Why are you such a putz?
July 2, 2012 § 8 Comments
Why are you such a putz? Late last night, between your fourth bottle of Everclear and your fifth tray of chocolate chip cookies, you railed and ranted about how Horseface was going to get spanked by Greipel. Well, how do you feel now, you pompous douchebag? Cav showed he’s the real deal, don’t need no lead-out train, and can drag Humpty Ugly around by the ballsack at will. Hope you’re reconsidering your decision to be a cycling prognosticator, and will soon return to your day job as gutter scum.
Horseface is so lucky it’s not even funny. If you watch the last 200m, you’ll see where he gets a push from Snarky Olvetchkin, just as Humpty mis-shifts. Then, those smokin’ hot babes with the podium tits lean over the barricade, and Humpty, who’s all man, takes his eye off the ball and his mind wanders. Boom. In the twinkling of an eye, Horseface slips by. Wait ’til the next stage. Humpty’s gonna mash on Horseface like a spatula on a strip of fatty bacon.
Also, Gangsta Chick will be there with a fog mist machine and electric light-up hipster wheels for Humpty, so even if he doesn’t pull off the win, he’s gonna be the raddest dude in the wankoton.
PS: Fuck you and your whole family tree, single trunk with no branches that it is.
Is the Tour over yet?
July 1, 2012 § 9 Comments
Is the Tour over yet? They’ve already had one stupid prologue, where all I could see was big asses for three hours, and a bunch of commentary by the “experts” about how I was supposed to look at the “pedaling technique” and shit. After memorizing all that crap I find out that the prologue doesn’t even count. It’s like the first ten minutes of a porn video; totally meaningless and only there so you can FF to the money shot. By the way, when is the money shot in this stupid bike race? Tell me it’s gonna be on Monday.
Anxiously, but not prematurely,
John C. Holmes
The money shot was nine weeks ago, on the island of Mallorca, when Mullet got the final treatment for his final build program from his swim coach. Everything from that point on is meaningless. Unless he crashes out, like a total dork. Which he is.
I noticed that without his lead-out train, Cav really sucks. And with a great lead-out train, Greipel has won more races this year than anyone in the pro peloton. Is it true that Cav is just a fat horseface who got towed around by Renshaw, Goss, Rogers, and one or two other of the fastest guys to ever ride a bike, and then he just basically got deposited at 200m from the line, kind of like a turd that’s been fired out of a cannon?
Man O’ War
There are too many fucking colors in the Tour. First, every team is wearing something that looks like Mapei on acid. Except for Garmasharp, which is crisp and rad. Next, every team’s got some dude with a national champ jersey or world champ jersey or special little collar or sleeve with the colors from his Cat 4 win at the Muskogee Business Park Crit. Next, there are all these different Tour jerseys, yellow, green, white, polka dot, etc. Finally, there are these stupid yellow helmets that look like cockroaches. Finally, they’re all going 40mph in a big, mixed up puree of bones and brown skin. How in the world is anyone supposed to pick out particular teams or riders? This is harder than birdwatching.
Roger T. Peterson
In the old days, riders finished each stage covered in filth and mud. No matter what color their kit, everyone was brown at the end. The only way anybody could be identified was by bizarre facial hair, like Eugene Christophe, who had a huge ol’ Gallic porn ‘stache that was visible from the moon. Once he cut that off, he looked like the same shit-covered donkey as everyone else. So madman Desgrange introduced the yellow jersey so people could at least find the leader. Little by little, racers have sought to distinguish themselves not by winning the race, but by wearing clothing that attracts attention. Don’t worry, though, a field guide to the identification of Pro Tour cyclists is in the works.
Who’s going to win the drag race tomorrow, and how can you be so sure?
Greipel. Because Horseface is a fat wanker whose lead-out train has gone off the rails.
What makes you think Greipel can beat Sagan?
Thomas P. Doubting
Greipel is a giant, ugly German with a 4-ton chip on his shoulder and a well-oiled leadout train. Sagan is a wispy dude from a minor former-Soviet state whose main talent is practicing victory line poses. He does that shit with Charon. Greipel will leave him so far behind he’ll need a passport when he finally catches up.
How come everyone doesn’t throw tomatoes at Sagan and call him a wheelsuck pussy? He bridged to Fabs, sat on his wheel, and nailed him at the line. What a douche. If he’d a done that on our group ride we’d have dragged him off his bike, fucked the side of his head with a pipe, and left him for dead.
Avridj Joe Ryder
Dear Avridj Joe:
When ordinary wankers behave like scumsucking cheatfucks, they are despised by all around them. When pros do it, it’s called “racing smart.” It’s just like when you’re a kid and you steal your friends’ money you’re hated and called a fucktard little creep, but when you steal trillions in the Great American Mortgage Scam you’re called a financial genius.
Phinney takes race of truth, victor in race of lies TBD
May 6, 2012 § 10 Comments
In the first stage of the 2012 Giro d’Italia,
Davis Phinney became the first American to win a stage in the Tour de France Taylor Phinney became the first American to win an ITT in this prestigious, 3-week event in which the world’s best doped athletes ride amongst some of the world’s lewdest, craziest, and most drunken sports fans.
