Bad Boy!

Y’know, folks act like the racetrack crowd is some special breed of crazy—

But lemme tell ya: the racetrack? It’s just everyday America... in miniature.You got your big shots, your blue collars, your loudmouths, your lurkers, and about seventeen dudes named “Dale” who somehow all used to be jockeys.

That apron and backstretch? That’s a mirror of rural America, baby.You got gossip flyin’, biases showin’, and more uninformed opinions than a high school Facebook group during election season.

Now, me? I tend to shy away from the masses, 'cause truth be told, I can’t stand the dumbass jargon and even dumber mentalities floatin' around. I don’t want your opinion on who you like in the fifth or the sixth. I don’t need to know which trainer’s “hot” or which jockey’s “due.” You make about as much sense as a golden rail, and even that at least gets bet down to 3-1 once in a while.

And don’t even get me started on everyday biases—People are biased about everything. From dirt to dogs. From politics to pizza toppings.

"I don't like Pepperoni Pizza, give me that pineapple and Canadian bacon, pizza, hey!"

You ever hear someone say, “My friend here - don’t like dogs,” like it’s a casual character trait?

Excuse me, say what?

She doesn’t like dogs?? Why?? Did a beagle steal her identity? Did a golden retriever cut her off in traffic? She probably got spooked by a Pomeranian as a toddler and never recovered. Now she’s afraid of anything that wags and pants but as no problem dating the human counterpart.

Hell, she’s probably scared of her own damn shadow.

And some of y’all? Y’all go full-on Tony Montana on your own shadow. Pullin' out invisible Uzis and yellin’ at yourself like, “You wanna play rough my little-o- friend?!”

It’s exhausting, man. The noise, the nonsense, the mental gymnastics people do just to defend whatever flavor of wrong they woke up with that morning, and chased it down with brown water I wouldn't even wash my feet in.

So yeah, I keep to myself. I talk to the horses and dogs more than the humans. At least when a horse don't like you, it'll pin its ears and let you know straight up.

Humans? They’ll smile, nod, and then talk about your saddle in the bathroom like they’re hosting a soap opera.

I swear, some folks talk about horses like they just landed from another planet—

Like they ain’t flesh and blood, like they ain’t muscle, bone, and the occasional dropping during post parade. Nah, to these people, horses are mystical beings made of losing tickets, uncashed vouchers, and the target of pure spite—sent here by the gambling gods to personally ruin their lives.

“You see that horse? He cost me the pick four!”Buddy, that horse don’t even know what day it is, let alone care about your busted $12 ticket with your area and zip code you always play.

But sure—go ahead and believe he did it on purpose.Why? Because he didn’t like your Facebook post from last Thursday about how “race makes the pace” like you’re some kinda sidewalk Suckrates with an iPhone 9 and a 22% ROI in your imagination.

Look, horses are smart. Not like “do your taxes” smart, but intuitive.They sense energy. And lemme tell ya—when you show up in your cargo shorts, reeking of hot dog water, cheap cologne and entitlement, yelling about how you “read on a forum” that geldings can’t win on turf—they know.

They know, and they judge you harder than your ex's mom(s) did.

You ever hear ‘em in the paddock? Nickering like a pack of high school cheerleaders who just spotted the nerdiest kid in 3 counties trying to act cool.“Oh my God, look at him—he’s wearing his lucky socks again.”“He brought binoculars. That’s adorable.”“Bless his heart, he’s bettin’ the six again. He always bets the six. He never wins.”

And then? Boom. Horse breaks dead last, never fires, finishes 10th and burps right at the wire like a punctuation mark to your poor life choices.

And yet, here you are, blaming the jockey, blaming the trainer, blaming the moon phase and your bookie—when in reality, that horse just don’t like you. He saw you, read your aura, sniffed your attitude, and said, “Nah. Not today, dweeb.”

But lemme tell y’all what really grinds my damn gears—if that don't!

