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It was time to start betting on horses again. I used to bet on the ponies on occasion when I lived near the Del Mar track in California. The first race I always picked the horse. It sort of went completely downhill from there. I don’t think I ever won a 2nd race, like , ever.

I like to look at the horses just before the race. The one with the best flank gets my money. That’s it. I can’t bet on a horse otherwise. I wouldn’t know which one to pick. I have to sit there and watch them walk, then I run to the window to place my bet. It works every time. Well, every time meaning the first race, but then I can’t pick them anymore.

Today I went to the Hilton Sports Book to bet on the Kentucky Derby. I heard on the news it was on at 1pm, so I went about 12:15pm or so to make sure I could get a parking spot and have time to pick my horse, eat some lunch, you know, the usual.

Well, as it turns out, it doesn’t start at 1pm. There are a bunch of other races going on so I bet on one of those. The ninth race at Churchill Downs I missed by seconds because of screwing around. I got my money in on the tenth for Zembezi Sun. Hot horse. I really liked him. He came in fourth. I had him to win or place and he had the nerve to come in fourth. Off to the glue factory for him. He’s dead to me.

It was a long wait until the eleventh race. Someone finally clued me in on where to look for the time on that huge TV. I had fifty minutes yet to go and I was antsy. I wanted to pick my horse and I can’t until I see them. So I sat at the slot machine bank just outside the sports book and smoked.

Besides, my little cubby where I was sitting had some note taped to the desk that indicated it was saved for the derby by someone named only as “H”. What is this, High School? There were these scribbled little papers all over the place. I think most people just ignored them. I don’t know what that is all about, but I figured someone bigger than me was going to kick me out of that seat sooner or later anyway.

It wasn’t long and the horses were being led around the track so goofy people like me can take a look. A couple from Los Angeles sat down next to me. The wife and I compared our horse picking strategies. She had already decided on Chocolate Candy. I had a list of six I was trying to decide between. I kept watching them over and over. I finally decided on the high spirited Mr. Hot Stuff and Papa Clem. I could not decide between the two. They both seemed so wild that I figured I was taking a chance of them getting spooked or something, but what the hell. There were just too many to choose from and I wasn’t going to bet on them all. So, win, place and show on those two.

I was feeling better and better about Mr. Hot Stuff. What an animal! But it isn’t like me to pick just a wild, jumping around, bucking horse for a race. I thought this just might bite me in the ass.

And then they were off! Papa Clem was keeping up and Mr. Hot Stuff wasn’t doing so hot. Then near the end of the race this number eight, “Mine That Bird”, the 50/1 NOT favorite starts coming up the inside and takes off like all holy Hell. He passed a bunch of horses and just kept on going. He won the race without a doubt being numerous horse lengths ahead of everyone else. The crowd screamed! WTF?

As an added note, I do own a bird and I was not minding him, being at the sports book. I refuse to pick a horse that way. It might be time to change that rule.

And my horses? Well, Hot Stuff ain’t so hot and came in frickin’ fifteenth. Ugh. Papa Clem came in guess what? Fourth. I picked another fourth horse. You know, you only get to choose first, second and third. Fourth doesn’t get ya squat. I sure am good at picking fourth, though.

Little known fact… I used to be called Scarlett O’Hara as a kid. For different reasons when I was a baby than when I was a teenager. As the men started to fill all the chairs around us at the slots, one guy declared me his girlfriend and told the other men they couldn’t talk to me.

Well, I was waiting for the official word on that race because poor Clem was in fourth place and all. As it turns out, the guy sitting next to me also had Clem. So, my new ‘boyfriend’ offered to buy my ticket for a buck because I only bet $2. I told him no, I was going to take my chances.

After about fifteen minutes of screwing around with these guys and rehashing that incredible win over and over we had the official results. They didn’t change. The boyfriend says, “You should have sold me your ticket!” Yeah, haha.

I announced I was going home. Damn ponies.

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