True Stories: The Preakness Stakes

(By Pinky Ring)

Besides the worst junkies, the best heroin and a higher murder rate than most undeveloped countries- Baltimore has the Preakness Stakes. This weekend the Preakness will run, in MD like it does every third Saturday in May, at Pimlico racetrack in historic West Hell Baltimore.

I haven’t been to the Preakness or a racetrack in general, in about 5 years because I’ve moved on to better ways to worsen my gambling problem- or maybe I’m still scarred by my last race track experience.



Those tiny Jockeys in their flamboyant outfits are scary.

I guess they’re in the same class as dwarves, elves, hobbits, etc, but a little more human. My theory is they have a form of the Benjamin Button disease; let’s call it the “BeeBees” for short (get it, ha ha). I’d be pretty angry too if I was that small- especially if my naughty bits were affected.

True Story:

I went to Pimlico with my cousin to play the ponies. I love to gamble and I have an almost manageable gambling problem when treated with small doses of gaming. My cousin tagged along because he loves women with vices. After a few races I'm down about 50 bucks and my interest in gambling is waning.

I start trying to guess what era the junkies in the vicinity totally went down the tubes based on their attire: 8-ball jacket and shell toes- the 80s, Blue jean jumpers and tattered CB 94s – the 90’s etc. So that goes on for a while until I see the grown woman in the short sleeve prom dress and Lottos- can’t call it.

Then I notice a shapely chick watching the races on the monitors near me with a couple of guys that don’t seem interested in her or racing. My cousin is watching her like a hawk and she just keeps winning and shoving the money into her purse.

I started betting again and the one time I did win, I met her at the window and asked what her secret was. She responded that she grew up around horses and could pick a winner by their behavior at the gate, but she scampered off to her hot spot on the floor before I could get more details. She brushed past my cousin and he told me later that she smelled like cotton candy and was as soft as he had hoped.

Back at the loser’s circle I continue my losing ways and like clock work.

She’s running back to the window getting paid. All that losing was making me nauseous and thirsty so I went over to the concession stand to get a soady pop with my last $6. We see a little dude run up to the Rain Man of horse racing and throw a few bills at her midsection. He pulls her down to eye level and yells in her ear “B#tch, I know what an exacta pays where’s the rest of my money?”

We learned later, from one of the regulars, that the surly little guy was a Jockey wanna-be that couldn’t make weight and subsequently began taking it out on Amazons.
Needless to say after witnessing that domestic meltdown my cousin was no longer interested in her (never did get her name); besides, who wants a chick that can't count.

Exeunt!