FU Landowski Announces Nothing Newsworthy Has Happened or Will Happen in the Next 24 Hours News Cycle.
A TrueSport Exclusive. Cougar Island, CA

December 31, 2008

FU Landowski's people announced today that their meal ticket did not do anything newsworthy in the past 24 hours. He did not trademark his name, likeness, or favorite catchphrases. He did not launch a website dedicated to helping overachievers learn to take it easy. He did not appear in a Hannah Montana music video, diddle the help, or revolutionize anything. He did not report an above average sperm count.

He Took A Face From the Ancient Gallery. . .
FU prepares for the beginning of The End. Bike racer, Dudas Priest, Formidable adversary.

He did not rent an island to ride around on. He did not reach an accord with Cougar Island heavyweight Footie over first rights to choice seating on the Magic Bench (it’s still first come, first served). He did not count calories, watts, veins, heart beats, miles, or friends. He didn't weigh what goes in or what comes out. He didn't spend a second in a wind tunnel, but he did survive a tempestuous lashing from the Reverend Billy Stone, who does not abide sloppy grammar.

FU Landowski did not hold a press conference to announce the absence of news. He did not announce a no chain day™. He did not endorse any miracle vitamins. He did not photograph himself in the mirror naked. He did not consult with a team physician, or a colo-rectal masseuse, or the Heads of Any States, or a Wall Street tycoon, or a reflexologist, or a swami. FU did not declare himself perfect, sainted or in any way anointed. He did not declare any tick, or cluster of ticks, of the clock as precious, pivotal, epic, or far-reaching in terms of geo-political repercussions. He did not announce that he was switching from boxers to briefs. He did not work the ladle in a soup kitchen. He did not consult with any children about his next career move.

FU did not hold a team mini-camp on Rodeo Drive. He did not bond with his teammates by engaging in a group pedicure, manicure, or Brazilian body wax. He did not fuss about his mussed up hair, his prickly mug, or his scabby elbows. He did not wear argyle. He did not listen to the best of Oasis. He has never owned a scarf. He did not have to battle with an armada of paparazzi on Moto Guzzis to ride his bike on a country road.

His handlers did not announce they would be creating an all access, around the clock All-FU, All the Time website. They will not be affixing webcams to FU's lavoratory, bedroom, handlebars, dashboard, or wetbar. They will not be selling seats to FU's follow vehicle, as there is none. He has no interest in the new Retul 3-D motion capture system, despite its must-have endorsement by seriously tiny professionals. He does not speak about training blocks. Some days he goes really hard for a really long time. Other days he goes not-so-hard for not such a long time. Some days he goes really stupid hard until he can't see or breathe so well. He does not know his average watts per ride, or free radical suppression coefficient, or what have you, nor is he bothered by his ignorance of said data.

FU did not announce that he was concerned for his safety climbing up Newport Coast on the Fred Park ride, despite the ugly history of fatal accidents involving over medicated OC housewives, divorcees and strumpets behind the wheel of canary yellow Lamborghinis and cherry red Ferraris. He did not refer to his role in the upcoming Tour of California as a "domestique extraordinaire." He does not think of himself as extraordinary, mostly. Nor does he think that handing a water bottle to a thirsty teammate qualifies him for Nobel Peace prize consideration. He did not comment on whether the expected services of uber-domos included the facilitation of post-warm-down happy endings.

Channeling Elvis.
FU belting out a full-throated “Hound dog” backstage with non-celebrity gentleman poser.

FU did not announce that his first race at Boulevard down near the Mexican border with the $200 cash prize list will be televised globally. FU did not announce that he was totally committed to his new team, as long as the team was totally subservient to him. He did not announce that he will be wearing his own kit, sponsored by his own trademarked concern. He did not comment on whether his new team was named after an oil rich berg in a former soviet bloc nation. He did not know why Borat would want to sponsor a bike race team.

Mr. Landowski did not announce that there will be a Star in The Heavens named after him. Nor would his notorious name achieve immortality on Hollywood Walk of Fame. FU offered no comment on whether he was selling autographed framed gold-plated coin pieces with the 8 x 10 photo and name plate. He did not fly around in any private jets with rock stars. He did not open up his own bowling accessories retail store. He did not skateboard with Shaun White, cut the ribbon on a new nightclub in Manhattan, or land on a red carpet wearing a tuxedo after free falling from a plane he piloted. He did not sit on a Red Piano and sing “Daniel” with Elton John.

FU did not announce that he was partnering up with Astonishingly Rich Rulers of the Worldwide Web to exploit the cache of a noble non-profit foundation’s brand to make tons of money privately. Nor did he express any interest in using his brand name to hawk potions, powders or gels through cleverly disguised pyramid, ponzi or GlenGarry schemes to prey on the feeble minds of jock-sniffers, fatties or fried-foodies. He will not be teaming up with Ipod, Iphone or Iputz to help consumers track calories or play truth or dare. FU does not wish to be the “epicenter” of billions of anguished internet conversations about getting healthy, eating well, finding your chakra, or dodging Father Time. He does not use words like “advertorial.”

Your Basic Fixed Gear Rock Star.
“I wouldn’t say I’m a rock star…but I did get my picture taken backstage with Oasis.” Do you aspire to this? On the upside, the scarf wearing dandy did drink up to a dozen pints per day.

