FU Landowski “Vee Fuxx U Upz Comeback Tour” Team Complete with Addition of Non-Buffoonish Bodyguards Wolfman and Bob.
Undisclosed mountain cabin in shadows of Suicide Rock, California.

February 5, 2009 TM

Back off! Unless you got beer. Wolfman shielding FU from the toxic rays of the California sun. What’s he packing?

In response to life-threatening public interest in his carefully scripted “Vee Fuxx U Upz Comeback Tour™,” FU Landowski announced today that he had retained the services of two hulking bodyguards.

“Its gotten to the point where I can’t leave my cabin without a laid off stock broker offering me a beer,” said Landowski, in between belts of Narco feedlot milk and Red Bull. 

“And it’s usually that Bud Lite crap. Look, I know it’s free, and the intent is noble, but what I got here is, well, it may not be a temple, but it sure as shit ain’t no Applebee’s, and it shall not be sullied with no cheapo beer-flavored swill comes out of an industrial hop juice farm in no friggin’ Idaho."

Mr. Landowski is preparing for an important international race that promises to be a bloody throw-down between the skinniest and most immuno-stressed endurance athletes in the world. These are pasty-faced racers who for the most part refuse to drink bottled water because it may contain a calorie or two. And no matter how hot it is outside, they’re always wearing multiple layers of tight-fitting hoodies. Although Belgian ales tend to pack about 100% more calories than industrial lite beers, Mr. Landowski refuses to either switch or cut beer out of his diet.

“I’ll continue to imbibe, I mean, man’s gotta eat,” promised Mr. Landowski. “But if it comes in a can, or contains less than 8.5% alcohol, or is endorsed by a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader, or it’s, you know, earlier than 8 in the morning, I’ll have to pass...it on over to my posse.” FU stressed that he encourages his faithful supporterd to continue to offer the cheap stuff, as his body guards have agreed in lieu of cash to work for buffalo wings and any malted beverage that’s reasonably potable.

FU’s bodyguards have been identified as Wolfman and Bob. Wolfman, a former roadie for Jewel, with whom he was rumored to be romantically involved, joins FU after spending the last two years in the employ of Paris Hilton. He was terminated last month after purportedly refusing to “be her human vibrator.” A sexual harassment suit as well as a copyright battle over the clandestine video (rumored to be “torchy hot”) is pending.

Move Along. Wolfman (L) and Bob (R) striking a respectful pose before escorting a heckler to a nearby pig farm.

Less is known about Bob, who goes simply by “Bob.” Bob denies having a last name, a social security number, any discernible fingerprints, or a neck. He prefers polyester warm up suits, gold necklaces, Old Spice and Pabst Blue Ribbon. He is reported to have worked the waterfront in Baltimore as the muscle for the teamsters back in the 1990s before running the rackets as a pit boss at Harrah’s in Vegas. Bob, who loves animals, did not deny supplying Michael Vick with pit bulls specially bred for savagery.

FU is pleased to bring on Wolfman and Bob, although he admits his first choice was Matthew McConaughey and an angry dwarf. “McConaughey had already agreed to chaperone for another insanely wild and crazy cyclist, and none of the dwarfs I interviewed were angry enough,” Landowski sighed.

Wolfman is looking forward to the challenge. “I hear FU likes to veer off the beaten path, you know, splitting off from the grid, going deep in-country, where the GPS stops and survival instincts rush in.”

“ I talked to an old buddy of mine from our days in special forces, just got canned by Blackwater for shooting up an abandoned fridge over in Iraq -- turns out there was a family living in there - tough break -- and he warned me that these here hills around Temecula are teeming with meth labs and the Mexican mafia. And Indians. I’ll be watching Fu’s corners.”

I’ll Ask One More Time, Nicely. Show me your press credentials, or I smash that little camera phone over your sissy head.

“It’s an odd thing,” mused Wolfman, after his first day of trying to stay within eyesight of FU as he tore ass up and down a matrix of uncharted goat trails criss-crossing the Cleveland National Forest.

“FU appears to be unstructured, certainly unorthodox, but he’s far from undisciplined. Some may describe his habits as mad, or masochistic - but he simply calls it ‘riding around.’ It’s like the nastier the action, the lazier the word he uses to describe it. I’ve been around cage fighters, crabbers, loggers -- a fairly rugged bunch -- but none were as casual about the acceptance of pain.”

Wolfman also noted that FU didn’t seem to have any issues with capping off a hard day in the saddle by pulling into whatever roadhouse tavern was available to drain a few pints. “After Paris, Jewel, and all the anorexia, it’s nice to be able to hang with a celebrity who doesn’t mind washing down a bacon and egg omelet with a malted beverage or six.”

In addition to the usual security detail, Bob will be in charge of enforcing the team’s “Man Up” code of conduct. This reporter has learned that under FU’s command any rider wearing argyle will be punched in the face. Anyone caught wearing a scarf: punched in the neck.

Man in Pink? Wolfman behind the wheel of FU’s chase vehicle. Turns out Wolfman’s bark is worse than his bite. Says FU, “Really, if you cross him, you might get licked to death, but that’s about it. He’s a big puppy dog.”

Any rider complaining about the lack of team issue moon boots, or altitude tents, or IVs, or electrical stimulation gadgets, or power meters, will be forced to watch 24 hours of “American Flyer” with their eyelids forced open. Any rider who moans about riding in the rain, or cold, or sleet, or on ragged dirt roads, or who gets bothered by being run off the road by drunk Indians in casino country, will be kicked in the nuts with steel toed boots.

