Don't Be a DipSh*t!

"Lemme tell y’all somethin’..."

You’re smart. Yeah, I know you are—don’t get all bashful on me now. You’re the analytical type, right? The kind that needs to lay out charts, graphs, pie diagrams and color-coded spreadsheets like you’re about to launch a damn SpaceX rocket, instead of pick a horse in the 7th at Del Mar. You wanna handicap with logic, reason, cold hard numbers and blow the tote up like a Space X rocket.

Well bless your heart... but you’re doin’ it all wrong.

See, your brain—it already knows. It’s been takin’ mental notes this whole time. You’ve seen that horse, you’ve seen that trainer, you’ve seen that "sharp workout" before. You don’t need five different color-coded data subscriptions. You don’t need to know what Uncle Jimbo’s Cajun Crawfish Speed Index said about the last mile and a sixteenth at Delta Downs in 2024. What you need—is to grow a pair and trust your damn gut.

See, I used to be like that. Scared to be wrong. I’d convince myself that I needed more data, more info, more reports. Hell, I was tryin’ to solve the Zodiac killer’s code just to bet a $5 exacta box. But then one day I said, “Screw it.” I stopped bein’ scared. Started trustin’ my instincts. And you know what happened?

I got better, that was 25 plus years ago when i had hair like a pantene commercial. I have trusted my gut all this time and its gotten bigger with the added work.

‘Cause here’s the deal: 90% of these horses, jockeys, and trainers—you already know ‘em. You’ve seen ‘em run. You’ve seen how they fold faster than a lawn chair at a church picnic. So what’re you doin’ sifting through every Beyer and Rag and Trip Note like you’re discoverin’ ancient secrets? You’re not Indiana Jones, brother—you’re just scared of being wrong.

And the tote board? Oh lord, don’t even get me started. People see a 20-1 drop to 6-1 and go, “Ooh, somebody knows somethin’!” Yeah, somebody does—and it ain’t you. Now you’re second-guessin’ yourself, jumpin’ off your pick, chasin’ steam like it’s a hot donut outta the fryer. They so gooooooood.

Let me say this with love in my heart: those folks? They’re Dipshits. I mean that in the nicest, most Southern way possible. Dipshits who chase shadows and then wonder why they’re broke come race 9.

Hell, at that point, you might as well just bet a horse because your aunt’s name was Angela and you had a cat named Angela and “Angela’s Love” is in the 5-hole. Shoot, pick “Cat Scratch Fever” while you’re at it, and play some music to set the mood, but.....

"Y’all listen up, ‘cause I’m about to do y’all a public service..."

It takes very little character to become a dipsh*t. Like, damn near none. There ain’t no prerequisites. You don’t need a college degree, hell, you don’t even need a GED. You don’t need life experience, a functioning brain, or even—get this—liquid courage. All it takes... is a lil’ bit of social media exposure without the antidote of common sense.

Social media, man... it ain’t for smart folks. It just ain’t. It’s not a place for deep thought or productive conversation—it’s the world’s biggest county fair of vanity, bragging, and aspiring dipshts* trying to out-peacock each other. “Look at me! Look what I did! Look what I think about this thing I know jacksh*t about!” Every damn day.

These people? They make the same mistakes over and over and over like a bad sitcom with no writers' room. Same damn diatribe, different day. Like they’re caught in a time loop of stupidity—but with worse grammar.

And you know the type. The guy who donates to charity and just has to post the receipt online, like it’s a damn merit badge from the Boy Scouts. Like, bro, you want a cookie or sainthood?

You know that same guy would be up in your face if he ever hit a 20-1 longshot. He’d post that ticket in triplicate with hashtags like #Genius #KnewItAllAlong #PayMe. But never does —crickets. Not a peep. Like a fart in a hurricane, cause he never wins despite all the fanfare and ''love" he receives.

And that's the kicker: a real, dyed-in-the-wool dipsh*t? don’t even value being right. Nah. He values being popular. He measures success by likes, not logic. By retweets, not returns. If enough people click the little heart button on his half-baked take, well by God, he must be a genius! Meanwhile, he’s out here burnin’ more tickets than a crooked meter maid.

Let me tell you somethin’—that’s not handicapping, that’s not thinkin’, and that sure as hell ain’t winning. That’s just performative nonsense from a bunch of clout-chasin’ clowns who couldn’t pick the winner of a one-horse race if the damn thing neighed their name. (I made the last part up, for effect)

So if you wanna be something, be real. Be quiet when you're wrong, and humble when you're right. And for God’s sake, stop postin’ your bet slips like they’re your kid’s ultrasound.

Nah. You wanna win? You wanna beat this game? Then stop tryin’ to handicap like you’re defusin’ a bomb. You ain't the Pickl 5 -Bomber!

Trust your gut. Trust your eyeballs. Let your intuition do the drivin’. That is the secret sauce.

And remember: following every Tom, Dick, and Harry’s special play of the day ain’t gonna make you a sharp. Only you can do that.

I tell myself all the time ..... "Don't be a dipsh*t"

Pre-Shate y'all