Although the time trial is commonly regarded as the “race of truth” due to the test of each racer’s strength and skill against the inflexible constraints of the clock, experts agree that the rest of the Giro consists of a “race of lies.” Wankmeister lists the most notably mendacious events below.
Team Car Hang and Draft: Rider gets dropped, crashes, breaks his bike, has a bowel movement, and finds himself wayyyyy behind everyone else. Rider then grabs onto car, or gets motor-paced by team vehicle back to the group. In marathoning, this would be like having the leaders pull away from you, then having your supporters plop you on a moped and drive you back up to the front.
Beat the Cut Grupetto Scam: Big tours set time limits so that the podium girls can blow the commissaires before they have dinner with their wives. Riders who have no hope of finishing the 200-mile stage with 15,000 feet of climbing on the same day team up so that enough of them are together to prevent the majority of the field being kicked out of the race. In golf this this would be like having 95% of the players at the US Open spend 15 hours dawdling per round so that if the rules were enforced and the players DQ’d, the event would be cancelled.
Handshake Deal Sprint Rigging: Riders are in breakaway. Spindly no-hope wanker dude wants to win. Powerful, badass sprinter dude wants money. Done…the essence of sportsmanship, where a bold and crass financial transaction is packaged in adjectives like “courageous,” “canny,” “tactical,” and “surprise outcome.” In baseball they actually do this. It’s called “the Chicago Black Sox from the 1919 World Series.” And in cycling, it happens all the time.
Sprint Train Lameness: Alleged fast man with cool nickname like “Lion King,” “Manx Missile,” etc., is the fastest human being ever to ride a bike. So fast, in fact, that the only way he can beat solo sprinter dudes like Robbie McEwen who have to win on brains, balls, and brawn is by hiring the other ten fastest riders in the pro peloton and paying them to do nothing but drive him to the line. In college sports there’s an analogue. It’s called “Bear Bryant and the Alabama football program.”
Perfectly Timed Breakaway Catch: Riders are brainless doofuses who have no idea how to reel in a breakaway. So they hook their tiny brains up their race directors via radio to perfectly time the breakaway “catch” with 1k to go. The valiant escapees don’t get the chance to do the Handshake Deal Sprint Rig, and the Manx Misericordia gets to win the 15th Tour stage with his sprint train. In pro football it’s called “$50 million Quarterbacks Too Stupid To Call Their Own Plays.”
Domestique Donkey Food and Water Hustle: The word “domestique” in French means “put on your bitch suit you stupid skinny prick because I’m going to drive your sorry ass back and forth a hundred times to the team car per race to fetch water, food, and drugs so that I don’t have to work and can place in the race even though you’re just as good, probably better than me, but I’m more famous.” In football they are called “fullbacks,” “the practice team,” and “Tim Tebow.” I mean, why pay Cunego all that money just to find out he’s too weak to do the race on his own, when you can pay his bitch $12 to finish the race for him?
Domestique Donkey Wind Pull, Climb Pull, and Tempo Pull: Donkeys in bitch suits go the front and break the wind (saving protected douchebaguette 30% or more energy) while prima donna Brad Pride or Abandy Schleck get a peddie. Boys in bitch suits blow up, fall off the back, and barely make the time cut, then fail to get a team the following year because they have no UCI points. In soccer this would be like having the entire team get the ball in scoring position, then stop the game, and bring in Lionel Messi while the goalie stands off to the side and everyone else on the field just watches.
Multi-team Conspiracy: When a leader sucks and his whole team sucks, he will conspire with several other sucky teams to work against potential threats, breakaways, strong riders who race aggressively with panache, etc. This assures that the better funded, “cooler” team takes the win over that ugly dude from GS-Colnago-Pimplimiento-Ladies-Products-Cologne wearing the orange and pink and red and blue and green-striped kit. In basketball, this would be like two weak playoff teams agreeing to waylay Kobe on his way home from Whole Foods and break both his legs.
Sticky Bottle Scam: When a rider has been dropped (again) or has a blister on his pee-pee, the team car hands him a bottle and drags him several hundred yards closer to the pack. In swimming this would be like letting a dude jump into the water before everyone else.
Derailleur Adjustment Cheat: When a rider’s drugs aren’t working right and he needs to drop back to the team car to have the soigner ram the suppositories further up his ass with a fist, the team mechanic pretends to adjust the derailleur while pushing Dopey along for kilometers at a time. In auto racing this is called “The Pit,” and it’s the reason no one takes seriously a sport where you get to whip in and fill up with gas, change tires, have a smoke, and do quick photo sessions of Danica’s long, flowing pubic locks.
UCI Bio Passport Permanent Doping Visa: When a rider’s blood values have become so ridiculous that even a UCI drug tester can’t look at them without giggling, the entire governing body throws the program in the trash and issues every rider a doping visa, valid for entry into every race, and in every country (except Iran and North Korea). In football it’s called “Weight Training.” And it starts in junior high.