We all know he confessed about doping in his interview with Oprah, so where does he go from here? Check out the Celebrity To Do List of Lance Armstrong.
8:00 A.M.: Wake up from terrible dream that I'd lost it all and everybody hated me. Oh. Crap. Right.
8:30 A.M.: Balanced breakfast: cereal, juice and human growth hormone.
8:30 A.M.: Eat cereal for breakfast. Then deny eating cereal for breakfast.
9:00 A.M.: Practice apology in the mirror while rubbing on self tanner.
9:10 A.M.: Morning checklist: Hair, combed. Teeth, brushed. Blood, tainted.
9:15 A.M.: Wonder if lifelong ban on cycling applies to my local spinning class?
10:20 A.M.: Wonder if admitting to using performance-enhancing drugs was really the best choice, after catching Jose Canseco digging through my garbage.
11:00 A.M.: Search for the OWN network on my cable provider . . . fail miserably.
11:20 A.M.: Get dressed in spandex one-piece that shows off my junk.
12:00 P.M.: Lunch at Burger King. Steal ketchup packets. Then call Oprah and confess to stealing ketchup packets.
12:15 P.M.: Admit I faked the cancer thing, too. Screw it. It's not like my life can get any worse.
1:30 P.M.: Dust trophy shelf. Note how much faster I can do it now that there aren't any trophies.
2:00 P.M.: Meet with Macy's about new line of "Liestrong" bracelets.
2:30 P.M.: Get asked how I'm doing . . . respond with a lie.
2:45 P.M.: Grocery shop. Stare jealously at the full bags of nuts.
3:00 P.M.: Zoo. Head straight for "cheetah" exhibit.
3:20 P.M.: Be surprised when the thousands of cancer patients whose hopes and dreams I've completely destroyed somehow AREN'T appeased with a heartfelt, "My bad."
3:50 P.M.: Use the bathroom. Erode the toilet with my chemically-laden urine stream.
4:00 P.M.: Get dumped as spokesman by Michelob Ultra. Wow. My stock really has plummeted.
4:30 P.M.: Remind the world I TOTALLY could have won without cheating. Just as long as I had some human growth hormones, cortisone, EPO, steroids, plasma, saline, testosterone, and a special machine to put more oxygen into my blood.
5:00 P.M.: Receive a photo of Sheryl Crow cackling spitefully and gleefully flipping me off.
7:30 P.M.: Pop in my favorite movie, "Liar, Liar."
8:50 P.M.: Take steroids. Hey, I said I was sorry. Not that I was quitting.
10:00 P.M.: Slide into bed made entirely of money . . . sleep just fine.