Hey, I almost never regret anything, because I pretty much run this place. But this year, I have a big, fat, wet, glistening tumor of a regret. I should have taken Lance Armstrong instead of all those other people I killed this year. What a malignancy that guy turned out to be. Meanwhile, your grandmother? Nice lady, lovely-smelling. That kid down the street who expired slowly and horribly and humiliatingly of testicular lumps? Sweet little guy. Donna Summer? Etta James? Robin Gibb? Nora Ephron? Sally Ride? David Rakoff? I took all those sods and left Lance. What the fuck was I thinking? Even I'm not that much of an asshole. Lance would have been worthy of the pain I could have inflicted. I could have brought about the anti-dopiest of anti-doping effects, all the way into his very bones. I should have dogged him like he dogged those riders, treating them like his abused children, forcing them to do things and keep quiet. Mobster! Well, 2013 is another year, Lance. And I never get tired. Livestrong my cancerous ass.