BALTIMORE, Md. – Now that I have your attention, let me say that the people who are attempting to spin the needless death of Eight Belles in the Kentucky Derby are bottom feeders of the first order.
Not since Go for Wand was run into the ground by those who purported to love her and to have her best interests at heart has so much bilge water shot out the asses of so many in the service of such a cruel and unusual “sport.”
Time and a chronic case of high blood pressure prevent me from citing all the fuckwads who have been pontificating since Eight Belles went snap, crackle, and pop with that stuck-up jockey boy on her back, but one comment deserves notice:
“The horses run for their own pleasure.”
Which creature does not belong in this picture?
As that old horse player Bill Clinton, who has ridden his share of nags in his time, might say, “Give me a fucking break.”
The only place where horses run for their own pleasure, and for their pleasure alone, is in nature, where the only thing you find perched on a horse’s back is a predator. In the death-cage setting known as the race track, horses run for the pleasure of a worthless band of predators that includes but is not limited to owners, breeders, trainers, and them stuck-up jockey boys with the squeaky voices and bulimic figures.
Racing is animal abuse, folks, impure and simple; and the only responsible horsemen are the ones who quit.
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