by their jerseys with his teeth and flinging into barriers. Aw, not again!
April: oh, yeah, it's the Hell of the North, honey! Tommeke gets wasted, smashes new Ferrari into stop sign, wins Paris-Roubaix next morning; Vande Velde goes on mellow Sunday-morning ride with fan club, has no mishaps whatsoever, still busts tibia and sustains severe road rash; Cancellara takes Flanders again by 2-year margin, denies that bionic leg exposed by wires sticking out of knee counts as "bike" doping.
May: it's the Giro d'Italia, baby! Organizers round up a handful of neighborhood kids to ride it since everyone else is either riding the Amgen EPO You Suck You Race-Screwing Dirtbags Tour of California or saving selves for Tour; Vande Velde gets up to go to bathroom in middle of the night, whangs into doorway, breaks nose, wins Giro anyway when entire podium bails on last day to go play Legos.
June: time for pre-Tour doping controls! 182 riders fail biological passport, cleared to ride as Pat "Dick" McQuaid totally coincidentally vacationing in Amazon jungle with no cellphone coverage; Vande Velde reaches into fridge for grape jelly, breaks bone in thumb; Vinokourov trains for Tour by whacking own teammates off treacherous Alpine switchbacks, forced to hire remaining Team Pegasus riders as unsuspecting last-minute replacements.
July: what else? it's the Tour de France! Boonen goes to rave, ingests 46 tabs of acid, wins 6 consecutive sprints and green points jersey in Paris; Dave Zabriskie debuts new "ZZ Top" facial hair, brings down entire squad in team time trial just meters from line when beard catches in Hesjedal's derailleur; Andy Schleck smashes Contador's bike into pieces with pedal wrench during nature break, pair arrested by gendarmes for too-lurid post-race make-up.
August: yeah, baby, it's the 2011 Vuelta a Espana! Oh, !@#$ you buddy, you've *gotta*'ve heard of it by now; Robbie McEwen takes all mountain stages in shock triumph over Igor Anton, refused spot on Aussie Worlds squad on grounds he's a "pansy"; Andy Schleck mistakenly kicks self and Stuey O'Grady off squad after late night out, hose Frank over *again.*
September: we love Samuel Sanchez takes the Vuelta dammit; Cadel Evans jailed for assault and battery after obsequious cycling journalist tries to give his dog unapproved chewy toy; Cancellara detained in Swiss airport after nuclear reactor welded into top tube sets off radiation detector in luggage-screening area.
October: it's the World Championships again! Thor Hushovd takes second consecutive win when Cavendish caught up in late-race fist-fight after insulting own lead-out train; Gilbert loses Lombardy to Boonen after Tommeke tricks him into pre-race beer-pong match.
November: yeah, it's transfer season! Bjarne loses 14 members of team after publicly dope-smacking them for winning races all year; Contador purchases entire Spanish peloton with proceeds of new sponsorship by major pharmaceutical manufacturer; Cav signs 5-year, 200-million-euro contract with HTC, cries like baby in Phil & Paul's arms mourning cruel injustice.
December: team camps again! Euskaltel blown across Pacific by mild cross-wind, marooned on uncharted island for season; Garmin eschews new team kit in favor of full-body tats; Belgians relax on cobbles in driving sleet-storm in beach chairs, Ray-Bans, and Speedos; Spanish squads to private wing of top-flight medical center for 4-week regimen of "flu shots."
Well, fellow cycling nuts, them's my predictions for next year--let's hope those clowns don't pull anything else worse!
Yes, fellow fans, as cyclists everywhere get ready to celebrate probably some sort of wintry holiday or 'nother, but most certainly their latest scam escape from that pesky doping ban they so wholly deserve on some bull!@#$ technicality, it's time for us to turn, with all the love, respect, and spirit of giving that this charming season elicits, to our heartfelt wish list for all our fave denizens of the peloton:
The Climbers: yeah, you *wish* it was that crap the Spaniards are snarfing. But since it ain't, I wish you all those wee little motors that Cancellara was accused of hiding in his frame. Heck, they gotta be cheaper than those slimy gyno drug pushers you boys are paying now!
The Sprinters: blinders, like the ones those thoroughbreds wear. No fair that Cav can send 'em all crashing into the barriers just by blinding 'em with the glare off those giant Colgate teeth!
The Domestiques: ever-unheralded, but never forgotten. To you, I bequeath Lance for a day. Coffee gone cold? He'll warm it right in his very own armpit. Constant fan adulation getting you down? That's okay, he'll body-block 'em. Motos spittin' gravel in yer face? No sweat--hey, he don't mind going in front. So damn sore from a hard day in the maillot jaune that you can't reach where that chamois cream ought to go? The man is *limber*, I tell you. Levi, Klodi--it's payback time!
