Ranch Dressing

Y’all really out here sayin’ Journalism is runnin’ in the Haskell to avoid Sovereignty?

Are you high, dumb, or just internet-famous for bein’ both?

Some fella—let’s call him Yada Yada the Keyboard Oracle—gets on that festering digital landfill y’all call a “forum” and starts spoutin’ off like he’s got a burner phone in the trainer’s tack room.“He’s dodgin’! He’s runnin’ scared!” Yeah, okay buddy.That’s rich comin’ from a guy who thinks 'breezing five furlongs' is something you do at Planet Fitness.

Let’s go over this one more time for the folks in the back, holdin’ a lukewarm Coors Light and a trifecta ticket from last June:

Santa Anita Derby? ✔️Kentucky Derby? ✔️Preakness? ✔️Belmont? ✔️

Journalism didn’t just show up—He showed out. He’s run in more Grade 1s this spring than most horses even spell out in their dreams.

And Sovereignty? Don’t get me wrong, great horse—talented. But he’s been in the barn longer than a broke-down lawnmower.Took “five weeks of vet work” like he’s in a convalescent home for misunderstood champions.

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Y’all ever notice how the horse who ain’t racin’ is always the one folks swear would’ve beat the one who is?

“If Sovereignty had been there in the Preakness…”Yeah? Well he wasn’t, pal. Maybe he was off gettin’ acupuncture from a llama whisperer—who knows? But he damn sure wasn’t throwin’ down all the way to the Baltimore like Journalism was. He was vacationing like a man from Montenegro I know.

So before you go accusin’ a horse of duckin’ a showdown, maybe ask yourself:

Was he runnin’…or was the other guy still wrappin’ his ankles in bubble wrap and writin’ poetry in his stall?

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He waz sittin’ in a spa somewhere, wrapped in eucalyptus leaves, gettin’ rubbed down like he’s auditioning for a mattress commercial. Took five weeks off for “vet work” before the Belmont like he’s out here gettin' a hip replacement and a note from Dr. Oz.

Alright y’all, let’s just spell it out real slow, like we’re readin’ the back of a Waffle House menu: A-B-C.

Sovereignty—the horse everybody keeps hollerin’ about like he’s the second comin’ of Secretariat crossed with [fill in the blank] Simone Biles or Tom Brady will not be accepted —has run exactly ONCE between the Kentucky Derby on May 3rd and the Travers Stakes on August 23rd.

One time. Uno. And yeah, it was the Belmont Stakes on June 7th, and he won it, sure—good on him, love a good comeback story—but let’s be real, the dude’s been on vacation for

112 damn days.

112 days. One race.

Now I ain’t sayin’ Sovereignty ain’t talented—he’s slick, no doubt, for those of y'all want to read backwards in Chinese Style, or using your nifty decoder ring you pulled out of your cereal box when you were nine, but at this point I gotta ask: How many of them 112 days were spent under observation by professionals from Walter Reed Hospital, makin’ sure he was spiritually aligned, hydrated, emotionally validated, and his chakras, and huevos weren’t crossin' up in mid stretch?

I know folks try to dress it up like it's “carefully managed campaign strategy” or “modern training science,”but come on—If he takes any more time off, the IRS’s gonna think he’s retired.

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By the time Sovereignty runs in the Travers, Journalism would have run 3 damn times.

This ain’t dodgeball, it’s horse racin’.You don’t get to call someone a coward from the comfort of a layoff.

And while Sovereignty was getting buzzed off them eucalyptus leaves, Journalism ran in a little race called the Preakness Stakes, down there in Crab-cake land.

So here’s how it went down in the Preakness Stakes, folks, if you been living in a cave:

JOURNALISM was makin’ his move—runnin' like his tail was on fire and his head was catchin’—when he hits the immovable object.

And no, not the rail.Not the finish line.Freakin’ Prat.

Prat was sittin’ there aboard a horse who had nothin’ left but hope and fumes, and even that was debatable. His horse was so outta gas I’m surprised AAA didn’t show up with a jug and jumper cables. But still—Prat decides this is the moment he’s gonna be the gatekeeper to glory.

He parked it like he was blocking a driveway at his ex-girlfriend’s wedding. Wouldn’t budge. Not an inch. Didn’t matter if his horse was breathin’ like your Uncle Randy after a flight of stairs—he wasn’t lettin' Rispoli through.

Now folks are sayin’ that’s just “race riding.”And sure, yeah—it can be that. But there’s a line between crafty and petty, and Prat had both boots on that sucker and was doin’ the cha-cha slide.

Meanwhile, Rispoli—who was tryin’ to navigate a stampede of closing traffic like a NASCAR driver during a snowstorm—does everything right. He’s threadin’ the needle, squeezin’ through spaces that wouldn’t fit a chihuahua, and still gets the side-eye from the couch jockeys.

And here’s the best part: The same people complainin’ about Rispoli ridin’ "too aggressive" ain’t never so much as sat on a pony ride at the state fair. Only hoof they’ve touched is having seen a you tube video of the Palo Di Siena.

These are the folks that yell "hold your position!" like they know what that even means, sittin’ there with a styrofoam cup and a $5 show bet.

Look, I ain’t sayin’ Prat should be drawn and quartered—but maybe don’t go full Gandalf yellin’ “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” when your mount’s blowin’ harder than a leaf blower in a wind tunnel.

Bottom line? Rispoli deserved more credit. Journalism ran his guts out. And if Prat’s horse had any less left in the tank, they’d have had to tow him back to the barn with a golf cart.

This Saturday... the Haskell Stakes. Down in New Jersey, which people—mostly from New York, of course—like to call “the armpit of America.”

