Cornbread & Larry

Y’all… I’m just tryin’ to sit down, live my life, maybe watch a little ballgame, bet a few races, —simple pleasures like watching your first time starter win at double digits. . But nooo… first I gotta survive them pharmaceutical commercials.

Every five minutes it’s like: “Ask your doctor about Blahblahzine,” and then here come the side effects—“may cause dizziness, dry mouth, night sweats, gambling addiction, and spontaneous tap dancing followed by nausea and trips to the OTB” By the time they done listin’ it, I don’t even remember what the medicine was for. I feel like I caught three new conditions just listenin’ to 'em.

And just when you think you made it through that storm—BAM—here come them political ads.

Two grown men, suits cost more than my truck, lookin’ dead in the camera like they about to settle a blood feud. “My opponent is a liar.” “Well MY opponent ain’t even from here, he's a McCoy” Next thing you know, I’m expectin’ one of ‘em to yank off a hoop earring and say, “Hold my purse.”

I’m sittin’ there thinkin’, they ain’t Larry the Nerd and Cornbread McGhee!

You ever seen two grown men argue at the track? I mean really argue about horses and jockeys —like they bet their last $12 and a corn dog on a horse named “Mild Disappointment”?

Feathers flyin’, folks duckin’, somebody yellin’, “He the best of them pinheads!” like that’s a compliment. One fella standin’ up tryin’ to look dignified with his britches halfway down, and his arse crack hanging out—just… just.....dignity hangin’ on by a thread and three fingers.

For a live example, the 'Thrilla at the Downs', Indian Charlie and Dale Romans, of course thats the day ol' Dale wore no skivvies under his fallen jeans, and things got interesting as he fell on top of Indian Chuck. A classic rated R bout.

Dale Romans is now running for Senate, maybe somebody will have video of the 'Thrilla at the Downs' and run it in an ad. Hopefully, Dale put on some skivvies on this time, just in case.

That’s what them political ads feel like. Same energy. Same nonsense. Only difference is Larry and Cornbread ain’t askin’ for my vote—they just mad about jockeys.

And honestly? I’d take Indian Chuck and ol' Dale any day. At least that’s entertainin’. There’s stakes! There’s chaos and horror.

These politicians though? They act like there’s a trophy for “Best Yeller.” Like whoever hollers “HE AIN’T ONE OF US” the loudest wins a ribbon at the county fair. Meanwhile I’m over here just tryin’ to watch my show—hell, I’d rather be watchin’ Reacher knock a fella through drywall for making hisself fall of his motor bike, in front of his kin, than listen to another suit argue about who loves America more.

I say, both of y'all shut the fuk up, y'all love money ten times more.

And don’t even get me started on timing—every election season, it’s like they got a personal vendetta against enjoyment. Post parade? CUT. Halftime show? RUINED. Mood? GONE. Now I’m stress-eatin’ gummy bears that taste like regret and red dye #40.

Do them ads work? I mean… maybe somewhere, somebody, with one tooth, maybe, gets all fired up. But most of us? We just tired. We ain’t persuaded—we’re exhausted. Ain’t nobody ever said, “You know what changed my whole worldview? That fella yellin’ at me between the third and fourth quarter about who be one of us”

Nah. Give me Cornbread. Give me Larry. Give me ol' Dale or Indian Chuck, give me a bad bet and a worse opinion shouted from the grandstand. At least when they act a fool, they honest about it.

Y’all think them folks yellin’ on the TV got it bad? Nah… that’s the bottom of the totem pole. That’s entry-level foolishness. The real champions of nonsense—the gold medalists, the PhDs of hollerin’—them’s the handicappers.

I’m talkin’ before the race, during the race, and especially after the race. It’s like a three-act play called “Confidence Without Evidence.” like it was written by Shakespeare himself followed by the losers trot back to their lawn chair, or that peacock strut around the establishment for the winner, like he got his own winner circle, but ....

Before the race, they all standin’ around arguin’ about who’s the best like they in some kind of intellectual debate society—but it sound more like Abbott and Costello doin’ “Who’s on First?” with horses.

“Whos' got speed figures.”

“what's got heart.”

" how trained in the mud.”

“Yeah, this one once looked at a mud puddle real serious.”

Ain’t nobody know nothin’, but they say it with authority. Like the horse itself called ‘em last night and said, “Hey man, I’m feelin’ frisky tomorrow,” yup you don't tell the wife that.

Then DURING the race? Oh Lord…

That calm, composed analysis goes straight out the window. Now it’s:“COME ON BABY, DADDY NEEDS NEW TIRES ON HIS JALOPY!”

Sir… five minutes ago you was talkin’ about stride length and pace fractions. Now you sound like you bet your rent money and your cousin’s lawn mower on a horse named “Tax Problem.”

And then AFTER the race? Whew. That’s where the real poetry and sophistication comes out.

“Did y’all see that ride?? That jockey out there actin’ like he be Moses partin' the Red Sea"

Every time. Ain’t never their fault. It’s the jockey, the wind, the alignment of Jupiter, Pluto being ice cold, the horse’s childhood trauma, momma, —anything but the fact them clowns picked wrong.

“Boy went left when he shoulda went right.”

Great, handicappers now think they be a jockey's compass.

Sir… you was standin’ there still eatin’ nachos when they turned for home . Let’s not act like you was up there holdin’ the reins, and by the way, you dropped some nacho cheese on your shirt.

Better clean that up before it stains and the wifee know where you been.

And they talk about it like it was a life-alterin’ event. Like Congress gonna convene a special session:“We must address what happened in the 5th at Sorrow Downs immediately.”

Bless their hearts… them boys couldn’t even agree which direction to face on a merry-go-round, but they out here critiquin’ professional jockeys like they got a clipboard and a pension.

Meanwhile I’m just standin’ there thinkin—this is somehow STILL more honest than them political ads.

At least a handicapper will look you dead in the eye and never say, “I have no idea what I’m doin’," but they do say "I feel lucky.”

A politician? He’ll do the same thing—just with better lighting and wrapped in a flag like there is a draft of air somewhere.

And that, my friends, is why I’ll take a loud, wrong handicapper over a polished, political TV ad any day of the week, cause a handicapper can be right, like a broken clock, twice a day, politics....not a chance,

Cuz, they ain’t one of us.