Tom Boonen: just as we all know there's a Santa Claus, Tommeke, we know there's still beyond greatness in you. Paris-Roubaix for our blushing babemuffin!
Robbie McEwen: you *suck*, UCI! And Pegasus. And anyone else who had a hand in ruthlessly driving the baddest man in show biz to the very brink of retirement. Dag nabit, get this man a contract! Just not with RadioSkank. Please, please, not with RadioSkank...
UCI: speaking of these clowns--cojones. Either the lady or the gentleman variety would nicely suffice. I mean, you simps are already promising to slap Contador on the wrist because EPO is so, so much worse than the new !@#$ he's taking? Santa, a real pair for these odious appeasers--stat!
Lance Armstrong: surprised I'm giving him a present? Don't be--'cuz it's really, and I say this with all due nonexistent shame, for the rest of us. Can we get, oh, 200 million or so of Bose noise-cancelling headphones, so we don't have to listen to the inevitable 2011 24/7 freakin' Lanceathon media coverage instead of news about guys who actually, y'know, still ride?
Thor Hushovd: Give our new world champion a minion to strew rose petals in his path wherever he walks. You rock, ya big lug!
Riccardo Ricco': coal in yer stocking. 'Cause if you *ever*, *ever* do anything to sully the legacy of the late, great Aldo Sassi who so faithfully and generously deigned to train you on your way back from your disgusting cheat-ban, you are gonna *need* it to heat whatever miserable damp leech-lurkin' Gollum cave craphole you're gonna have to flee to so the entire world o' cycling don't hunt you down and *beat* your !@#. Alright, ya got yer present--now scram!
Mara Abbott: a pink bike, helmet, wardrobe, and car. Come to think of it, let's just dip-dye her entire house til it glows like a bottle of Pepto. No, not 'cuz she's a girl, or 'cuz Lampre's got so much extra Barbie spandex on hand--'cuz she won the Giro d'Italia, baby, and pink is the official color of whup-!@#!
Floyd Landis: damned when he did, damned when he copped to it, double-damned when he completely jacked his loving fans and triple-damned now that no-one believes a word he says about his repugnant doping teammates even when a good 1% of it is probably true. A cloak of anonymity for this man--at this point, we're all better off!
Jens Voigt: whatever he wants. Seriously. Heredity kingship of some rich-as-sin playboy principality? A passel of subservient slobbering suckups to obey his every whim? A $25 Starbucks card? Andy Schleck, he's your responsibility now--Tour de France my !@#, pony up!
Carlos Sastre: come on, karma gods--just one more little Tour stage. Shut up!
Dave Z: forget this facial hair shtick--what are you, a one-man Burt Reynolds tribute band? So get this man a dreamy Justin Beiber haircut! 'Course, he'll have to get a bigger helmet too, to avoid the dreaded post-race hair-muss...Garmin, get your people on the problem!
Cadel Evans: the Tour. No, he won't get it. But he works like a dog, defends his dog like a dog, and is an all-round stand-up guy. So yes, he darn well ought to. Cadel, we'll see you in Paris!
And Finally, My Faithful Reader(s): no, I can't promise you Contador is innocent, your favorites will win, or that Cav will run off with you into the sunset and marry you. But what I *can* wish for you is another year of scandal, glory, and massive seasonal muckraking. Happy Festivus to all!
*Or* My Vuelta, Thank You Very Much: Oh, great. So Pat "Dick" McQuaid is dedicating all his efforts into starting up the Tour of !@#$ If I Care About Cycling in the sports-fanatic hellhole of !@#endofnowhereica, and on an apparently totally inconsequential side note in his view, to do that we oughta completely destroy the beauty, majesty, and history of the century-old Giro and 65-year-old Vuelta just cuz the Tour de France gives a bunch of greedy Rolls-drivin' caviar-snortin' sponsor-cretins a bigger platform to pimp their cheap-crap products on? You *suck*, McQuaid! Yes, money necessary--even good--but did it ever occur to you that on sheer *sporting* grounds you don't knock 1/3 off an epic 100-year-old tradition just because some gaudy assclown nouveau oligarch thinks he can add an extra jewel to his tacky blood-diamond cufflinks if Lance Armstrong shows up to court the press and blow the race *again*? Perfect, Pat "Dick". Let's eviscerate the Giro d'Italia til Fausto Coppi rises from the grave to go 10 kinds of blood-soaked sore-ridden zombie on your !@# and gut the flawless Vuelta til 10,000 screaming orange-clad Euskaltel fans stomp yer pathetic toadying celebrity-sucking rump-kissing doper-enabling visage into a 150-degree-Fahrenheit marriage with the sun-soaked Basque August tarmac. Me, I'll be selling off my minor organs--like, who the hell needs a "spleen"?--to scrounge up a wheel-well Alitalia ticket to the Dolomites to watch the single freakin' day my beloved Giro is gonna have left, while you, of course, stuff yourself senseless with prissy French pate' for three weeks oiling up to ASO which hates your weasel guts anyway. Stronzo!