FU did confirm that he turned down an offer by media mogul Saul Frosenutz to take his name to a higher level. Mr. Frosenutz, by way of background, is best known for selling “The Racing Chronicles,” parent to “The Exploits of Labor Power,” to TrueSport.com for $12.00. Mr. Frozenutz proposed to cash in on Mr. Landowski’s reputation for rugged individualism, fierce “Don’t Tread on Me” independence, and unapologetic nihilism by creating an advertiser friendly website that would challenge consumers to get mad - mad in the way Howard Beale got mad in the movie Network.*

Mr. Frosenutz proposed an FU-Landowski.com tm website that would encourage pissed off primates to get mad as hell. The website would feature daily blogs, original video, twitter litter, screaming banners and buttloads of pop up ads (excellent for pissing off the target age 18-49 , 55% Male, short-attention span, hyperactive, PTSD, unemployed demographic). 

Key portals would include:

FU-LANDOWSKI.COM This Aggression Will Not Stand,
FU-LANDOWSKI.COM Dare to Ride Around
FU-LANDOWSKI.COM Dare to Enter A World of Pain
FU-LANDOWSKI.COM Will it and It Is No Dream and
FU-LANDOWSKI.COM Lose Weight Fatfuk Or I Cut off Your Chonson!

FU admitted it was a valued...a valued...business proposal but turned same down when he learned the porcine Mr. Frozenutz intend to use the platform to sell left-handed coffee mugs, a Coca-Cola based douche-contraceptive (“Shake, Insert and Spray Away”), slime tire sealant, machine gun handle bar mounts, automatic derailleur shifters, cancer killing body magnets, and “blood boosting pure air oxy-tabs” harvested from the LA Harbor.

Moving right along, FU’s able handlers let it be leaked that their Bionic Man tm did not avoid local group rides, despite their contamination with the usual assortment of amped up (and now chemically bereft) Sparks-o-holics, tribal pretenders with ear lobes weirdly stretched around coffee cans, weary family men and knife-wielding Puerto Ricans. He not bark at overweight henpecked beat-to-shit Daddy's for failure to hold their line. He did not attempt to regulate the tempo. He did not orchestrate a perfect sketch-free paceline. He did not threaten castration. He did not time the pulls on the point. He did not seek cover when the legs loaded up. He didn’t order his entourage to stop whilst he micturated™ on private property. He did not bark at the local heroes for failing to be international heroes. He did waste a single breath on chain rings, watt meters, aero bars, biorhythms, or strategies to pin and hold the Oakleys to either the back of the neck or top of the helmet. He did not wear tartan leg warmers.

There’s more non-news. FU did not insist on filling his bottles with designer waters, pureed veggy-fruits, or powders front- end loaded with L-s, poly’s, alphas, or betas. Nor did he touch any jacked up looking formula-words dragging your basic ine's, ate's or trademark symbols. He did not wax in the geeky argot of the fastidious nutrition freak. He did not offer an opinion on whether a Folger’s can a day of "alpha-L-Polylactate” was a worthy substitute for going really hard for a really long time. He filled his bottles with tap water - brackish, Orange County tap water. Not once did FU crave a 12 oz. energy drink guaranteed to speed up recovery by cramming down essential aminos into major muscle groups. There was no buffering. Gallons of whole milk were poured down sloppily. He did not seem to wilt from an absence of non-FDA approved products designed to stabilize power output, or reduce perceived exertion, or reduce oxygen consumption (vital to aspiring robots - ED.) He did not guzzle miracle non-drugs promising to reduce fatigue or pain. He shrugged off commercial powders guaranteed to beat the burn, prime the peak, trim the fat, sustain the speed, hammer the nail, pin the tail, boost the boner or burn the coal cleanly. FU was not interested in reducing pain, as an ethos.

Front End of Serious Pro vs. FU’s Front End

FU did not announce he was beefing up his personal security force. He did not insure his legs, lungs or bitterness with Lloyds of London. He declined invitations to sell his fingernail clippings on EBay. He declined a well meaning proposal to market a Men’s Body Spray that smelled of beer (“Eau de FU”). He did not feel guilty when he kicked back after a 5 hour ride with a Chimay, or two. He did not run with any bulls, but he was accosted in a posh La Jolla back alley by a flatheaded bouncer hoping to get his mug on the cover of showstalker.com. He did not begin production on ceramic garden gnomes in his likeness. Nor did he hold a wet jock contest, featuring himself.

Mr. Landowski did not announce that he’s hungry, lean, or mean. Nor did the coyote who just ate this reporter’s cat (Purr-Purr ski died doing what she loved, dropping a dee...) This reporter has learned through undisclosed sources that current levels of funding do not permit FU at this time to surround himself with mock mahatamas, copyrighted Training Systems multi-media mega-gods, internet coaching svengalis (with or without an Overall Athlete Satisfaction™ rating of 96%), or parasitic coattail-riding opportunists to create the impression that he actually needs advice or listens to it.

If funds were available, FU probably wouldn’t retain an unbitterred corporate internet coach to teach him how to “Create Your Comeback.” He does admit that a really good wrench with a cool set of tools would come in handy. FU’s lawyers are checking with the proper authorities to see whether his posse is allowed to speak of FU’s comeback without violating various copyright laws (in the meantime, papers are being drafted to trademark “Comeback of the Comeback Kid”, along with form SLAPP suits should anyone exploit said valued property without express written permission). 


* Howard Beale’s unforgettably gritty rant in “Network,” below.

I want you to get mad!

I don't want you to protest. I don't want you to riot. I don't want you to write to your Congressman, because I wouldn't know what to tell you to write. I don't know what to do about the depression and the inflation and the Russians and the crime in the street.

All I know is that first, you've got to get mad.

You've gotta say, "I'm a human being, goddammit! My life has value!"

So, I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window, open it, and stick your head out and yell,

"I'm as mad as hell,
and I'm not going to take this anymore!!"


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