The Sun Is a Mass/ Of Incandescent Gas/ A Gigantic Nuclear Fur-nace! #UCIDoha2016

And You're Riding In It, Sucker: yes, in the presence of truly record-breaking crowds--in the sense that "zero" is a "record", albeit a !@#$ty one--the planet's greatest cyclists have officially convened in the sweltering deserts of Doha to barf, pant, collapse, careen, and faint their way to World Championship glory, and, if there's one thing we know as the men's and women's elite road race is upon us, it's that the UCI's venal, profit-groveling, rider-endangering, cycling-screwing moronity clearly knows no bounds whatsoever beyond a fat, marinating pile of sun-scorched sweat-drenched euros, leading desperate riders to institute measures like "extreme sauna protocol" to accustom themselves to the heat, which apparently involves being locked in a small cedar closet with a steaming pile of hot rocks until you personally physically shrivel into (1) a desiccated, permanently preserved wraith-corpse, or (2), even worse, Chris Froome or 2007 Tour de France-era Michael Rasmussen. Glad no-one's actually *croaked* from the heat yet, you reckless !@#$ing sickos! Jaysus, why not !@#$ing hold the road race championships on a molten !@#$ing lava flow the next time Vesuvius blows and bacon-crisps an entire !@#$ing country, whydontcha?

Corollary Mystery o' Science: whether, as the winner ascends the podium to collect his or prize, s/he will--because as we all learned in school, if our inferior US educations were even correct, heat rises--spontaneously combust into a sad, skinny little pile of ash as the gold medal, with nowhere left to hang, collapses onto it ignominiously and instantly superheats into a gas, disappearing into the netherworld. Isn't science *fun*, kids?

The Postman Always Rings Twice--uh, NEVER EVER LOOKS IN THE !@##$IN' PACKAGE, ALRIGHT?: meantime, as British Cycling begins to cannibalize itself faster'n a Westward-bound pack o' manifest-destiny-seeking wagon-rollin' desperadoes, the latest guy to jump ship is the hapless Team Sky "mystery package" courier who, it seems, "didn't know" what was in the pile of sleazy, rules-evading dru--uh, do--uh, stuff he was delivering, despite the words "FRAGILE--PEDs" stamped all over the box in 200-point type, a frantic call from an unidentified staff person demanding to know its whereabouts, and, upon its arrival, an estimated 56 cyclists running up to the courier, bull!@#$ TUEs in hand, jersey sleeves rolled up, and their upper arms already freshly prepped with alcohol wipes. Yeah, it was a box of cutting-edge, specially aerodynamic band-aids, you doofus--*dang*, ignorance is bliss!

NEWS FLASH!: finally, I bring to you this exclusive breaking news from Doha: we're just now receiving reports that, due to extreme heat-induced dehydration, Tom Dumoulin has literally shrunk into Esteban Chaves. So much for that "breakthrough 2017 *Dutch* Grand Tour win", I guess!