Yes, folks, with only two weeks left for either a brilliant move or, more likely let's face it, an act of egregious late-season stupidity on the part of some sap in the peloton, we here at racejunkie are nonetheless taking a chance and are both pleased and honored to present to you our ultra-prestigious--or, for the doofi among the roadies, ultra-embarrassing--2010 Racejunkie Awards:
Hot 'n' Sexy Scandal of 2010 (and All Eternity): What else? Alberto Contador poz for dope at the Tour de France with just 5 freakin' picograms of Clenbuterol. So was it the tainted meat, garden-variety cheating, or just, as some wags have suggested, a downright stupid re-injection of still-doped blood from this year's Tour de Suisse that sunk you? Only you, behind those big, pretty eyes of yours, know the truth. Aw, rats, say it ain't so--like, honestly!
Comeback Kid of 2010: Ivan Basso, this one's for you. After a brutal fall from grace, and a reassuringly so-so return in 2009, the patriarch of the Cutest Family Ever clawed his way back to a spectacular second win at the Giro--and without any of that 9-minutes crap that so awed and rightly disconcerted us in 2006. Welcome back, GQ man--and you *better* not be fudging it this time!
Stage Win o' the Year: yes, I've said it before. And no, it never, ever, ever gets old. Cadel Evans, Stage 7, Giro d' Italia. Smashing!
Total !@#hole of the 2010: game, set, match. Congrats, Riccardo Ricco', you weenie--way to slither back to the peloton!
Come *On*, Come *On*, Come *On*! Prize: he's big, he's bodacious, he's rehabbed himself beautifully, and let's face it, he's just plain charming. I also hear tell--and indeed, fully believe--he's one of most fearsome classics and sprint men in the business. Tom Boonen, we *know* this year was an injury-plagued aberration--and we're all *so* pulling for you next year!
Absolute Yawn of 2010 Award: sorry, Lance, but you at the Tour. You're the greatest Tour de France rider of all time, and, not coincidentally, one of the greatest riders, period. You're a tireless advocate for those battling cancer, a cause whose nobility none can deny. And even if video of you actually grabbing a syringe from a FedEx package labeled "My Big Box o' Illegal Performance-Enhancing Drugs" and shooting it into your personal butt should surface on YouTube tomorrow, your adoring American public would just completely ignore it anyway. So why, why, why, especially after a middling (by Armstrong standards, anyway) 2009 comeback, would you ever continue in 2010 with mere mediocrity? Forget the horridly-irritating press-whore orgy we had to endure at your every colon blow in every freakin' race you showed up to that was just nails-on-a-blackboard this year--baffling!
Now *There's* An Armstrong Who Don't Piss Me Off Award: yes, to the joy of her fans and the flat-out fears of her competitors, repeat world champ Kristin Armstrong decides to come out of her still-new retirement for another (likely successful) crack at Olympic glory. You *go*, Kristin--and all *she* imbibes for help is chocolate milk!
Punk-!@# Move of 2010 (Race-Day): really? You sent your lead-out hired-goon Renshaw up to head-butt Julian Dean and squeegee fair-play king Tyler Farrar into the barriers? Damn, Cav, sucker-punch a little old lady or somethin', why dontcha?
Punk-!@# Move of 2010 (Non-Competition): okay, it was actually when your book got published, but geez Louise, Floyd, writing a whole book to rip off your most loyal, devoted defenders for $24.95 or some extortionate !@#$ then admitting the whole thing was lying crap is just *no* *class* at all. But hey--after taxes, it shouldn't take you much more'n ten years of hard labor asking surly junk-food addicts if they wanna Supersize it at McDonalds to pay 'em all back, right? Now do it!
Karma, Baby! Prize of 2010: look, ya gotta give Bjarne Riis some credit--with a few little snafus, he was one of the winningest team leaders in the business. More, he had the exquisite sense to hire--and well support--we love Jens. But the minute you started being mean to the faultless Carlos Sastre--the guy who WON YOU THE FREAKIN' TOUR DE FRANCE YOU TOOL--your world started to crumble around you, up to and including the Schlecks bailing to create their very own squad *and* your little cash-cow savior Contatwerp's unfortunate little run-in with some drugged-up cattle. Not that it has anything to do with YOUR BEING MEAN TO SASTRE. Oh, Bjarne--maybe if you take 'im out for a nice lunch or something, it'll all come 'round next year...