And any rider who pretends to be French, or speak French, or who buys in to the popular myth that the French invented and must guard over the sport, will have their face dunked in a dirty toilet. Bob, who spent a little time in Attica (he says as a prison guard, not a conscript), will act as the judge, jury and executioner.

MKA got a copy of the list of verboten words (verboten is not French). A “verboten” word is one that is forbidden. MKA is using this German word to illustrate the pomposity of choosing a foreign word when a native word works just fine.

  • Forbidden - Soigneur
  • Acceptable - Servant, aid, helper, clerk, factotum, flunky, lackey, scullion, mullet, fluffer, fetch.

  • Forbidden - Col
  • Acceptable - It’s a friggin mountain pass. Or gap.

  • Forbidden - Directeur Sportif
  • Acceptable - Manager, coach, clipboard, row boss, couch comptroller, blathering idiot on the race radio, pompass ass aglow in LCDs, sallow former racer in sagging second hand suit, Douche (Fr.).

  • Forbidden - Domestique
  • Acceptable - Grunt, mutt, heavy lifter, dog (or casualty) of war, bottle wash, grenade smotherer, big dumb idiot with bigger heart.

  • Forbidden - Musette
  • Acceptable - Grocery bag (pref. Ralph’s). Sack of sweet gooey shit.

  • Forbidden - Maillot Jaune
  • Acceptable - Leaders jersey. [Use “Mellow Johnny and Bob will fit a Gitmo issue bird cage around your head in which you can try to fight off a spitting mad Bronx sewer rat with your eyelashes.]

  • Forbidden - Grupetto (Italian)
  • Acceptable - Walking wounded, beach scum, fodder, fools, freds, cupcakes.

  • Forbidden - On Form
  • Acceptable - Just say you’re fit or not fit, or having fun or not having fun, or feeling light and lean or fat and tortured, or going fast or going slow, or functioning either more or less robotically, ferchrist. But don’t act like using the word “form” entitles you to an apartment in Gerona or a blog on cyclingnews.com.

  • Forbidden - Dance on Pedals
  • Acceptable - Do you want to get spanked like a rotten child? There is no dancing on a bike. For that matter, there will be no reference to “no chain days” – it wasn’t funny the first or the 12,349th time.

  • Forbidden - Peloton
  • Acceptable - The pack, the rolling turd. It’s either long and stringy, or balled up and bloody, or punctuated and pebbly.

  • Forbidden - Palmares
  • Acceptable - Noteworthy achievements or highlights. Please.

  • Forbidden - Pave
  • Acceptable - A crappy, untended farm road with truck axel snapping potholes, rocks, sticks, bricks and abandoned appliances. Cobbled or not, a road of rocks sucks, which of course could make it ‘epic’.

  • Forbidden - Velo
  • Acceptable - A bike. Good ‘nuff.

  • Forbidden - I quit
  • Acceptable - [Trans.] My dream is to live in France, rent a Vespa, do some intervals, eat pommes frites and get a contract.
Took A Wrong Turn and Just Kept Going. FU and Little Urban Achiever (LUA) deep in country. Is there a Ralph’s around here?

It is not yet known to this reporter what penalty, if any, will be visited upon any member of the general public who uses dink acronyms like “WADA, USADA, IOC, LNND, or AAA."

Although a vulgar and shameful exercise, the whole “what will Bob do if Joe Idiot pushes his buttons” thing, but this reporter offers the following speculation. 

For the first crack, Bob will likely ignore the taunter. On the second go round, Bob will likely acknowledge receipt of the taunt, but remain relaxed, maybe do something twitchy with his upper lip or pretend to flick a bug from his shoulder. On the third go, again this is mere conjecture, but my guess is the baiter will find himself face down on the concrete, hands hog-tied to his feet, with a lit Lucky Strike hovering near his earlobe.

All Beef. FU loads up on anti-oxidants during a break while Wolfman prepares to serve a snack. “FU prefers Weinershnitzel. One chili dog, no cheese, one mustard kraut dog, all beef.”

FU does not condone cigarette abuse, but won’t condemn Bob’s unhealthy vice. “It turns out Bob doesn’t even like cigarettes, reminds him of Vegas, and various unmarked graves in the desert,” offered FU. “But Bob prefers to be left alone. When he needs a bit of private time, he lights up, and people, especially health freaks, tend to scatter, as if every whiff lowered the Vo2 max by ten points.”

In a rare moment of candor, Bob explained his role. “There’s a lot of broken heroes out there, on a last chance power drive, who want a piece of FU. They all ‘got a guy’ who’s got a few million burning a hole . . . tired of betting the ponies... wants to bankroll a bike team. Bar talkers with big broken dreams. They mean well. My job is to move them along, nicely, after extracting as much beer and buffalo wings as reasonably possible.”

Enjoying My Lucky Strikes? Bob guarding FU’s mountain chalet at an undisclosed location after a long day chasing away Broken Heroes. Turns out the only thing Bob can’t stand more than cigarette smoke is a jock-sniffing punk asking too many questions, or worse, a holy roller offering salvation.”
Guarding the Perimeter in Paradise.No people. Pine Trees. Loosely enforced sanitation codes, and an abandoned fridge for target practice.

Bob and Wolfman will be working this weekend at the Bullyvard Road Race, when FU officially launches his comeback tour. The team will set up base camp in the parking lot of La Posta Casino, which will be setting up a karaoke stage in anticipation of the post race celebration. FU will be taking crowd requests at about 3 am after first performing every prison, train, rainy day, cheating heart, cold and lonely, drunk and fearless, my poor mama tried, my no good daddy died, and loose women/fast car song by Johnny Cash, Bruce Springsteen and Elvis.


Photos by Hipp Star, mostly.

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