Posts Tagged ‘TCWSNBN’

Confession is good for the … what, exactly?

January 18, 2013

A casual check of the Innertubes this morning confirms that I chose correctly in deciding to skip Ol’ Whatsisface’s latest made-for-TV reinvention.

Eddy Merckx is “extremely disappointed.” Tour de France honcho Christian Prudhomme called it a “calculated public-relations exercise,” while WADA chief John Fahey dismissed the performance as delivering “nothing new.”

Greg LeMond said he didn’t see “the need for redemption, the remorse of someone who is truly sorry.” ESPN’s Bonnie Ford called his resort to “big-picture pop culture”  a “delusional move, not to mention an utterly backward one, describing Ol’ Whatsisface as “a toppled despot, a statue pulled off his pedestal, [whose] legs are still moving reflexively in the rubble.”

And Betsy Andreu was pissed, saying Ol’ Whatsisface owes more to her and “to the sport that he destroyed.”

There’s more of that sort of thing to be had, if you’re game. I’m not. The whole thing is, as John Steinbeck wrote of other parties thrown by professional hostesses, “as spontaneous as peristalsis and as interesting as its end product.”

For The Cyclist Who Shall Not Be Named it’s just another step along a well-worn path. First Soaprah, then Betty Ford, then “Dancing With the Stars.” Or maybe a reality show like the one Pete Rose has ginned up for himself.

Whatever. Stage two is tonight, of course, but Ol’ Whatsisface is already way off the back. He’s proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that it’s not about the bike. It’s not about the sport. It’s all about him.

Chewing the fat

January 15, 2013
Coming clean on Soaprah? Photo © Harpo Studios Inc. | George Burns

Coming clean on Soaprah? Photo © Harpo Studios Inc. | George Burns

If you had any nagging doubts about the purpose underlying the pending mea culpa from the One Ball To Rule Them All on Soaprah, doubt no more.

Ms. Winfrey has issued a breathless bit of PR announcing that her two-and-a-half-hour chat with Ol’ Whatsisface will be aired over not one, but two evenings, this coming Thursday and Friday.

Having chatted up more than a few people over my 35 years in the news biz I can assure you that no interview is worth running in its entirety, especially when the person asking the questions has zero understanding of the matter at hand.

Were I to sit down for an interview with Paul Krugman, for example, at least 90 minutes of our chat would be devoted to me saying, “I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.” That sort of thing hardly makes for must-see TV. So I presume there will be more heavily perfumed fat in this chat than there is on Soaprah’s ass.

A colleague suggested via email that this “is the big moment we’ve talked about for a decade.” I replied, “No, actually, the moment I had been waiting for was seeing The One Ball To Rule Them All sitting in a courtroom, answering to another sort of inquisitor altogether. This is all Kabuki for Kash. It has less to do with justice than with illustrating the value of a white skin and a fat wallet. Had he been a brother shoplifting a 40 from 7-Eleven he’d have been doing pushups in the prison exercise yard a long time ago.”

Another colleague, the estimable Charles Pelkey, has proposed that he and I live-update the sucker as in the good old days. I had planned to take the high road and ignore the whole tawdry affair, but I’ll confess there is a certain appeal to the idea of throwing gobbets of rotten fruit, sacks of cat shit and bons mots as the tumbrel rumbles by.

Any interest out there in DogLand? Sound off in comments.

A different shade of yellow?

January 14, 2013

OK, let’s see if I have this right: The One Ball To Rule Them All has a come-to-Jesus moment, enters negotiations to return some of his pirate loot and indicates a willingness to start ratting folks out right around the same time that Justice Department officials were moving toward a recommendation that the government join Floyd Landis’ whistleblower lawsuit, which accuses our newly regretful soul of defrauding the feds.

Yup, sounds like genuine contrition to me. I’d be sorry too — mostly that I didn’t have a few people dropped into the Gulf of Mexico, wearing jukeboxes full of Robert Earl Keen tunes, back when I could still get away with it — but hey, sorry is sorry, right? Right?

Ten days that shook the ribs

January 14, 2013
Baby, it's cold outside.

Baby, it’s cold outside.

