Billy Bob

Everybody’s seen it.

They’re out there. Like the racetrack version of a clogged toilet — loud, messy, and impossible to ignore. You hear it before you even see it: that sound of money crashin' like cymbals in a toddler’s garage band — the toteboard twitchin’ like it’s havin’ a seizure, odds nosedivin’ off a cliff mid-race, and all you can do is stare at the screen like you’re watchin’ your 401(k) get hacked by a raccoon. By now, we feel no pain we are all comfortably numb.

You were feelin’ good, feelin’ smart — you bet a 39-1 shot with a bullet work and a pedigree that reads like Shakespeare right from your Brisnet American Produce Records, (more on that later)...Then they load in the gate, break clean, and BAM — your odds vanish like common sense at a school board meeting.

Favorite stumbles? Odds shoot up like a firework.Your longshot hits the quarter pole on the lead? Odds crash faster than crypto after The Feds tweet “oops.”

And it’s always the same vibe — like the toteboard’s hooked up to some back-alley Wi-Fi signal bein’ run through a cursed Ouija board, and your wallet is the sacrificial lamb.

I mean seriously... if the odds can change that much during the damn race —did we just stumble into a live-action crypto market with saddles?

It’s like they got some dude in a trailer behind the toteboard with a Red Bull and a button that says "RUIN THIS MAN’S DAY."

And nobody says boo!

“Well that’s just how it goes, bro.”

Excuse me?That’s not “how it goes” — that’s organized pickpocketing with a PowerPoint presentation.

I mean, imagine you walk into a Wendy’s, order a Baconator for $6.99 — they hand it to you — and right before you take a bite, they go,

“Actually that’s $14.75 now. We saw you smiling when you looked at it.”You’d go nucular! There’d be lawsuits, TikToks, hashtags.

But at the racetrack? You just take your ripped-up ticket and emotional trauma and shuffle off like a broken man with mustard on your shirt.

The moral of the story? Apparently, your money’s good at the window… until it’s not.And once the gates open, so does the trap door under your ROI.

But hey, “that’s the game,” right?

Right?

Right?

Hello, Right?

In any other sector of the real world, this would start a damn revolution.

Imagine you wake up one day, check your retirement account — you had 2,000 shares of something... now you’ve got 500. No news, no reason.You call the bank, and they just go,

“Well sir, you know, the race had already started.”WHAT?!

Or your paycheck drops in your account at $1,800... and by lunch, it’s $600 and a Walmart gift card, and everyone around you is like,

“Well, that’s just how it goes, man. Toteboard voodoo. No big deal.”

BULL.You’d burn the place to the damn ground and leave Yelp reviews written in blood.

But here at the track? Nah, we just take it like it’s part of the pageantry. Smile, sip our $13 beer, and mutter “that’s racing” like we’re at a funeral for our dignity.

Y’all love this game. And I get it — I do too.

You fire up RacingWithBruno, dig through Brisnet.com like Indiana freakin’ Jones uncoverin’ the Holy Grail of pace figures and late kicks. You got your highlighters, your trip notes, your toteboard screenshots — you got more paraphernalia than Cheech and Chong, man.

You’re geared up like you’re goin’ to war, armed with enough Brisnet printed past performances to deforest half of Kentucky.

You walk into that racetrack like a damn gladiator — chest out, pick-4 ticket in hand, sunglasses on even though it’s cloudy.You're thinkin’ to yourself:

“I got this. These fields are weak. A couple donkeys, one fake Chad Brown, and a horse that last ran like he had two flat tires and no bumper. I’m golden.”

It’s like showin’ up to the Colosseum thinkin’ you’re facin’ an ostrich and a pelican —You’re like, “Oh hell, I’ll roast them bird punks before lunch.”

But then the gates open and BAM — those birds sprout fangs, grow claws, and morph into a mammoth, fire-breathin’ sabertooth tiger from betting hell, and you’re sittin’ there gettin’ your gladiator ass absolutely wrecked when your 39-1 shot with a turf pedigree, you unearthed from the Brisnet American Produce Records (Subscription Requited) and a jockey and his papa who hadn’t won since George H was in office.

And the worst part? You knew better. But the toteboard lied, the pace collapsed, and now your confidence is curled up in a fetal position next to a ticket you cooked up like mammas chicken soup and the world’s most amazing chili cheese fries, on at 39-1 and y'all got 12-1 at the wire. Y'all, I feel for ya. You want to get rewarded like Billy Bob when he won the Cow Chippin Throwing contest after an a whole nighter at the Spearmint Rhino and a run in with Smokey on the way home. That kind of rewarding, I tell you.

And here's the kicker — I ain’t even allowed to have an opinion about it. I try to say somethin’ logical, like, “Hey, maybe robbin’ people in real time ain’t great,” and what do I get?

“Stick to horses, buddy.”“Don’t be so sensitive.”“Odds are fluid.”Odds are fluid? but you don’t see me pourin’ gasoline all over my bankroll.

Look, I’ve been in this game long enough to know — you make enemies just by existing in it with a brain. You don’t even have to be loud about it. Just the act of not being a dumbass is apparently offensive these days.

Which is why I started my second business — RedneckSmartAssR Us, LLC, with me as CEO, creative director, janitor, and snack manager. Currently looking for HR approval.

The mission?

Deliverin’ entertaining word wizardry with a message baked in — like a fortune cookie that cusses at you but tells the truth.

See, comedians have always been the ones tellin’ it how it really is.

George Carlin? That man was a wizard with words and an executioner with logic.

Trae Crowder? Hell, that boy wraps pure reality in a southern twang and ends every rant with “Love y’all,” just to let you know he ain’t mad — he’s just tired of pretendin’ dumb stuff makes sense.

So yeah, I’ve patterned myself in my own tiny, Redneck Jedi Guap, way after them. Just tryin’ to make people laugh, maybe think a little, and cope with this toteboard trauma the way God intended — with sarcasm and bourbon.

So let me ask y’all one more time:

Would anyone care that you bet a horse at 39-1, and by the time the wire hits, you got paid like you bet Tom Brady in a flag football game?*Nah.

Not a soul.Just you, your crumpled ticket, and the ghost of the odds you thought you were gettin’, but after all, you did scope out a 39-1 and it didn't exactly go down like Billy Bob but at least you get to brag about it?

Right ?

Right ?

Y'all Right ?