Crash of the Year Award (Single): oh, Euskaltel. Oh, Igor. Yep, it's Igor Anton's instantaneous loss of the fabulous Vuelta a Espana that just about crushed my soul. How exactly do you type the noise where you bay like a heart-broken basset hound? Yeah, that!
Crash of the Year Award (Multiple): the little stretch of oil-slick on the downhill of the Col Stockeu that broke the bones of damn near half the Tour de France and killed poor we love Christian Vande Velde for GC. What the !@#$ is this, Paris-Roubaix?
Sissy-Boy Slap-Fight of the Year: If there's anything more enjoyable than watching one guy built like an elf whanging another guy built like a wood sprite upside the head with a $400 wheel with the clear intent of impaling his skull with it, I've yet to see it. Carlos Barredo and Rui Costa, this one's for you!
Everyone Else on the Planet Is a Wuss Award: yep, this one's for ever-winning Frenchwoman Jeannie Longo, stomping her toddler competition for national champ for the umpteenth year in a row. And not only were these women in diapers when she *started* competing, they're gonna all be in adult diapers before she stops. So tell me why the rest of you delicate flowers in the peloton all hit the showers in 30s, again? On second thought, explain it to Longo instead!
Tweet Rant of 2010: Don't !@#$ with Robbie McEwen, man. 'Cause he'll cut you. If you're lucky. And even so, you're still gonna be thankin' him for merely going all Gitmo on your !@#. To the nameless numb-nut who knocked McEwen off his ride after the line, hope livin' off the grid in a filthy hidden cave like some time-traveled Neanderthal is treatin' you well--and for years to come!
Embarrassingly Rah-Rah "USA Rules!" Bud-Drinkin' Beer-Gut Scratchin' Imperialist Moment o' 2010: Mara Abbott, 1st American woman to win the Giro. Forza, you goddess--and did I mention she conquered the Stelvio? So now, can we go back to humiliating the French instead?
And Last But Not Least, Doping Excuse o' the Year: yep, it's a two-fer for Contador--oy! Close second: Chuck Coyle's claim that a dear teammate used his computer, password, and home address to procure a whole bucket o' forbidden dope, but that he admitted to doing it himself because he was just too darned gentlemanly to call his good pal out. Yep, if *my* career depended on it, it'd sure be cool by *me* to have my BFF sell me down the river to protect himself! Darling peloton, can't we all just go back to blaming grandma's EPO habit, and try to retain at least *some* shred of plausible dignity?
Well, that's my year-end wrap-up--to any particularly glorious or disgusting riders whose hijinks I missed, don't worry, honey--there's always next year!
Lactose burning your legs like fire, Hot sweat dripping off your nose, If you don't snag the maillot jaune tonight, Your career really will be hosed.
Everybody knows, a syringe and some EPO, Helps to make palmares bright, Cheating skanks tested just before bed, Will find it hard to sleep tonight.
They know that UCI is on its way, They're using high-tech tests, they'll make you pay And every pin-up cheat is gonna cry, So you won't care his whole defense is a lie.
So give a hug to your DS, Who gave the drugs to you to do, Kiss some kids, and keep omerta', You'll be right back in a year or two!
Can't remember the last time Tom Boonen won a race, an Italian got busted for doping, or Contador pulled that "pistolero" move? Well, we here at racejunkie are primed to help you both impress and bore fellow holiday party-goers to tears with your arcane knowledge of all that's glorious, grotesque, and just plain mundane in the world o' cycling 2010! So, for your edification--and because you know you'd rather read even this than do that damn TPS report your boss is waiting for--here goes:
January: Riccardo Ricco' an early win for coveted !@#hole of the Year Award for running screaming from loyal baby mama Vania Rossi the second she tests poz for dope; Floyd Landis back in action at Tour o' Bahamas; wheel-suck this, buddy!--new world champ Cadel Evans actually attacks at Tour Down Under!; Cav calls Ricco' a 'parasite'; Lance accuses Contador of having an ego. Ah, the sweet taste of hypocrisy!
February: deluded reader begs for more Lance coverage in Velonews; Rock Racing denied Continental license, some silly problem with "every goddamn person on your team's a cheat"; French issue arrest warrant for Landis; Tommeke rocks back at Qatar; Freire dazzles; Petacchi knocked off bike in final seconds o' sprint by camera-wielding tifosi nimrod. Y'know, Ale-Jet's a pretty big guy--run, you fool!