Ten days after the flu sank its meathooks into my respiratory system I’m finally starting to feel like a primate instead of a paramecium.

And there’s no danger of being tempted to imperil my fragile recovery by throwing myself headlong into a futile attempt to recover all those miles unridden because it’s 8 degrees and snowing.

It would be just like me to rocket out the door in search of a nasty case of bronchitis and perhaps a broken bone or two, so I think I’ll surprise the universe and stay indoors, maybe ride the trainer gently for a half hour or so.

Speaking of disease, beyond my little cocoon the speculation as regards impending revelations by the One Ball To Rule Them All has reached a fever pitch, and don’t I wish I could give a shit. Watching him summon the Reverend Mutha Gaius Helen Winfrey and her rubber gom jabbar to Pelotaville for a televised confessional in hopes of getting his personal gravy train back on the rails looks very little like a penitente journeying to the Sanctuario de Chimayó on his knees.

I can’t decide which cultural reference to deploy here. Is it an unrepentant Alex insisting that the Int Inf Min spoon-feed him in his hospital bed? Or is it Lucy at the chocolate factory, only with the chocolate being money and Lucy a great white shark and the assembly line running not too fast, but rather not fast enough?

“What’s it going to be then, eh?” I’m going to go with Alex here, because no matter what we may hear on Thursday, I suspect that a “cure” forced is no cure at all, and we will have our malevolent little droogie on our hands for quite a while yet.

After Oprah, what?

January 12, 2013

From the creators of “Jersey Shore” comes “Redneck Riviera.” Conceived by Ron White (“They Call Me Tater Salad”), it stars Lone Star Staters Lance Armstrong, former President George W. Bush, Gov. Rick “Goodhair” Perry, Jessica Simpson, Randy Quaid, Meat Loaf, Vanilla Ice and Gary Busey as a potted palm.

In the first episode, Randy Quaid Skypes from Canada to bet Meat Loaf that Jessica Simpson can’t suck a golf ball through a garden hose from Mustang Island to Port Aransas. Meanwhile, Gov. Perry challenges President Bush to a tongue-wrestling contest, and Lance Armstrong wonders over a succession of Shiner Bocks how Oprah would look in a blonde wig and whether Club Fed-Three Rivers has a runway long enough to accommodate his private jet.

How does this make you feel?

January 8, 2013

Guess who’s going on Oprah?

I really should avoid redistributing shit like this, but it sure beats trying to write your own comedy while recovering from the Masque of the Red Death. As the NYVelocity crowd noted via Twitter, “Oh fer chrissakes there’s another Toto outrun by reality.”

Joe Lindsey has tweeted a call for questions to be posed to TCWSNBN, and some of the offerings are worth a look. If you are of the Twitterati, look for hashtag #questionsforlance. Hell, kick in a few yourselves. Everybody dance.

A sure cure for Big Tex fever

January 6, 2013

I’ll tell you what will take your mind off TCWSNBN real fast — the flu that’s going around.

Lordy sweet Jeebus, I recommend in the strongest possible terms that you do not contract this bad boy. It got me on Friday and ever since I have felt like I got et by a coyote and shit off a cliff. Not even green chile helps. Hell, I don’t even want a drink, so you know it’s bad. That said, some of my symptoms might belong to the DTs rather than the flu, so your mileage may vary.

Needless to say, I did not get up at dark-thirty this morning to hustle up some pirate video of Katie Compton clinching the World Cup title in Rome. No, instead I curled fetus-like under a heap of sweaty bedclothes, emitting feeble mewling sounds interspersed with mighty honks into tissues and the occasional hacking jag one might expect from a Vegas bluehair working three slot machines at once with a Chesterfield glued to her lower lip.

Later, in the shower, after a few moments of abominable racket reminiscent of a pack of werewolves with kennel cough trying to kick-start their Harleys I passed a lung biscuit the approximate size, shape and color of an apricot. I thought it bore the likeness of Our Lord, but that was probably just the flu. Or the DTs.

He’s baaaaaaaack

January 4, 2013
Will he or won't he?

Will he or won’t he?

From Juliet Macur at The New York Times. Discuss.

We are all Armstrong’s domestiques

November 2, 2012

Editor’s note: Today’s edition of “Friday Funnies” was written Oct. 12 for the November 2012 issue of Bicycle Retailer and Industry News.

