Grudge Handicappin'

Y’all… there’s a new fad takin’ over the track faster than a 2-year-old with too much Lasix and not enough manners.

It ain’t Beyers. It ain’t Biases. It ain’t your cousin’s secret "turf pedigree system" that somehow always lands him on a 25-1 maiden who’s built like a sloth.

No sir. It’s called Grudge Handicapping.

Yup. You heard me right—Grudge. Handicapping.The revolutionary system where logic, data, and common damn sense take a backseat to pure, unfiltered pettiness.

It’s like fantasy football meets Jerry Springer and Geraldo Rivera.

I’m talkin’ about folks who handicap with their feelings instead of their form sheets.

They’re not pickin’ horses—they’re settlin’ scores.

“That jockey? Nah, he bumped me at the gate last race. Not the horse—me. He bumped my ticket. Can’t forgive that.”Sir, he was ridin’ a 30-1 claimer at Turfway. I don’t think he was tryin’ to personally sabotage your $2 exacta box.

“That trainer? He used that jock on my horse and they didn’t even try. I know they stiffed him" Well maybe your horse was just slow, Sparky . Like, “missed the start and wanted a nap” kinda slow.

But nope—logic does not stand a chance against the almighty grudge.

We got folks in this game holdin’ onto beefs like they’re tryna smoke it low and slow.

"That owner told me I was drunk and obnoxious one night, because I was down to my skivvys in the middle of the bar fight in a drunken rage"

Well… were you?

“I wasn’t even drinkin’! not yet!”

Buddy, you don’t have to be drunk to be obnoxious. I’ve seen toddlers throw tantrums that’d make Mike Tyson ask for security, you holding a grudge for someone being truthful.

But still, once the grudge is locked in—it’s gospel. Ain’t no Beyer or Rag number big enough to override it. The horse could be training like Secretariat with wings and they’d say,“Nope. Ain’t bettin’ him. His breeder once gave me a dirty look in the paddock. F*ck ‘em.”

Look, they say weight can stop a freight train?

Well, grudges can stop you from even boardin’ that train.

You’re standin’ at the station with your ticket in your hand, mutterin’ about how you "don’t trust horses with face markings"  like that’s a normal thought for an adult human to have.

So we sent this trainer a horse — fine-lookin’ animal, all chromed out like he just rolled off a damn NASCAR track. And this fella, his first reaction? Said watchin’ that horse move was like tunin’ into the 6 o’clock news after a train wreck. Said the horse’s boxcars were all over the damn place — some sideways, some burnin’, couple just takin’ a nap in the ditch.

Then he hits me with, “Well, I ain’t never had any luck with chromed horses.”So I go, “Oh yeah? How many have you had?”He squints, looks off like he’s doin’ long division in his head, and goes, “A few.”A few? A few?

So I shoot back, “Okay, and how many plain ol’ bay horses with no chrome you had that couldn’t outrun a mule haulin’ coal uphill in February?”

And buddy, silence. Not a damn peep. Just blinkin’ like a possum in a snowstorm. I reckon either he lost count or never could.

Moral of the story?

Just 'cause you don’t know what to do with horsepower don’t mean the engine’s broke. Sometimes the problem ain’t the horse — it’s the dude holdin’ the reins.

Revenge handicappin, that’s the love language of a grudge. You ever met somebody so bitter they could season a cast iron skillet just by talkin'? That’s a grudge-holder. That thing takes on a life of its own — grows legs, grows arms, eventually builds a whole damn voting record. Some folks’ll cradle a grudge like it’s their emotional support possum. Keep it tucked in a koozie, serve it up ice cold, like a Busch Light on a bad memory.

These people — you know the type — they’ll block your job, swerve your opportunities, smile while trippin’ you up. And God forbid you do well in spite of 'em. That grudge? It metastasizes. Grows like a damn tumor with WiFi, always connected to your name. And here’s the kicker — it don’t hurt you, it eats them. Slow-roastin' 'em from the inside out like a crock pot full of spite chili, same as grudge handicappin' ......

