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Wednesday, May 28, 2008

What can you do for Brown?

Big Brown, associated more with a delivery service than race tracks, has a crack in his front left hoof and may not be able to run in next Saturday's Belmont Stakes. If he doesn't race NBC's ratings will reflect what could very well have been coverage of a Muncie, Ind., PTA meeting.
All this time, those clever, seasonal racing fans are asking "What can Brown do for you?" Some say he can save the sport while others argue that he'll put it out of its misery by proving that a Triple Crown winner will do nothing to boost the sports popularity.
And while it has occurred to some of these racing "pundits" that this year's horse cannot speak for himself, it would probably be a lot easier if he could. What they don't know is that he can speak for himself.
Give me a mane brush and call me Robert Redford because I spent some time with the thoroughbred and it turns out I'm a regular horse whisperer. Here's what Big Brown had to say Wednesday afternoon:

Do ya know what it feels like to have a cracked hoof? Mah trainer tells tha reportas that it's like havin' a cracked cuticle in yer fingernail an' that it hurts. Hell yeah it hurts, but it's nothin' like havin' a cracked fingernail. Since when do humans walk on their fingernails? I di'n't think so. It's like someone slicin' ya three big toes open an' makin' ya walk around on dirt tracks all day. An' when you're not doin' that ya have to stand in yer own s--- with a cut on yer toes. How does that sound?
This whole Triple Crown bulls--- is tha equiv'lent of yer godfather enterin' ya an' yer smallest kid into piggy-back races against other parents. Ya win tha first race, but yer MILF crush from tha next neighborhood actually breaks her ankle crossin' tha finish line an' is euthanized right there on tha track in front of her 12-year-old son.
I mean sure, ya feel bad for tha kid an' his family, but for Secrectariat's sake, that could have been you dyin' with yer kid on yer back! Well I don't want to die, an' I sure as hell don't want to run another race a couple weeks later. But ya know what? Ya do it anyway because yer kid is crackin' ya with a whip an' says if ya don't beat Tommy an' his dad, godfather Mickey isn't gonna let ya sleep with Mommy anymore.
So let me get this straight, ya say. I'm runnin' this race an' not only might I die, but if I don't prove to be "breedworthy," I'm not even allowed to sleep with mah wife anymore? That's right, buddy, that's exactly what I'm thinkin' when I'm runnin' these damn races.
I don't even have a wife, but I'm sure I have a few kids around somewhere. How am I s'posed to find a gal out here when A. Tha one I planned to ask on a date after that Derby dies after I leave her ass in tha dust an' B. There's a hundred-fifteen pound anorexic dude ridin' around on mah back all day. Ya try havin' another guy rap his legs around ya on national television all day an' tell me how many chicks ya pick up. Not many, buddy, no siree. Mah best breedin' days are behind me. Once they make ya a "stud," an oxymoron if I ever heard one, ya only get to sleep with tha big burly women so yer kids are real big an' burly an' can go through all this s--- in three years. That would be like if someone told ya men that ya could only get with high school softball coaches after ya turned 24. Ya wouldn't stand for that now would ya?
I won that second Bal'more race, too, an' I wasn't even in much of a mood to be runnin'. Tha reason I went so fast is because everywhere I turned on tha infield there were 19-year-old boys drinkin' Keystone an' 17-year-old girls liftin' up their trainin' bras. I mean I can't even look at that legally. Can I? Anyway that's how I cracked ma damn hoof, I stepped on one of those beer can tabs comin' around tha first turn an' was tramplin' on it tha whole way aroun'. An' just when I decided it wasn't worth tryin' any longer to win this damn race, I remembered tha part about not gettin' to be a "stud" when I finish this Triple Crown. Well that high school softball coach type is better than yer right hoof any day. Just ask yer trainer to keep tha stable dark an' ya won't know tha diff'rence.
So back to this Belmont crap. Ya know why no horse has won all three of these races since Affirmed? It's simple, we don't really care. We win these races an' earn our owners what, like a million dollars? An' how much of it do we see? None. I still live in tha same dark stable an' ride in tha same trailor up the highways while little kids, probably tha same ones that would whip their parents in tha piggy back races, point at me an' make faces.
So now everyone wants to know, am I gonna to win next Saturday? Of course I'm gonna win if mah trainer lets me run. It was a freakin' beer tab. Yeah it hurts but its nothin' I can't fight through to get that stud status. An' ya know what else, I'm on HGH. That's right, Horse Growth Hormones. Yeah, I said it. Eight Belles was on 'roids but no one discovered that in tha autopsy did they? How do ya think she got those upper legs? Mmm, that's tha only reason I didn't race ahead at tha Kentucky one because I wanted a good look at those four pillars of beauty. Anyway, Affirmed, Seattle Slew, Secretariat, even Sea Biscuit, they all used steroids. They didn't put that part in tha movie, did they? There's no testin' in tha sport, an' they sure as hell aren't gonna bring a horse onto Capitol Hill, so why wouldn't we do it?
An' can I say one more thing? I love those people from PETA. I know they make 'em look bad on television, I hear mah trainer talkin' about it all tha time, but they treat me so good. When it's real late at night, I can be layin' down in ma' stable then alluvsudden I hear these whispers. An' do ya know who it is? It's tha PETA people. They brung me candy bars an' Kool-Aid since ma' trainer only gives me oats an' water durin' tha day. Sometimes I get peanut butter when I hafta do those damn car ads so it looks like I'm talkin'.
So that's about th' extent of it. I hate racin' I really do, but I don't wanna ruin tha rest 'a tha perks for mahself. Tha stud stuff, tha admiration, an' those Musketeers bars -- I couldn't live without 'em. So what should ya do with yer money on next Saturday? Put it all on me. If ma' trainer runs me -- an' I can promise he will -- it won't be close. Everybody wants to know what I can do fer 'em lately. Well this is it, I'm gonna win tha Triple Crown.

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