March: Armstrong afraid Contador'll kick his !@# in Jul--I mean, sez cycling no longer top priority; Jens of course back on winning form after devastating Tour 2009 crash-out; Alejandro "Bloodbag" Valverde's ban upheld; RadioSkank dissed by Giro; rumors swirl that Frank'n'Andy Schleck will be starting own team in 2011--yeah, right!
April: BFFs Cav and Greipel trade insults; Samu' whales at Pais Vasco; Lampre takes Gibo back to Giro; RadioSkank's Fuyu Li tests poz *before* he leaves Lance's squad; Boonen's compatriots too lame to chase, Cancellara storms Roubaix. But WTF with that Cavesque-ian double-chest-point?
May: some total !@#$wad schedules Amgen EPO Tour of California during the Giro; Cadel takes epic stage on the strade bianche; Pellizotti busted for bio passport, Ivan Basso again pretty in pink; Floyd Landis confesses to massive fraud; Cancellara accused of bike doping. As if an engine could beat *his* legs!
June: it's the road to the Tour, baby! Contador keeps an eye on Vinokourov; RadioSkank chooses "pure slaves" for Armstrong; UCI doesn't want the French to find any dopers; Jeannie Longo only French rider who doesn't suck for 25th year in a row; we love dear little Sastre in pain, Cervelo' don't give rat's !@#; Ivan Basso's hot sister get deferred sentence for dealing dope to cyclists, women's prison inmates eagerly await probation violation. Keep dreamin', you predators!
July: what else?! Lance blows; Tyler shows his class; moto-crash oil slick takes out 3/4 of peloton, Leipheimer just glad he's alive; Andy Schleck drops chain, Contador takes off, pair later arrested for public indecency after too-lurid make-up on Champs-Elysees; photog whacks Robbie McEwen off bike, seeks asylum from raving one-man pocket hit squad; Jens Voigt is a god. On to the Vuelta!
August: it's the Vuelta a Espana, baby! yeah, it's a !@#damn bike race, it's been on for like 100 years, you clowns!; Alberto Contador flirts with SaxoBank; Cancellara looks elsewhere; totally-innocent-dammit Levi Leipheimer accused of blood doping during 2005 Tour by scum-sucking slime-weasel from Gerolsteiner; UCI ignores uncomfortable bio-passport results. Shocker!
September: Euskaltel's Igor Anton crashes out of Vuelta and near-certain win, racejunkie bawls like toddler; Bjarne kicks Andy and Stuey out of race in bitter snit, screwing Frank; Vincenzo Nibali snags the overall, teammate Ivan Basso plots downfa--um, proclaims total happiness; oh no you didn't--Contatwerp positive for Clenbuterol in 2010 Tour!
October: Holy crap we love Thor Hushovd is the new world road champion!; Jens follows Schlecks to new squad, remains a god; paranoid conspiracy theorists at Liquigas sue Italian prosecutor for generally suggesting dopers, y'know, dope; Cav snivels, *again*; 2006 Tour de France winner Oscar "I Did So Win It, Dagnabit!" Pereiro bids farewell; Contador blames asthmatic cow for poz, sez he'll quit sport if one more freakin' person laughs at him for sayin' that. Did I mention cows heart medical-grade plastic tubing residue?
November: WADA rips UCI for weak controls at Tour; Popovych haunted by narcs; Novitzsky aims at Armstrong; Pope cracks down on doping; Contador finds tainted meat receipt, beaten and left for dead in dark alley by outraged Spanish agriculture federation. Hey, it's *still* not as stupid as Bjorn Leukemanns' "I Was Busy Doing the Nasty" defense!
December: FDJ miss out on ProTour license, like anyone's gonna notice next year; Cancellara finally confirms with Team Schleck; UCI threatens to appeal unsatisfactory ruling on Contador. What, "unsatisfactory" like he's prosecuted, you enabler wussbags?
Sure, December ain't over yet, and we can all imagine there'll be at least one more unbearable tidbit about (1) Contador or (2) Armstrong--but really, who even *wants* to talk about that crap? A fond adieu to 2010, and on to 2011!
Wah, Wah, Wah: yeah, this'll teach you to piss off fast-aging baby savant Alberto Contador: as he's done every time he's sworn absolute silence on his ongoing doping investigation until it's done then immediately pimped himself to another sympathetic press outlet, he's gone and threatened to quit the sport again if he's busted, in case the Spanish cycling fed wasn't sure which way they were supposed to vote, and more, he's also ripped into Team Astana--which he himself bailed out of for next year, though this appears not to have crossed his radar'o'relevance--for not "supporting" him enough at the Tour and in the wake of his doping scandal. Um, not to rewrite history, here, Alberto, but weren't your teammates--like, oh, Lance "!@#$ You You Little Peon Punk!" Armstrong--just the *slightest* bit *less* supportive the year before?! Sure, Vinokourov'd attack his own grandma on a walk to the mailbox--but really, you wanna take on someone who's even *more* likely to run your !@# off a mountainside in July 2011?