First of all, its rude. Second of all, I been to the Bronx, y’all might wanna stop throwin’ rocks in glass pizza parlors.

But I like Jersey! Y’all got racin’, Springsteen, and a healthy distrust of outsiders—what’s not to love? I think i may a Jersey boy.

Anyway—this Saturday, we get the rematch we didn’t know we needed until the racing gods said, “Let’s stir the pot.”

We got:

📰 Journalism — the workhorse warrior who’s run more miles this spring than a DoorDash driver during the Super Bowl.

🎯 Goal Oriented — who looked like a million bucks until about the eighth pole, then ran outta gas like he borrowed his cousin’s ‘98 Saturn with no oil in it.

And then… there’s Gosger.

Now I don’t know who named that horse, but Gosger sounds like either a brand of baby food or a cartoon possum from the Appalachian version of Sesame Street.

You ever tasted baby food? No wonder them little fellas cry all night—they’re sittin’ there like, “You gave me what now? Puréed chicken carrot mush?? What in the Fuck Jell-O shit is this?!”

Now look—on paper, this race is a showdown. A Haskell heavyweight rematch.

We got Journalism, we got Goal Oriented, and we got lil’ ol’ Gosger with the silent killer energy and a name that still sounds like unsweetened applesauce for toddlers.

But here’s the kicker…Just in case Journalism and Goal Oriented decide to be boys the night before, and end up sprintin’ to the strip club like it’s the post parade at the Spearmint Rhino, well…Let’s just say the race could get real interestin’.

You know the story: They hit the town like rockstars, blowin' off steam, throwin' around cash like Monopoly money. Bottle service, neon lights, bad decisions, and a whole bunch of, “Bro, we deserve this!” energy.And by 3 a.m., they’re in the back alley tryin’ to remember who still has the saddle towel.

Come race day? They’re in the gate sweatin’ like they just ran a mile at the craps table. Eyes glazed, legs jelly, thinkin’ about that one dancer named Mercy who said she used to barrel race but now does Reiki on the side. Mercy Mercy Mercy.

And then out of nowhere comes Gosger—That quiet little fella with the baby food breath, the one nobody took seriously 'cause he don’t flash or flex. He’s been tucked in, eatin' his oat mush and mindin' his damn business. No parties, no drama—just hoofin' it and visualizin’ greatness.

And BAM.They hit the stretch and the party boys start fadin’ like cheap jeans in the dryer, while Gosger’s comin’ with that Gerber-fueled fury, passin’ 'em both like they’re standin’ still.

And folks in the grandstand are like,“Who the hell is that?!”And the answer is:“That’s Gosger, baby. He didn’t need the bottle—he brought the damn blender.”

Anyway—Gosger's sneaky. He’s got that low-to-the-ground stride like he’s sneakin' up on ya. Might not look like much, but next thing you know he’s passin' horses like a left lane on I-95.

But let’s get real, talk real strategy here, folks, cause I am damn sure that Michael McCarthy, trainer of Journalism, a real serious fella, and Bob Baffert and his entourage including Jimmy Barnes, the enforcer, ain't gonna let them boys out of their sights, unless they have chaparones.

Goal Oriented—if he wants to win this thing, he better’ve made a pit stop somewhere between the Preakness and now, got that NASCAR crew out, jackin’ him up, changin’ his shoes, fillin’ that tank full of rocket fuel and redemption.

'Cause he’s gonna need it. Full tank. Early, middle, and late. Like, gotta-have-it-on-all-three-TV-dinners kinda energy. You ever had the turkey dinner, that made me run real fast.

My prognostication? If Goal Oriented don’t come in fully fueled and tuned up, he’s gonna be sittin’ there mid-stretch lookin’ like a lawnmower that ran over a garden hose.

And Journalism?You already know.He’s gonna bring the lunch pail, punch the clock, and do what he always does: grind.

And if Gosger, Well hell, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Baby food or not, he might eat their lunch.

So let’s put some respect on the name of the horse who’s been showin’ up, throwin’ hands, and collectin’ checks. And to the loudest voices from the peanut gallery?

Y’all wouldn’t know “race placement” from ranch dressing and for some of you nimrods, Ranch Dressing don't come from no Ranch.

**** Saratoga 12 races, Monmouth 14 race, Del Mar 11 races.

Buddy… it’s been a DAY.Started at 4:30 A.M.—which, for most folks, is a time reserved for regrettin’ tequila and makin’ deals with God.But not us.Nope, we’re already out at Del Mar, watchin’ horses breeze in the dark like caffeine-powered ghosts.

150 works turned in before most people even find their left shoe.Like, what are we doin’? Running a racetrack or command central for NASA?

Then boom—off to the Pea Patch, checkin’ in on some good ol’ Kentucky dirt.You ever been there that early? Smells like dreams, sweat, and old feed buckets.

Then we pack up and head north to Saratoga—The Spa, where the air is rich with hope and humidity, and every third person thinks they're the reincarnation of Andy Beyer because they once hit a $12 exacta.

From there?Off to Jersey, baby.Home of hair gel, hard opinions, and Monmouth Park, where you can smell the hot dogs and desperation from the infield.

And then—because why not—back to the West Coast, full circle, return to Del Mar, where the sun sets like it’s paid to perform and the horses look like movie stars with good feet.

And guess what?We do it all. over. again. tomorrow.

This ain’t a job.It’s a lifestyle.Equal parts madness, passion, and horse sweat.

So if you see me at the track with raccoon eyes at day break, talkin’ to myself and mumblin’ fractions under my breath, you found me. Congratulations and bring the java.