The Age of Hot Takes....

The Age of Hot Takes & Dumbass Certainty

Y’all, we are livin’ in the golden age of the knee-jerk reaction. The "say-it-first, think-it-never" era. It's a hell of a time to be alive—if you're into bein’ wrong loudly and confidently in public.

You ever notice this? It’s the first quarter of a football game—team just gave up a touchdown—and here come the keyboard warriors like,

“SEASON’S OVER. FIRE THE COACH. TRADE EVERYBODY. MY GRANDMA COULD TACKLE BETTER THAN THIS DEFENSE.”

Like, buddy... relax. There's 50 minutes of football left. This ain’t Tecmo Bowl.

But no—people don’t watch sports anymore, they react to ‘em. And not in a reasonable, nuanced way, but like they’re tryin’ to win a prize for Most Dramatic Person on the Internet. Every take's gotta be hotter than a summer seatbelt in Mississippi.

You know who's the worse? Chicago Bears fans, every Sunday is a constant bitch feat stream of negativism. Fire George Halas!

And it ain’t just football. Horse racing got these same fools. I spent years in press boxes and you’d hear it constantly:

“He’s DONE. Cooked. Over. Might as well take him to the petting zoo.”

Then two weeks later? That same horse comes back and wins at 12-1, and they’re like,

“Well yeah, I liked him last time.”No you didn’t, Dude. You were in the group chat liking him as a lawn ornament in your yard"

This is the thing: it's all noise. Social media has turned people into emotional slot machines—just yanking that lever and vomiting takes with no accountability. Say it first, be wrong later. Or now. Doesn’t matter.

And don’t get me started on the so-called experts—NFL pundits, racing analysts, all of ‘em. One bad game? One clunker race?

“The dynasty’s over. Sell the farm. Burn the silks.”

Jesus, y’all. Maybe take a beat before pronouncing death on a career. y'all going to be wrong 9999 out 10,000 times.

You know who don’t make snap judgments? Winners. Winners watch. They observe. They withhold. They don’t throw tantrums every time something don’t go their way like a toddler whose tablet died.

But the losers? Oh, they got no shame. Just confidently dumb. They sleep like babies—because it never occurs to ‘em they might be wrong. Walkin’ through life like they’re the smartest guy in the grandstand, yellin’ into the void about who’s trash, who’s GOAT, and why they’d be a better GM than every actual GM, tomorrow they be solving the Joanbenet disappearance, online, live.

Meanwhile, smart folks are sweatin’ every detail, triple-checkin’ replays, tryin’ to keep their bankroll alive.

Watch the Damn Tape Before You Pop Off

Before I go makin’ some snap decision—whether it's about a football team, a politician, or a three-year-old filly—I like to do something that’s apparently gone completely outta style: watch the damn replay. Maybe the head-on angle. Maybe I watch it twice. Hell, sometimes I squint like I’m tryin’ to see Jesus in a grilled cheese, just to make sure I ain’t missin’ nothin’.

'Cause here’s the truth: things ain’t always what they seem when you’re just screamin’ at a screen or scrollin’ Twitter like it’s the Book of Revelations.

Take Thorpedo Anna, for example. Had herself a clunker, no way around it. And naturally, the Knee-Jerk Olympics kicked off immediately:

“I'm going to get a price on her in the Breeders Cup"

Like clockwork. These folks will pronounce her their best bet before the horse even hits the backstretch.

But me? I sat back and watched. I wanted to see Kenny McPeek’s face and reaction. And you know what?

He looked like a man who just found out the transmission fell outta his truck halfway to the county fair.

Credit where it’s due—McPeek didn’t go ghost like some trainers do. Nope. He spent two full days basically doin' PR triage, postin’ unflattering barn videos of Thorpedo Anna joggin’ like she just stepped on a nail.

You could see it. She was pushin' off all wrong, rear end lookin’ tighter than a Baptist mom on prom night. She was uncomfortable. And Kenny knew it. Knew in his heart she’d probably run her last race—and he still had the decency to try and be transparent.

Now that’s rare. Most trainers? They disappear faster than a beer at a fish fry. But Kenny came out and said, “Here’s what we’re dealin’ with.” That takes guts. Or guilt. Or both.

And I saw some online comment that would take the popular 'jackass comment of the day:

“Thorpedo Anna is a really nice filly that brushed briefly with greatness in the Travers. In 10 years, she’ll have faded from memory, like Azeri and Havre de Grace. No one talks about them anymore”

Oh okay, Dr. Doolittle. I didn’t realize you were an equine expert and a clairvoyant. Tell me again how you'd train a Kentucky Oaks winner using vibes and homeopathy, instead of wishing her a happy retirement as a momma.

I look forward to seeing her babies run.

See, this is what drives me nuts: the folks who shout the loudest are the ones who ain’t watchin’ the tape, ain’t readin’ the quotes, and sure as hell ain’t tryin’ to understand the whole picture. They want to be cute. They ain't!

They're allergic to nuance. Give ‘em a bad race and they’ll write the eulogy before the horse even gets their ice boots on.

So if you care about this game—really care—do your homework. Watch. Listen. Think. And maybe have the decency to wait ‘til the dust settles before callin’ somebody or some horse “washed.”

Because sometimes, things go wrong. And sometimes, they end. That don’t mean they weren’t damn good while they lasted.

So yeah, maybe Thorpedo Anna’s done. But she ran her heart out every time out, morning and afternoon. And Kenny tried to do right by her at the end. That counts for somethin’.

Unlike them half-baked Twitter takes.

So here's my advice: Don’t be a numbnut.

Don’t be a human hot take machine. Don’t speak in absolutes unless you’re talkin’ about Waffle House bein’ open during a hurricane.

Think before you post a 'hot take'. Watch before you whine. Because the horse that “ain’t got it no more”?He might just cash your rent money at 15-1 next time out.

And that’s the real hot take, baby.