Ham Hock

Now look, I ain't tryin’ to be mean here… but aren’t y’all tired of losin’? I mean hell, how many times you gotta run face-first into the same damn wall before you realize—hey, maybe I oughta try the door.

Every day, same song and dance. You follow the same folks, use the same stale-ass info everybody else is gobblin' up like it’s gospel—and then you're shocked when you end up in Loserville again? Come on now. That ain't strategy, that’s insanity on a loop. Hell, it's Groundhog Day but without the character development.

And don’t get me started on these so-called "gurus." Y’all still listenin’ to Cult Leader Johnny like he’s got the keys to the kingdom, when in reality he couldn’t pick a winner if the damn horse whispered it to him. And the rest of 'em? These TikTok prophets and Instagram shamans beggin’ for likes while pretendin’ they got it all figured out? Buddy, if that’s a winning crew, then I’m the Queen of England.

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I don’t say this to be ugly—I say it ‘cause it’s true. Most people out here losin’, and they’re the ones you’re followin'. Losers teachin’ losers how to lose better. It’s like a support group for bad decisions. “Hi, I’m Larry, and I bet my rent on a parlay again.”

Ain’t y’all tired of that? Tired of the heartbreak, the empty wallet, the false hope? ‘Cause I sure as hell would be.

So maybe—just maybe—it’s time to stop doin’ what ain’t workin’, and try somethin’ new. You ain't gotta keep repeatin’ history just ‘cause you flunked it in school.

Y’all ever seen that movie Two for the Money? Al Pacino and Matthew McConaughey, lookin’ like two sides of the same sweaty coin. There’s this scene—a Gamblers Anonymous meeting—and lemme tell ya, it’s a damn masterpiece of truth wrapped in cigarette smoke and regret.

Pacino, playin’ this so-called “reformed” gambler—he lays it out, right there in front of God and everybody. He says, “Losers are addicted to losing.” And buddy, if that didn’t slap harder than a mama with a wooden spoon, I don’t know what does.

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See, that pain—that punch-in-the-gut feelin’ when the bet don’t hit? That ain’t just disappointment. That’s dopamine,baby. That’s a dirty little high. It’s like heartbreak with a side of adrenaline. That misery becomes a ritual. It’s church, but instead of communion, you're takin’ shots of shame and chasin’ it with bad decisions.

And listen—I hate losin’ too. I hate it like I hate warm beer and cold pizza. But here’s the difference: I do the work. I ain't followin’ the herd like some wannabe cowboy ridin’ the same damn picks as everybody else. You ever notice how the “sure thing” picks always end up finishin’ where you end up like a large mouth bass on a hook, trashing for its very survival, to no avail. Yup!

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Nah. I want the horse nobody’s talkin’ about. The one tucked away at 6-1, flyin’ under the radar, wearin’ shades and mindin’ its business—that’s the horse that cashes. You know what $13.40 feels like? Vindication, baby. It feels like flippin’ the bird to every “expert” on Twitter with a fake Rolex and a pick sheet.

So yeah, Pacino had it right—losin’ feels like life to some folks. But not me. I want to win. Quietly, smartly, and with just enough smug satisfaction to sip bourbon with a little extra pride.

You can stay in the pain if you want. Me? I’m ridin’ with the spoilers.

Look here—two horses. One a winner, one a loser. One we liked, the other we warned ya about.

But what’d you do?

You didn’t listen. Naw, you went and bet that shiny SOB at even money, Tagermeen in the 1st race, like he was the second coming of Secretariat, just ‘cause someone with the ego the size of Texas told ya it was a lock. And, No dice! Nothin'. Nada. Just a big ol’ goose egg to win and a receipt for your regret

Meanwhile, the other horse—the one y’all forgot about like water slippin' right under the bridge—we liked him. We backed him. And guess what? He came stormin’ down the stretch like a damn freight train on fire, and we walked away with $13.40 in our pocket and a smug little grin on our face.

That right there? That’s called competency.

That’s the difference between followin’ the noise and listenin’ to knowledge. Between chasin’ hype and readin’ between the lines. Between losin’ like a ritual and winnin’ with intention.

So next time you’re feelin’ cocky and ready to ride the favorite into financial ruin, just remember: we told ya. You didn’t listen.