It’s the sheer volume of judgmental, petty-ass attitudes at the racetrack. I swear, folks around there hold grudges like they’re heirlooms passed down from a bitter grandparent who lost it all on a mud-lovin’ claimer in 1982 after all nighter at the Shoemaker's bar and disco.

You hear it every day:“I don’t like that guy.”“Why not?”“Oh, he gave me a bad pick one time... on a radio show... twenty-five years ago.”

Twenty-five years, Dale? You serious?

"Yeah man, I bet the farm, he said the 4-horse was live... ran second by a nose. Stiffed me, man."

Okay. Darryl. You’ve been mad for a quarter-century because someone’s longshot came up a nostril short? Buddy, that’s not a grudge—that’s a psychological diagnosis and a strait jacket isn't out of the realm of your future possibilities.

I mean seriously—

It’s one thing if I walked up to you and said,"Hey man, I think you ugly!" and then doubled down with a helpful lil’ follow-up like,"Have you looked in the mirror lately?"

Now that’s mean. That’s crossin’ the line. That’s outta bounds, ejected from the game, walk of

shame to the parking lot, take away your car keys and make you take an uber home.

But nooooo—somehow, what really gets folks salty is this:

I give you FOUR horses.First three win. Clean. No drama.Then the fourth—runs like it got confused and thought the finish line was at the Crocker Barrell.

And you, bless your heart, didn’t bet the first three.You skipped ‘em, didn’t believe, barely listened. But when the fourth one loses?

Ohhh now I’m the bad guy. Now I’m the idiot. Now you got a lifelong grudge like I cost you your marriage, while say you ain't even been close to being married yet, or lost your spot in the church bowling league, despite your average was the same as your - Bozo the clown - shoe size.

"That guy don't know what he’s talkin’ about. Gave me a bum pick one time."ONE time?! After three winners?!

Buddy, I could’ve handed you a treasure map and you’d still be mad ‘cause you tripped over a rock with X that marks the spot.

That’s ugly, man. Just ugly.

Ain’t even about gambling anymore—it’s about bein’ petty for sport.

Y’all act like I tricked you into betting on the fourth horse personally, like I led you to the window at gunpoint and whispered “trust me, this one’s got wings,” then took off with your sugar momma.

Hell, I gave you options. You made a choice. And you chose wrong. And instead of takin’ that L like a grown-up, you put me on your emotional hit list right between your ex-wife, you never married, and the Chili’s night manager that cut you off after the two margaritas for taking off your trowsers and dancing the macarena in your skivvys on the bar at happy hour.

I mean, come on. That’s not handicapping. That’s emotional & visual terrorism. You should be on somekinda list, kinda like the no fly one for stationary people.

And you know what? I get it. We’ve all been there except the macarena dance off. Hell, I still get a little twitchy when I hear the name Bellamy Road, but you don’t see me cussin’ out strangers at the paddock like they keyed my tractor.

These folks? They act like I personally insulted their ancestors just 'cause I rolled my eyes once during a debate on clocker reports and fish tacos.To this day, some guy named Dale won’t look me in the eye at the rail. I’m pretty sure he thinks I hexed him and he can't smell a winning ticket or mahi mahi taco, anymore.

And I wish I could feel bad for folks like that... but honestly?If they lived in the ocean, they’d be shark snacks the second they hatched. Just floatin’ there, all soft and bitter, waitin’ to get chomped.No grit. No game plan. Just anger and anecdotes.

Because let me be real clear:You can’t handicap and win when you’re lugging around grudges like emotional barn shoes.It’s like tryin’ to read a Racing Form with a raccoon on your face—it ain’t gonna work.

So the next time your buddy’s like,“I don’t like that horse, man, I just *got a feelin’...”and then your horse wins by five, ears pricked, tail swishin’ like he’s got a fan club?

You turn to that friend, look him right in his narrow, judgmental little eyes and scream—

“BAD BOY, BAD BOY!!”

What you gonna do??

What you gonna do when MY 10-1 comes through?!