It looks like the rope is tightening around Lance Armstrong's neck. It's about freakin' time. Anybody with a brain can piece it together: if ten of the world's top bodybuilders say they pump iron eighty hours a week, are we really going to believe the eleventh guy who says, "Oh, I'm just naturally muscular"?

The feds are questioning Armstrong's teammates from the United States Postal Service team. Could that get any more ironic? World-record breaking speed demons, brought to you by the folks who throw your mail at your door because their legs are too swollen to walk? The folks who, when you try to mail a package, hold their fingers over the computer keyboard and repeat, "Okay, this time I'm gonna do it. I'm really gonna hit a button!"

I'll never forget the time I went to the local post office and asked for ninety-nine first-class stamps. The woman pulled out a sheet of a hundred, then started counting from a corner. "One. Two. Three. (Pause.) Wait. Where was I? One. Two. Three."

I'm really surprised the Post Office doesn't advertise their bike-racing sponsorship more: "Every time you mail a package, a musclehead gets more juice." Heck, I'm packing Snowflake into a cardboard box as we speak.

Anyway, now a couple other racers are allegedly saying Armstrong encouraged doping, and that the team sold spare bikes to finance it. Yup, this are my kind of people: selling bicycles to buy steroids for an entire team of athletes. Meanwhile, I can't swap my car for two tabs of hillbilly heroin.

Still, I'll tell you what: forget Armstrong. Forget the whole thing. I'll sign a certified statement saying the entire United States Postal Service bike racing team was fortified with nothing more than Kool-Aid and Quiznos. Now would somebody please deliver my last eighteen issues of Shirtless Fireman magazine?