And now we’re drinkin’ bourbon with our winnings while you’re eatin’ leftover bologna and blamin’ the jockey.

Now look, I ain’t tryin’ to step on your boots here, but let’s be real for a second:

Y’all just wanna follow them boys with the shiny stopwatch—timing horses down to the hundredth of a second like they’re measurin’ moon landings. And they send it to you like moonshine from Cousin Gerald down in the bayou—no label, no proof, but damn if it don’t make ya feel somethin’, right?

And Lord forbid you spend a red cent on somethin’ that might actually help you. Oh no. You’ll clutch your wallet tighter than Granny holds her Bible. You won’t invest in real tools, real info, or hell—just some common sense. But you will go over to Mimi’s house to eat cornbread and ham hock just so you don’t have to dip into your “gamblin’ funds.” Priorities, right?

And what do you get for all that nickel-and-dimin’?

L’s. That’s what. Losses, stacked up like dirty dishes. You lost yesterday, you lost the day before, you’re losin’ today, and spoiler alert: tomorrow’s lookin’ like a rerun. Hell, even the damn horses are startin’ to feel bad for you.

But will you change? Will you try a different approach? Nah. You’ll do the same thing again like you’re caught in some redneck Groundhog Day, just waitin’ for the parlay gods to smile down on your broke ass screaming out "just one time".

And at some point, you gotta ask yourself: maybe it’s not the horses. Maybe it’s not the track. Maybe… it’s me. Maybe I was born to lose, like it’s in my damn bloodline. Grandpa lost the farm on a poker hand, Uncle Cletus traded the pickup for scratchers, and here you are—another proud member of the Loser Legacy League.

How fun! Just a generational chain of bad bets and big dreams held together with duct tape and delusion.

But hey—if you like losin’, keep at it. Some folks like pain. But if you're tired of bein' the punchline at the OTB, the track, online... maybe stop followin’ the same clowns with the fancy stopwatches and start usin’ your brain instead of your phone.

Just sayin’. It ain’t that hard to stop bangin’ your head against the wall—unless you secretly like the sound.

Look, if you’re gonna invest in somethin’—invest in somebody who’s actually successful. Not some dude with a bootleg website and a stopwatch so shiny it could blind a possum at midnight. I’m talkin’ about somebody who believes in what they do. Somebody who don’t gotta justify their product with a 47-minute YouTube video full of vague stats and empty promises like a shady preacher sellin’ salvation at the state fair.

Nah, the real deal? The guy who knows his info’s valuable—and charges for it not ‘cause he’s greedy, but ‘cause it’s actually worth somethin’.

And guess what? I bet he ain’t got a a shiny stopwatch, he has more than that. Might not even own a pair of cowboy boots. Probably don’t eat ham hock on Tuesdays and fried squirrel on Fridays either. Hell, his Mimi might be the sharpest one in the family—she’s the one runnin’ numbers and bustin’ myths while the rest of y’all sittin’ around talkin’ about Uncle Cletus like he’s some legendary high roller when really he just lost his trailer on a trifecta in ‘98.

And don’t even get me started on Uncle Cletus—every family’s got one. Thinks he’s the spittin’ image of the “Gambler” from the Kenny Rogers song, when in reality he’s more like the guy Kenny warned us about. The only “ace” he’s ever held was a coupon for the buffet down at the dog track.

But here's the truth, and it's ugly if you're not ready for it: good info matters. Good breeding—not like thoroughbred horses, I mean makin' smart-ass decisions with smart-ass people—that matters. You surround yourself with folks who actually know what the hell they’re doin’ and suddenly, your whole Festivus of Failure turns into a celebration of smart bets and better outcomes.

And here's the kicker: when you do it right, the feelin’ flips. Now you're pissed off when you lose, not relieved like, “Whew, that felt familiar!” And when you win? You’re jacked, you’re fired up, you’re ready to go again like Ric Flair after a protein shake.

That’s real dopamine, baby. Not that dirty hit you get from losin’ again, callin’ it fate, and telling the missus 'you broke even', cause your sorry ass don't want to hear that same ole speech and how bad you are playing the ponies. You know it word for word.

So stop takin’ advice from the same cousins who still think racin’ lawnmowers counts as cardio, and put your faith in someone with results—not just excuses and a catchy nickname.

Because you ain’t got to be born lucky—you just gotta stop followin’ fools.