Share and Share Alike: meanwhile, another scandal has rocked the Italian cycling world, not the shocking efficiency with which even that odious little weasel Ricco' is snowjobbing the cycling fed into thinking he's actually reformed, but that Italian mountain biker Elena Gaddoni has been busted for high testosterone. Y'know, it seems to me this can have a happy ending: since Danilo DiLuca's been busted for doping up like a chick on masking agents 'til he had the testosterone levels of a Smurf, she and Danilo can do business and simply switch syringes so they each stay believably within their respective genders. Throw off the narcs, you don't waste the drugs you paid for, everyone wins!
And The Oscar Goes To: the Giro d'Italia! Yes indeedy, we love Oscar Freire--having recovered from nether-region-threatening saddlesores, freak back tweaks, and various Tour de France pellet-gun wounds--and decided to bag retirement for another year, is gonna skip the You Suck Amgen EPO Tour of California to ride, before he says goodbye, the perfect Giro. Sure, there aren't actually any "sprint" stages in this year's edition--but hey, what says an Oscar-friendly "slight uphill to the finish" like an hors-category deathmarch to the top of the Dolomites? Woo-hoo Oscar!
It's the Racejunkie Give Thor Hushovd A Raise Campaign!: okay, like I care about the problems of people already earning a cool 1 mil a year, but I gotta say, if Thor Hushovd sez he might've liked a raise if only he hadn't signed with new squad Garmin before his World Champ jersey kicked in and they hadn't already busted their budget, then by golly, someone oughta give our big lug a raise. So buy yer bitchin' Garmin stuff here , I'll post a link to their no-doubt spiffy new team kit as soon as it's out, and Garmin, use the extra dough to pony up a little present in Thor's argyle stocking this year--I mean, let's totally gratuitously look at this guy's win again!
Yes, folks, even I can't be completely pissy for 365 days straight, so as we Americans all get ready to pause to stuff ourselves senseless with turkey, sweet potatoes, and pie in extravagant gratitude for the Native Americans not bushwhacking the Pilgrims while they still had the chance, I ponder the other things--about cycling in particular--for which I am especially thankful this year:
1. Mark Cavendish. The boy is just the gift that keeps on giving. The fastest man on earth? You betcha. Already one of the most prolific sprinters in all of cycling's noble (and ignoble) history? Sure 'nuff. Possessor of the toothiest, flashingest smile this side o' the British Empire? Don't think I didn't notice, Tusher 'n' Co.! But best of all, Cav can always be counted on for a pithy quote on how much his rivals suck, a pithy quote on how much his own team sucks, or a timeless pic of an obscene gesture as he crosses the line that surely makes his family proud. Thanks, Cav!
2. Lance Armstrong's finally freakin' retired once and for all, and we no longer have to listen to everyone yappin' about him 24/7. Wait a minute...hey, I call bull!@#$!
3. Euskaltel-Euskadi. Samu. The squad. The dashing Halloween team kits. The screaming fans. Most of all, the climbs. Winged angels, I say!
4. Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen. Sigh. Can *anything* more be said than "Bow, beeyotches!"?
5. Clenbuterol. Damn, without it, the boys *still* might be climbing the Tourmalet. Someone, get me an IV ba--I mean, a steak, quick!
6. My loyal (or intermittent) readers. Got 18 reasons why I blow in today's post alone? Yeah, you told me. Thanks to all!
7. Holy crap Thor Hushovd is the new World Champion!
8. Holy crap Giorgia Bronzini is the new World Champion!
9. Jens Voigt. I hope he sticks it out 'til he's old as the Alps. In fact, he'll probably just grind them down to sea level with the sheer force of his pedal-strokes. Woo-hoo Jens!
10. UCI. Ha! No, just kidding. But I *am* thankful for all (both of, whatever) those teams, riders, journalists, officials and tifosi who do work so hard to clean up this beautiful sport. Good karma to all of you!
Well, that's most of my Thanksgiving list for this year, if only to give myself recovery time for so much saccharine goodness. I'd give a special honorary nod of appreciation to Alberto Contador for both a dazzling Tour and a supremely disgusting after-circus, but as I Euskaltel fan, I just can't be nice to anyone who so outrageously slanders innocent Basque beef. You're gonna have *earn* it next year, Contatwerp!
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!
