Hey, kids, what’s Austerity Clause gonna bring you for Sequestermas?
I asked for a Mitch McConnell Inaction Figure.
Not gonna get it, of course.
Category: Garden-variety snark
20 minutes of 24 hours
The 24 Hours of COS, a.k.a. USA Cycling’s 24-Hour Mountain Bike National Championship, is going on as we speak in Palmer Park, so between paying chores I popped round for a peek, as I did last year.
And just like last year, the whole thing seemed rather underwhelming, spectacle-wise. Here’s one rider; there’s another. And another. And another.
No disrespect intended. It’s a race intended for participants, not spectators, and I’m sure things get much more interesting when the sun goes down and the wildlife comes out and that rocky stretch that seemed so eminently rideable just a dozen hours ago turns into a black-hole Stonehenge express elevator leading directly to Hell.
But in the daylight it had all the excitement of a strip-mall carnival’s merry-go-round.
It’s a shame nobody was passing out prizes for abusing yourself over a 24-hour period back in the Eighties. I’d have a walk-in closet full of stars-and-stripes jerseys.
Pro cycling challenged
Well, shucks. I didn’t have a chance to observe first-hand the USA Pro Challenge as it barreled through Bibleburg.
I’m often critical of pro cycling, but I still like to watch it, the way some guys like to look at fake tits. Happily, Herself, who has neither need nor desire for surgical enhancement — not that this is any of your business — cycled downtown to observe the festivities on my behalf, as I was buried in chores that reminded me of the time I tried to dig my way out of the Supermax in Florence wielding only a cracked plastic spoon, a Mason jar of pruno and a finely honed sense of moral superiority.
Still, I was able to watch stage five from Chez Dog, via Adobe Tour Tracker, and as I had anticipated, spectatorship seemed sparse, confined mostly to Bibleburg’s infamous drinkin’-an’-fightin’ ghetto on Tejon, between Bijou and Colorado. Happily for those who earn a living from such things, the camera adds 10 pounds to everything, including crowd estimates.
Damiano Caruso (Liquigas-Cannondale) screwed the pooch on the finishing circuit, sprinting to victory a lap before everyone else even bothered to queue up. And who can blame him? Given the altitude at home, he might as well be racing on Mars against the Curiosity rover, sans spacesuit.
Tyler Farrar won, with Taylor Phinney second, and now everything shifts north to the People’s Republic, where I expect the crowds will turn out for real on Flagstaff Mountain. I won’t be there, either. But I will be watching via streaming video between chores, if only because Herself won’t let me watch videos of … well … you know.
Training for his urine test
Color me cynical, but I do believe Belgian trackie Gijs Van Hoecke will test positive for tonsil polish — that is, if he has any fluids remaining inside his body for testing purposes.
The Belgian federation shitcanned Van Hoecke from the 2012 Olympics after the Limey scandal sheet The Daily Mail ran pix of Olympians leaving a London club earlier this week. The sopping wet, sleepily smiling 20-year-old was snapped as his mates fetched him to a waiting cab, the driver of which I trust they tipped handsomely.
Van Hoecke issued an apology of sorts in a chat with RTBF television. “What happened is a pity. I am sorry, this should not have happened,” he said. “But I also think that after two years of relentless work, I have the right to let my hair down.
“It would have been better if it had not happened here in London. I chose the wrong moment. Having said that, it was outside the Olympic Village, I wasn’t disturbing other athletes, they didn’t say anything about it.”
Word. I wonder how many esteemed Daily Mail scribes have had to be carried from pubs to cabs after concluding their little bit of business at day’s end.
Shiteurday
Oy. Long day on the job for a variety of reasons, and no, don’t ask.
Nice to see Bradley Wiggins try to lead out Edvald Boassen Hagen for the stage win, but I’m still having trouble warming up to ‘Is Lordship for some reason.
Maybe it’s racial memory. He is English, after all. But then I always liked the Beatles, Stones, Python, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, etc.
Maybe it’s his manner with the sporting press. Pro athletes often forget that if they didn’t get any media coverage many of them would be wearing paper hats and throwing packets of spuds at strangers through a drive-up window, or standing up to their hips in something nasty with only a shovel for company.
Nah. It’s the sideburns. That shit has to go. Wiggo’ makes Bob Roll look like James Bond, f’fucksake.
Mad Blog Media 