Puddyhead and I were watching the Preakness the other day, like all inveterate gamblers do, me to find a small trifecta, he to find the holy roller.
Gambling is gambling. Horse racing is horse racing. No one cares.
And yet here's the rub:
As they were bringing the horses to post Guy began waxing eloquent on the glistening hindquarters of these thoroughbreds, which I admit are rather impressive.
"Look at the asses on these beasts," he tells me. "Look at the sweat. The shine. It's like they came from a Clairol bottle."
I was ignoring him, looking at a few horses to bet. Then Pud said:
"Look at that fucker! VMan, I want to stump break that horse, son. And the one next to it."
Guy has never read my novel. He doesn't know Futch sex from anyone else's. But he was ready to stump break a horse. And even I am not sure what exactly stump breaking entails. I mean, I'm from south Georgia, and he's from Long Island, and he wants to learn me?
"You realize," says I, "That is a colt, right? He has testicles. Male. Might stump break you."
"I don't care," says Pud. That's a beautiful ass. I want to stump break it. It shines."
There you go. I don't create my world. I adapt to it. I become adept at it. And eventually I adopt it.
It surely is a crazy world.
Posted by Velociman at June 5, 2011 10:18 PM