HIP 7: Coconut Cream Pie

Y’all seen them prices at the Saratoga Sale?

I mean good lord, some of these folks reacting like they at a Fourth of July fireworks show—"Ooooh!" and "Aaaah!" like a chestnut yearling just grew wings and shot off like a bottle rocket.

And it gets me feelin’ a certain kinda way—like I oughta march right into that auction ring, throw my checkbook on the table like it’s a gauntlet, then spike it like I just caught the game-winnin' touchdown in overtime. Do a little touchdown dance with a saddle over my shoulder and a flask in my boot.

'Cause lemme tell you—I got stock. And not just any ol’ backyard barn babies. I’m talkin’ about Mimi’s best. Oh yeah. We’re talkin’ coconut cream pies so pretty they oughta be on the cover of Southern Livin'—centerfold style. We’re not even tryin’ to sell ‘em. No, sir. Never were. Mimi’s pies already got four suitors lined up like it’s The Bachelor, holdin’ napkins, pie forks, and marriage proposals.

And see, we’re not there to make a deal. We just want the attention. The gasps. The glory. That sweet, syrupy adulation we all crave when we know—deep in our buttered biscuit hearts—we done made something beautiful.

Yeah, we fluff ‘em up just right—little extra this, little whipped that. We roll 'em out like young turkeys three months from Thanksgiving—parade ready—puffed up and glistenin', struttin’ their stuff like “gobble gobble, y’all ain't ready.”

But don’t be fooled, friend. 'Cause three weeks later? That whole thing might deflate like a party balloon forgotten behind the couch. And what do you got left?

Just a crust and a memory. Maybe some foil, if you're lucky.

Nothin’ can look that good and last forever. Nothin’. Not a pie, not a pony, not even prom night.

Now look here—

There is such a thing as auction price handicapping, believe it or not. But lord, some folks just can't wrap their heads around the idea that a $500,000 horse might be runnin’ in a $30K maiden claimer like it fell from grace harder than a televangelist in a Motel 6.

And to that, I say: Well duh, Skippy.

It’s just a horse. It don’t know what it cost. Ain’t out there on the backstretch struttin’ like “I was six figures, peasant.” Nah. The only folks who cared about that price tag are the ones who already made their stack and dipped—left the next poor soul holdin’ that animal like a half-deflated balloon at the fair. Kid got lost, funnel cake in one hand, horse-shaped balloon in the other, and no idea how it all went sideways.

Truth is? That animal was never worth $500K. Not even with a two-for-one pedigree and a catalog page Photoshopped to look like Cindy Crawford in her prime. But hey—they buffed it, fluffed it, worked the angles, threw in a spit shine and some conformation photos that’d make a blind man bid.

Next thing you know? It’s poppin’ up in some digital sale, like a discount timeshare, and they gotta cattle prod the buyers just to get the bidding started.

“Don’t make me brand you a sore loser now, Dale—she’s out of a stakes-placed dam, remember?!” Yeah, and I’m out of patience, but you don’t see me asking for six figures.

I tell ya, the whole auction game these days? It ain’t even business no more—it’s theatre. And not the classy kind either. We ain’t talkin’ Swan Lake or some high-falutin’ production of Hamilton. No sir. It’s like watchin’ an episode of Jerry Springer with a bloodstock catalog and a cocktail napkin full of notes.

People shoutin’, cryin’, pointin’ fingers:"She told me it was a Curlin colt with good knees!""DNA don’t lie, Lucious!"

By the time the hammer drops, you ain’t sure if you just bought a racehorse or accidentally proposed to somebody’s cousin.

So yeah—auction price don’t mean a damn thing until they run. And by the time that day comes, half the syndicate’s disappeared like they owed child support and saw a white van in the driveway.

Now hear me out—

There oughta be a fantasy reality TV show called "All My Horses," right? Picture it: Susan Sarandon—pushing 80 but still lookin’ like she could talk a billionaire outta their birthright—starin’ deadpan into the camera while throwin’ around auction bids like a televangelist on a holy hot streak.

She's not buyin’ horses, y’all. She’s collectin’ ‘em like baseball cards—except instead of a Ken Griffey rookie, it’s a Tapit colt with a club foot and a trust fund.

And of course, you gotta reunite her with Barry Bostwick, her old co-star from Rocky Horror Picture Show—they’re doin’ the Time Warp again, except now it’s just flashbacks to 2-year-olds that never made it to the track and trainers with more excuses than a middle schooler who forgot their homework.

But lemme tell you what really makes my heart warmer than Mimi’s oven in July:

Beatin’ them seven-figure, gold-plated, imported-from-the-heavens horses with my own humble lil’ bargain buy—cost me no more than a candy bar and a soda.

That’s right. My Almond Joy. maybe a Mounds. (‘Cause let’s face it—sometimes they come without nuts.)

And wouldn't you know it? That little budget beauty outran the Swiss chocolate Snickers dipped in Dubai gold plating, and did it with its ears up and a smirk on its face.

Meanwhile, over at the auction pavilion? Oh, Mimi's Coconut Cream Pies? Long gone, baby. Sold out before the last hip number even hit the ring.

Them suitors? Already lined up, checks in hand, forks at the ready, fightin' over that last slice like it was the Kentucky Derby photo finish and mama’s honor was on the line.

And me? I’m just sittin’ back, grin on my face, watchin’ all the six-figure heartbreak roll in like a thunderstorm on a Sunday picnic.

Because in the end, it ain’t always about zeros and pedigrees.Sometimes it’s about guts, pie, and a damn good deal at the bottom of the catalog.

Welcome to the circus. Bring your wallet—and a therapist, but you ain't be allowed to use your monies.