An open letter to Lance Armstrong, from Ashvegas:
Dear Lance,
This is going to be hard for me to put down in words, but Lance, it has to be said. I can’t go on like this. And I don’t know if I can bear to see you, so I’m writing you.
I can’t be with you any longer. Goodbye.
This is probably just me torturing myself, but you’ve already broken my heart, so what the fuck. I’ll explain.
You know you had me back when you were just the promised one; a rising Texas star, shining brightly on the cycling scene. We pinned all our hopes on you, and rightly so. And when you came through Ashvegas, lo those many moons ago, for the Tour du Pont, I was hooked.
I followed you through everything. First, your amazing victories. Beating back those charging Germans and Spainards. Commanding those impossibly steep Alpine stretches, navigating the cobblestone courses. You rode like the wind.
Then the cancer. Cancer so devastating that you had your sperm frozen because you thought you had a death sentence. But you battled back. It was a miracle. And you kept winning. We, your fans, were right there with you, the whole way.
Then things started to change. There were allegations of illicit drug usage, and you protested, vehemently. You broke up with your wife, your wife, who stood by you and was inseminated with your saved sperm and bore you more offspring. You dumped her.
But we stayed with you, figuring you’d been through a lot. You took up with Sheryl. You started selling $1 yellow, rubber bands that became a national fad and helped raise millions for cancer research. You won a record number of Tour de France races and declared retirement.
Now, the drug allegations are back. You’re engaged to Sheryl. And instead of going quietly into retirement, you want to race one more time?
We can’t take it. You’ve gone over the edge. We’re sick and tired of your strenuous objections to the drug doping. And frankly, we’re sick of you and Sheryl, the perfect little companion, she some 10 years your elder and a total sellout (she performed on Big Brother, for goodness sakes.)
So, take your testicle-less ass and get out. Get out of my life. Take your piss-yellow jerseys and stick ’em where the sun don’t shine. The same for those yellow bands. You don’t represent America – actually, you do, just some of the worst parts of it. You don’t represent me.
Goodbye, Lance.
ps Don’t try to contact me. I’m screening.
9 Comments
You got it right, Ash. The love affair is OVER!
EM, thanks. I did that using a page out of People, by patio bench out back and a good pair of scissors.
You are good, Syntax. Oh, and Ash, nice graphic–I mean at the top of the post.
i never did like him myself – something about him never set right with me. he always came off as a little too cocky (pun partially intended) for his own good.
syntax, that’s exactly what i’m saying; thank you for cutting to the chase.
he lost my support when he took up with sheryl crowe. i think your letter is ‘right on’, ash.
so, in a sense, what you’re saying is that we’re left with one huge tool?
EM, you said: “He had his testicles removed?”
Where have you been, child?
O, yes.
He had his testicles removed? So, he like has to take the big T supplements?
I think the issue here is if you’re gonna retire and throw a big party and tell the world you’re moving on, just go ahead and do it, Lancy. Stop with the wavering.