The Documents Don't Lie, Baby: yes indeed, if a virtual barked-out order from the head of Alberto Contador's cycling fed that he doesn't want the child found guilty weren't enough to guarantee he's getting off, now Alberto's even got actual printed proof on his side: the team's miraculously found the receipt for the dirty Basque steak that Contador unwittingly consumed that fateful evening in July. Contador, of course, who swears every two minutes he's done commenting on this bull!@#$ farce that's severely hurting his feelings, has--um--commented to the press he's both delighted and confident he'll come out unscathed. Now, I don't want to be a spoil-sport here, but it seems to me that this receipt proves, at best, two things: (1) someone bought a steak to cook, and (2) because as we all know it's a sin to waste perfectly good food, particularly as two weeks into the Tour you're probably gonna beat the crap out of the next schmo who serves you carbs just from sheer ennui, someone connected with the purchaser probably ate it. O ho, case closed, UCI! Now, show me the rancher's veterinarian's medical records proving Bessie was diagnosed and treated with clenbuterol for her tragic, chronic asthma, and the chain of custody leading from pasture to team bus, and a wacky contemporaneous team-bus cell-phone photo snapping Alberto and domestiques with forkfuls of steak held aloft, and *then* we're talkin'... Wait, folks, I think we got it--take that, UCI, you meanies!
The Chicken Returns (He Hopes): meanwhile, should this whole silly thing nonetheless throw a wrench into Bjarne's increasingly-jeopardized plans not to completely suck eggs for next season, luckily, he's still got options: the narcs aren't gonna challenge aging ballroom dancer/ex-basically-Tour-winner Michael Rasmussen's participation in the Tour next year. Let's just be glad this Tour ain't exactly stuffed with time-trial miles, shall we? Good luck, Bjarne--you guys are gonna need it!
The Spaniards Step In: yes, UCI has taken the next step necessary to ensure their post-Armstrong boy king don't get overthrown by scandal: in accordance with the rules, they've turned the whole Alberto Contador investigation over to the Spaniards. BWAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA! So much for snaggin' the big fish, you cowardly enablers! Y'know, I understand the Spanish system is much improved since the ol' Valverde Operacion Puerto days, namely that they've begrudgingly codified into law the general concept that doping's, seriously folks, not very nice at all. But in the face of humungous national outcry and the total defense by every national sporting official in existence over the cruel and clearly entirely bull!@#$ persecution of their eyelash-batting national hero--even from the sensitive hometown butcher who thought Alberto's dirty-meat defense was dubious--that the Spanish are gonna take *him* down? Let's preview the decision, shall we? (1) there was barely anything there, so there was functionally *nothing* there. (2) Lots of cows take asthma meds anyway--how else are they supposed to breathe while they're chewing all that "cud" crap all day? (3) The whole stupid IV-plasticizer thing is a red herring. And if it's not, the red herring was tainted. (4)*Look* at that cute little face--could this cute little face do anything wrong? No, and we don't want to look for needle holes in his cute little !@#, either. (5) !@#$ you, you !@#$ing !@#$wads--like *your* guys are any cleaner? And if all else fails, (6) it's such complex case we need an extra four years to think it over, in which time, he's free to ride.
Besides, look who this guy hangs out with: how *could* he dope? Now, if you're gonna prosecute him for constantly doing that beyond-annoying "Pistolero" !@#$ every time he crosses the line, *that* I'd back...
The Chicken Dance: no, it seems, gyrating suggestively (if scrawnily) in Bedazzlered floral disco outfits *isn't* enough to fulfill a guy who was on the cusp of winning the Tour de France when the same folks who let him ride it for three weeks knowing he'd missing doping controls suddenly got all outraged and pulled 'im out, as Michael Rasmussen not only keeps whining to get back on the bike with a real squad, but he's actually found, though the team director at issue coyly won't confirm it, a high-caliber buyer in--gnurk!--Bjarne Riis. Oh, Bjarne. Between Alberto and, well, damn near every cool rider on the planet, we know you've suffered some terrible blows of late, but to pick up a dope fiend like the Chicken--who the hell do you think you are exactly, Liquigas?
Men In Black: meantime, pity poor Armstrong ever-acolyte/foot washer/darn fine cyclist actually Yaroslav Popovych, who in being subpoenaed to testify at Jeff Novitsky's Lance Crucify-a-thon was apparently hunted down by the federales like Ted Nugent on elk. Geez, mount his bike helmet on the wall in yer living room like a set of antlers and you've really got a prize there! Me, except for that whole petty "justice" thing, I completely fail to see the point. I mean, didja even *think* you were gonna get anything helpful out of this guy?