"I can't bet that guy", heard it over and over and over, 'Why?' and the usual answers follows like a lighthouse in the fog, "I don't like that guy!"

Now personally — and I mean this from the sweet tea-sippin’ bottom of my heart — if I don’t care for somebody? If their whole vibe makes me itch like a wool blanket in August? That don’t mean I won’t make a damn profit off ‘em. Oh no, sugar — I love makin’ money off people I can’t stand. Hell, it’s almost better that way.

Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than cashin' a fat ticket on somebody who'd rather eat drywall than see you win — and then walkin’ up, smilin’ like you just got baptized in hundred-dollar bills, congratulatin’ them on a good run, watchin’ 'em mutter under their breath like they’re speakin’ in tongues.

They’re walkin’ away mumblin’ curses, and I’m standin’ there countin’ my cash like I’m runnin' a Southern revival.

You just cash your ticket, do a little victory jig like a possum on a hot tin roof, and then — real soft and syrupy — you hit 'em with that:“Well bless your heart.”

That’s Southern for “kiss my ass,” but with hospitality.

I ain’t out here wishin’ folks ill will — I just don’t wanna be in the splash zone when their grudge explodes. 'Cause see, I’ve gone outta my way to help people I know can’t stand me. You know why? 'Cause they wouldn’t. And that ain’t weakness, that’s strength. — a rare-ass breed some days.

Life’s like handicappin’ a horse race. You live and let live. But if you’re carryin’ a grudge, congrats — you already losin’. I don’t have to do a damn thing. That sucker’s in your gut, eatin’ lunch and leavin’ the dishes.

Let me tell y’all somethin’ right now: Handicappers—hell, people in general—will carry a grudge longer than a mule haulin’ moonshine uphill in July. And nine times outta ten, the reason is just as dumb as a screen door on a submarine.

I’ve seen grudges last decades, over things like,“He didn’t like my filly’s conformation,”or“He said my horse looked like she’d been stabled in a Pot Dispensary parking lot.”

I mean, I get it, feelings get hurt, pride gets dinged—but what we’ve got now is less “friendly competition” and more character assassination via barn gossip.

Like the one guy—real story—says:“Can you believe he told me my horse was slow and fat?”I said, “Damn, how’d the horse run?”

“Don’t remember.”

Translation:”Like “DFL” dead f*cking last

But logic don’t matter in the Grudge Handicapper’s world. These folks can find fault with Snow White, Cinderella, or even Shamu—and Shamu didn’t even run on dirt!

I swear, these folks reason like eight-year-olds on a Capri Sun crash after recess.“I don’t like the 4 horse ‘cause the horse knocked me out of a pick 3 in 2019.”

And then on the other end of the crazy scale, you got the Sentimental Handicapper, who’s over here pickin’ the 3 ‘cause he ran into the jock at Starbucks and he seemed “nice.”

Nice?? We’re bettin’ money, not makin’ friends off tinder!

But I get it. Drawing lines in the sand makes people feel strong—like they’re takin’ a stand.“I’ll never bet that barn again!” Okay, grandpa. Meanwhile that barn just swept the late double and you’re over here with more bitterness than a truck stop espresso.

Look, you wanna really win? Don’t talk, don’t trash—just go beat ‘em.

Don’t draw your lil’ emotional line in the sand, ‘cause I promise you—somebody’s gonna cross it, wearin’ a better suit and cashin’ a fatter ticket.

Let ‘em cling to their grudges like it’s a baby blanket. You roll in with your sound logic, sharp trip & workout notes, and receipts. You’ll be cashin’ before they finish tellin’ you why they “can’t stand” the 6 horse in blinkers because his momma never wore'em.

And when they finally ask, “How’d you hit that?”

Just smile and say, “it was a little of this and little of that”

So yeah. Grudge Handicapping. The next big thing in losin’ money with confidence.

Forget pace, class, and trip—bring a chip on your shoulder and a vendetta in your pocket.

And hey, if you’re gonna go down in flames, might as well be righteous about it.