EPO all in my veins
Lately things just don’t seem the same
Acton’ funny, but I don’t know why
‘Scuse me while I pass this guy.

— from the affidavit of Dave Zabriskie, recounting how he serenaded Johan Bruyneel on the U.S. Postal Service bus in 2002

The parting glass

A fine wine turned to vinegar.

I’VE OFTEN JOKED that in helping to cover professional bicycle racing I was aiding and abetting a felony.

Well, whaddaya know? Turns out I wasn’t joking after all.

The revelations from the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency’s investigation of Lance Armstrong will be ancient history by the time you read this. Indeed, they were mostly off the front pages in less than two days, swept aside by Smokin’ Joe Biden flooring Paul “Lyin’” Ryan in their vice-presidential punch-up, the European Union winning the Nobel Peace Prize and rumors of a sexy new iPad mini on the horizon.

Ho-hum. Just another rich white guy getting away with something. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along; move along.

In the cycling media, however, it was all Lance, all the time. Nothing new there, either. Whether he was winning a Tour de France, berating an Austin doorman or boinking an Olsen twin, Armstrong was always good for the bottom line. Chamois-sniffers and haters alike dove headlong into every story and then went to war in the comments. Making money off Lance Armstrong was easier than stealing from the collection plate at a church for the blind. (more…)

Foreign affairs

October 23, 2012
The path to Fountain, Oct. 20, 2012

No, this is not a pleasant rural road — this is a bike path between Bibleburg and Fountain.

Monday served up one helluva wild ride on the Schadenfreude Express.

It began with Texus Maximus going all minimus, from seven Tour de France victories down to two stage wins and a 36th-overall finish in 1995. And it ended with LL Cool Prez making a punk and a chump out of the RomneyBot v2.012, which came off looking like it would get laughed out of a Know-Nothing primary for a school-board seat in Stumpbroke, Mississippi.

The Cyclist Who Shall Not Be Named (TCWSNBN) was always a poor winner and a worse loser, and it must’ve really stung to be called out from the pulpit by Fat Paddy, that braying, gray-flannel bag of porter farts.

Always one to insist that the UCI’s glossy image remain untarnished, via defamation lawsuit if necessary, the blustering bog-trotter took a respite from casting out the big yellow devil to call Tyler Hamilton and Floyd Landis “scumbags.” Before the word had finished leaving his flapping piehole a thousand lawyers had offered their services to the two whistleblowers, and I will be surprised if the suits weren’t filed before the echoes died.

TCWSNBN will need his own army of shysters going forward, as everybody and his granny wants a refund with interest — Amaury Sports Organization, SCA Promotions, the Sunday Times and pretty much anyone who bought his books, bracelets or bullshit. And there’s that dormant federal inquiry, which could wake up if the U.S. attorney suddenly grows a pair.

In point of fact, there was no shortage of shoe leather being applied to the fallen idol over the course of what must have been a very long day indeed. It was only fair, since he was rarely shy about getting his own Nikes into prostrate rivals when he was on top. There’s no point in putting someone on the deck if you’re not going to give them the boot. It’s American as fraud, coercion, intimidation, bribery and perjury.

Speaking of boots, LL Cool Prez kicked the RomneyBot’s ass so hard that it will be tasting shoe leather until Election Day. I was all for skipping this final debate, but Herself insisted on watching, and I’m glad we did, if only to enjoy the ‘Bot’s stammering and sweating. For a while it looked like its hair was pissing on its head to keep its positronic brain from catching fire.

Whether the drubbing will have any effect remains to be seen. Elsewhere on TV highly paid professionals were playing with their balls and Herself and I may have constituted the entire PBS audience. Still, we enjoyed ourselves. I thought at one point that the prez might just lean back, park his dogs on the desk, lace his fingers behind his head, and let the ‘Bot keep digging its own political grave. “Keep it up, never mind me, you’re doing just fine.”

Today it’s back to business as usual. Apple is unleashing a few more must-have toys for anyone who still has a job, the Tour is preparing to announce the route of its centenary event, and I plan to get in one more long ride before the weather goes south.