Blood Simple: and, while we're feeling sympathetic to people making huge sums of money by screwing other riders, Alejandro Valverde's lost his latest appeal to the narcs, and, barring yet another last-ditch appeal, won't be gracing the peloton again til 2012. Which is a shame, come to think of it, as I always did look forward to him imploding and surging erratically before he started gettin' that !@#$ he was taking right, but if I can actually watch a race again and feel fairly confident that the guy winning it hasn't supplanted his entire bloodstream with 8-odd pints of liquid cheatin' dirtball, I'm more than game for that. Oh, Alejandro, if only you'd copped to "attempting" to cheat...or claimed it was your grandma's EPO...or blamed it on hard-core drug-addicted livestock...
Tyler Farrar Kicks !@#: in other news, am I the only one looking forward to watching US sprint king Tyler Farrar, whose admirable Tour de France was barely even sidelined by his suckmaster catastrophic wrist-crunch, whomp certain other sprinters next season? He welcomes his new teammates politely, he looks forward to sittin' down and amiably figuring out the schedule with potential rival Thor...the man is just complete opposite of the tiresome braggarts we're so accustomed to amongst the speedsters. Y'know, Cav, I truly treasure every Vinokourovian wingnut moment your mouth explodes like some foul gaseous volcano at the unsuspecting press. But while you *are* to be fair very good at giving credit to your teammates, if you're lookin' for class, take Tyler's. Or maybe just keep making obscene salutes as you cross the line, and have it out with Tyler on the road!
Woo-Hoo Norway!: finally, congrats to the fine country of Norway for being the bitchinest place on earth according to a new U.N. report, an honor due entirely, no doubt, to the fact that we love Thor Hushovd is the new-crowned world road race champion. Health, schmealth, happiness, schmappiness--really, what does any of that silly crap matter for a populace when you've got Thor?! Here, let's gratuitously review:
Heaven Can Wait (And Wait, And Wait, And...): yep, those of us with an actual "doping bad" philosophy can get our collective panties out of their bunch--after those party-poopers at WADA ripped UCI for their Tour de France performance for (1) failing to carry out enough doping controls on certain favor--I mean, suspicious riders and (2) timing the controls so cyclists could flush the drugs out of their systems and (3) stomping through team-hotel lobbies with an oompah band to give the riders plenty o' time to hide their stashes yank the IVs out of their arms and snort a pile o' masking agents, UCI, in an unprecedent attack on the scourge of dangerous, traitorous doping in the peloton, has sworn to--yes, *study* the situation! Geez, you cowardly clowns, why not just give up the pretense and have Pat "Dick" McQuaid walk down the start line every morning with a musette full o' syringes whammin' 'em into each rider's !@#? Sure beats all this cloak-and-dagger fuss--and hey, who *doesn't* want a level playing field clearly guaranteed?
Riis' (In) Pieces: as if losing the Schlecks, Fabian, Jens, and Stuey weren't already crap news enough for one season--not to mention vague rumors about some obscure rider named "Contador" or something--poor Bjarne Riis was apparently kicked in his works yet again when he unsuccessfully tried to salvage next season by signing on reliable Tour de France stage winner/general Classics strongman we love Thor Hushovd. Damn, I know he was a complete tool to Sastre and won his own Tour de France drugged up like Keith Richards and all, but even I'm starting to feel a little twinge of mercy for this guy. I mean, freakin' Johan Bruyneel gets a two-month vacation with a special exception for the Tour Down Armstrong next season and *Bjarne* gets tossed into the deep-fryer for the whole year? Tylenol, take me away!
Live (Dope) Free or Die: finally, erstwhile dopemeister Danilo "Strawberry Shortcake" DiLuca's return to the peloton appears to be a bit on the rocks, as the Giro director expresses reluctance to take our reformed boy back into the race, and the Italian squads seem even to be more squicked out by Danilo than that odious little snakeling Riccardo Ricco'. Geez, it's not like Danilo hasn't done the Ivan Basso pin-up thing--he's posed on a zebra-striped throne in his birthday suit and walked the runway for Dolce & Gabbana, right?--I *told* you to copy the guy's entire playbook and start kissing babies for charity too, DiLuca you blockhead!
while, in an excess of caution, and out of due respect to the cycling prowess of his pal, Andy Schleck has reportedly been training extra-hard in case Contador does show up to try to steal his Tour de France:
Good luck, Alberto--and I still do hope it ain't so!
is claiming that it's possible to win the perfect Giro without cheating--which it possibly is, except for him--and 
How exactly do you type the noise where you bay like a heart-broken basset hound? Yeah, that!
(5) !@#$ you, you !@#$ing !@#$wads--like *your* guys are any cleaner? And if all else fails, (6) it's such complex case we need an extra four years to think it over, in which time, he's free to ride. 
Now, if you're gonna prosecute him for constantly doing that beyond-annoying "Pistolero" !@#$ every time he crosses the line, *that* I'd back...
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