Eat my dust, bitches.
Imagine for a second that you somehow magically pulled numbers out of a hat and hit yesterday’s Kentucky Derby superfecta.
You would have a massive bar bill this morning but a fresh $557,006.40 to pay it off.
True story from our Derby experience.
So there we were sitting in a piss-drenched sulky track where Midwestern frat boys who couldn’t make it to Louisville were hanging out. They were wearing their loafers, khakis, pink ties and Ray-Ban glasses.
By the way, what’s up with every Southern frat boy douche wearing the glasses with the rope around them. You aren’t bass fishing. It’s a horse racing track.
Sitting down at an outside table, we chatted up some local about who he was going to take.
“He had to get rid of a dead bird this morning so he’s taking both bird horses,” his wife chimed in.
That was the end of the conversation. They went about their business and so did we. And he walked away a winner.
Us? BC had Musket Man, but our boy just couldn’t overcome the speed of Mine That Bird.
The silence amongst the throng of bettors told the story.
Everyone went home a loser.