It’s been a week since I last posted.  I know that after my Preakness article, there were some rumors that I was killed by Hurricane Ike in a tragic horseracing “accident,” but let’s face facts: the Maryland Jockey Club wouldn’t want ever want to risk bad press, would they?  In any case, in the words of the immortal Jeffrey Atkins: I’m not always there when you call, but I’m always on time.  At least with headlines.  On to them: 

I realize Lance Armstrong is a once-in-a-lifetime athlete who kicked cancer’s ass then became the most dominant competitor in the history of his sport.  And for some reason, I really dislike him.  Just rubs me the wrong way.  HOWEVER, Floyd Landis is a complete and utter fraud.  The guy’s a liar.  At this point, I don’t think I’d be surprised if I found out Mother Theresa was on PEDs (nor would I care), but Floyd is pathetic.  Leave Lance alone – don’t be jealous just because he’s friends with the world’s best bro

  • Washington Redskins receiver Santana Moss was linked to a Canadian doctor charged with “making false statements to federal officials, smuggling, unlawful distribution of human growth hormone (HGH), introducing the unapproved drug, called actovegin, into interstate commerce and conspiracy to defraud the United States.”    

The poor Redskins can’t even win when they cheat — that’s embarassing.  However, I’m going to choose to look at this positively: Santana Moss was so devoted to his terrible, dysfunctional team that he was willing to risk his career, health, reputation and money in the hopes he could be slightly mediocre for a team owned by Dan Snyder and coached by Jim Zorn.  That’s dedication, holmes.

Ok, I have an unrelated point to make here, but let me get the jokes out of the way first.  Maradona ran over the cameraman’s foot because a) He had a hot pizza in the passenger’s seat and was in a hurry to eat it; b) He had an eight ball in the passenger’s seat and was in a hurry to snort it; or c) he had both in his car but was in a hurry because he didn’t pay taxes on either of them. 

Now that that’s out of the way: don’t you hate it when Americans take British expressions and attempt to use them in regular conversation?  I’m not saying they’re wrong or inappropriate, but they just make you sound pretentious and if I’m British, I’d think you’re a jerk.  Most Brits probably think that already, but just because Guy Ritchie and Austin Powers made some popular British-themed movies 10 years ago that EVERYONE saw doesn’t mean you can roll around and drop “over the moon” or “preggers” or “flat.”  Stop it.   

This is like a combination of “American Pie” and “Desperado.”  If I’m LeBron, I’m super heated, but what are you gonna do?  Delonte rolls like Antonio Banderas: on a motorcycle with a loaded shotty in a guitar case slung across his back and two sidearms just in case the banditos get too close.  Bron-Bron’s Mom likes the bad-boys… 

First: does he ever get the dollar?  Second, these stories are stupid.  Just because Emmitt Smith did the same thing means we’re supposed to forget he played for Arizona?  Or that Jerry Rice never laced them up for Seattle?  And what’s the significance of a one-day contract?  Do you hang out there for a day, sweep the floors, wash a load of jock straps and call it a day?  Just give the guy his plaque at halftime of a game next season and be done with it.  There wasn’t anything symbolic about the way you cut the guy when he was expensive and hurt.  Why start now?

The Curse of Les Boulez is over!  Until JeVale McGee sleeps with John Wall’s mom. 

Brett is akin to an attractive girl you date who also happens to be a gigantic flake.  She’s never on time, always changes her plans based on a whim, will initiate a text conversation with you then disappear for 9 hours… Yet, she is insanely hot and when you’re around her, she can do no wrong.  Unfortunately, she drives YOU insane but you can’t break up with her because you’re worried you’ll end up with a girl that looks like Sage Rosenfels or Tavaris Jackson and they won’t be half as good at throwing a post pattern.  Or something like that…

I must say I am thoroughly enjoying Favre’s wanton disregard for the feelings of Brad Childress, the Minnesota Vikings, and the NFL.  You know there’s some diehard at NFL headquarters flipping out over his disrespect for “the League.”  Although this bet could be a blessing in disguise for the rest of us: if the team makes it, we’re spared a summer of Rachel Nichols standing on Farve’s lawn telling us nothing.

Have a wild weekend.  I’ll be out on a motorcycle, guitar case slung across my back, looking for Salma.

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