It's Saturday !

Now look here, y’all. It’s Saturday—God’s day. The day He created specifically for horses, gambling, and screaming at the TV with a cold beer in one hand and your rent money in the other. But I’ll be damned if I can make it ten minutes into a handicapping show, football or racing, these days without my eyes glazing over like a Krispy Kreme on a Sunday morning.

Everywhere I turn, it's just stupid shit. Nonsensical garble. Word salad with no dressing. A bunch of grown-ass men and women turned into glorified cheerleaders, flapping their arms like a high school pep rally broke out at the track. In the age of AI, algorithms, and satellites that can tell me what a horse ate for breakfast, why the hell are we still pretending that yelling louder equals analysis?

What happened to the cold, hard facts? To knowing your stuff? To looking at a form and actually understanding it, not just repeating what someone else said who was also wrong last week? Except this week you taking credit for it.

Used to be, you could sway people with data—real numbers, real insight. Now? It’s all smoke and mirrors. It’s who can talk the longest without saying anything. It’s who can sprinkle the most fairy dust on a losing ticket and sell it as “value.”

We are living in the age of fraudulent artists, folks. I’m talking full-on David Copperfield-level bullshit. These people ain’t handicappers—they’re magicians. And not the cool kind with rabbits and top hats. No, these folks pull nonsense out of their ass like it’s a magic trick, get it wrong nine times out of ten, and still walk away praised like some oracle of the turf.

They’re the masters of empty words and broken promises. They’re snake oil salesmen with Twitter accounts and flashy graphics.

And the worst part? They get adored for it. The public done did drink that Kool Aid, like Jim Jones poured it hisself, only difference this batch rots yo brain!

Hell, maybe I’m the fool—for expecting analysis in a world addicted to entertainment. But damn it, give me less cheerleading, more truth-telling. Less razzle-dazzle, more facts. I don’t need a hype man—I need a handicapper who knows what the hell they’re talking about.

Well hell, y’all—turns out I’ve been doin’ this all wrong. Imagine my shock. Here I was, thinking that studying horses—how they move, how they gallop, how they work in the mornings and fire in the afternoons—actually meant something.

I mean, shame on me, right? Silly ol’ me, spending my time learning, watching replays, breaking down performance patterns like some kind of idiot who believes knowledge matters. Who knew?

Can you believe that shit? I’ve been out here using facts and logic—like some kind of damn nerd—while the rest of the world is out here turning horse racing into a damn TikTok brainwashing session.

What’s next, huh? We gonna start handin’ out noisemakers during morning training hours like it’s toddler time at the damn track? “Oh look, little Timmy’s got his juice box and his kazoo, let’s go ruin a breeze set!” [True Story}

That’s the next big thing, apparently—turn the backside into a damn Chuck E. Cheese.

Because in today’s world, God forbid we treat something with a little bit of professionalism or reverence. Nope, screw that—we're all about turning everything into a circus now. And not even the cool kind with lions and trapeze folks—no, this is the sad, clown-car kind.

It's like we’ve all happily become brainless. I mean, really. People out here smilin’ with drool on their chin, starin’ into the void like a golden retriever in a thunderstorm. But hey, no need to worry—we’ve all got smartphones, right? And thank sweet baby Elon, because if it weren’t for that little glowing rectangle in our pocket, most folks wouldn’t remember how to tie their own damn shoes.

We don’t need to think anymore—we’ve got apps for that. Ask Siri, ask Google, ask Alexa, hell ask the damn refrigerator now. Our brains have officially been outsourced. Talk about artificial intelligence—booya, baby! We ain't thinkin’, we're scrollin’!

Case. And pin-freakin’-point.

Now, me and my better halves, Joe & Rudy—we got us a condo that overlooks the pool. Nice little setup. Great view. But lemme tell ya, what we really got is front-row seats to the greatest hits of human absurdity. And brother, I’ve seen some shit.

The other day, I look out the window, and I see this older lady—probably somebody’s meemaw—in the damn pool. Not lounging next to it, not dipping her toes like a normal person with a margarita and a little dignity. No. She’s in the water—chest-deep, with just her arms and her head pokin’ out like a swamp monster on vacation—and what is she doin’?

Scrollin’ through her phone. Casually. Like she’s sittin’ on the damn couch.

I swear to God, y’all, I thought maybe she was checkin’ Facebook to see if her bridge club posted pics from brunch—but no. My money says she was lookin’ for the bet of the day or the point spread on the Kent State and Oklahoma Football game [-46.5 points].

Like, “Well, I know I'm floatin' in chlorinated soup right now, but I gotta see if Gulfstream’s 4th has a sneaky longshot in the maiden claimer, and I'll take Kent State and the points.”

What the hell happened to us, man? We can’t even take a swim without the need to digitally stroke our tiny little dopamine buttons. Ain’t even safe in the pool no more. Used to be, if you were in water, that was your sacred time—relax, float, reflect on life, maybe pee a little (don't act like you don’t). Now? Nope. Gotta check those fake-ass tip sheets between doggy paddles, but in the meantime, y'all remember don't go in the water right after you ate.

It's like the human race hit the point where our brains can’t be alone with themselves for five damn seconds. Gotta scroll. Gotta tap. Gotta bet. Gotta fill the void, even if you're literally submerged in a giant blue toilet.

And don't get me wrong—I love the game. But if you’re damn near risking electrocution in a public pool to find a 6-1 shot with a bad trainer-jockey combo? Maybe it’s time to re-evaluate some life choices.

But hey—who am I to judge? She probably hit the exacta and paid for her next water-proof phone case.

Meanwhile back at the track, even with noisemakers promotion during training hours, actual horsemen, people with knowledge, people that put in the work and understand the game? They're treated like dinosaurs. “What? You’re not screaming nonsense with a noisemaker while Wesley Ward works a pair down the stretch, you know that team worth a million and half dollars combined of horseflesh?" [True Story]

But sure, let’s bring the noisemakers. Let’s give everyone A foam middle fingers and let ‘em cheer during gate schooling like it’s the Super Bowl halftime show. "Hey kids, look its a Bad Bunny"

Why respect the process when you can turn it into an Instagram reel?

God. Damn.

It's like the world hit the gas on stupid and just never looked back.

Because, you see, the right way—according to modern wisdom—is to dress up like a damn NASCAR hood ornament, yell nonsense into a microphone, use buzzwords you don’t understand, pick horses based on vibes, moonsigns, and whether or not the jockey’s wearing a color that matches your outfit, and hand out noisemakers at the track. What could go wrong?

Never in my life did I think having some remnants of common sense—knowing your shit—would be treated like a crime. But here we are. Do it right? You make enemies. Be honest? You're “negative.” Be accurate? Oh hell, now you’re “arrogant.” Shit, tell the truth, thats a capital offense.

It’s like we’ve entered some bizarro world where up is down, wrong is right, and the loudest, most clueless bastard in the room is the one they put on the damn pedestal.

So yeah… maybe, I have been wrong all along.

Maybe caring, studying, paying attention, and actually knowing what the hell you’re talking about is just… outdated now.

So yeah—Saturdays are for racing. But racing deserves better than this nonsense.

Good talk!