There is something about the raw power of thoroughbred horses churning around the track, their smaller than normal human jockeys dressed in oddly colored outfits hanging on for dear life, sweat pouring down their necks (the horses, not the jockeys) that scares the living pants off of WOEFULTOURIST.
He doesn’t know why.
Nor does he care to discover the reason.
It just is.
And sometimes that is enough.
Still, that doesn’t prevent WOEFULTOURIST from visiting the horse race track on occasion and betting wildly, without a clue. Let alone using some logical strataegy – like betting on his favorite color, or the date of his birth, to name too.
Since consistency is his monica, then why shouldn’t his gambling be as woeful as the rest of his existence.
Which is why he goes out of his way to keep even his gambling practices in woeful balance with the rest of his sad, strange lifestyle.
And while the diminished returns on his wagers might put others off, WOEFULTOURIST is made of sterner stuff.
Nor is he satisfied with losing on safe bets like win, place and show.
Pish posh, such lazy bets are far too pedestrian for someone who commutes daily by train.
Instead, WOEFULTOURIST only spends his money on exotic bets.
Exactas and daily doubles – piece of cake with a hole in the middle.
Trifectas and quinellas – can’t spell ‘em, can’t pick ‘em.
Pick 4 and pick 6 – go in blind, come out broke.
After all, if you’re going to lose at the track, you might as well do it with confidence.
Yet, for those who partake in the sport of kings (how they get away with such blatant sexism in this modern age is beyond him, as are most things) the fact is that it’s not just about an itch to place ones scratch on some nag with a funny name – genetics be damned.
It’s about the whole horse racing experience.
Whether it’s the pleasure of getting stuck in a five mile traffic jam approaching the track because you decided to arrive late, on the biggest race day of the season, where free stuff of all kinds was being given out to all paying customers.
Or discovering the latest fad which the marketing department is promoting as a way to bring more families to the park – even though kids can’t legally bet and so take seats away from other patrons that do.
Seems you can’t hook ‘em on gambling early enough.
For those wondering, this years fad designed to put kids in the seats and long lines at the bathrooms, is lunch trucks.
No, not those short stainless steel sided deals that visit a construction site near you selling plastic wrapped tuna fish sandwiches and coffee so powerful it will eat the paint right off your brush.
Rather, the fancy tall stainless trucks that serve fancy meals to fancy folk.
So if you want an asiago topped, shredded portabello sandwich on a stick with srirachi infused remoulade on the side, you’re in luck.
But get it soon, because today’s fad is tomorrows chia pet.
Still it’s good to know that for now, there’s a food truck with your name on it – and it’s getting ticketed for illegal parking so run, run, run you candidate for the glue factory.
Yet another losing bet.
Ah well, another tax write off.
WOEFULTOURIST urges his readers to go to the horse track and enjoy an afternoon, or evening where fortunes are lost and frittered away like the sands of our time.
Or is it sanded away like the lunch truck fritters of our time.
Or is it –
Wheel the 8 horse in the 7th, box the 6 horse in the 9th and you’ve got as good a chance as any of the other woefuls out there to pocket your earnings.
Remember, you’ve got to be in it to win it.
Oops, that’s the lottery.
Perhaps a cashew encrusted, seaweed and artichoke veggie burger topped with carrot slaw and balsamic fish sauce might help cheer you up.
Though better get ‘em while they’re hot.