Clayton Diggs

4 out of 5 assholes hate Clayton

Month: May, 2012

Fitzgerald, Dicaprio’s Pussy Posse, and The Great Gatsby

(Editor’s warning: links might lead you to some insanely funny shit… or not.  It depends on the link.)

You ever just sit around and think about The Great Gatsby? I did recently and I realized, yet again, that it’s a great fuckin’ book. Hot damn, F.Scott Fitzgerald, as a writer, I gotta hate you! But man, as a reader, I gotta love you. How did he write that shit, you know? Deal with the devil? Was it all the booze? And if so, what was he drinking and where can I get me some? Hot damn!

In case you’ve been so  foolish as to never read what may well be the best novel in the English language, here’s what it’s about: Nick Carraway, a penniless day-trader, finds himself fascinated by the lavish lifestyle and sexy parties of his much richer neighbor, the mysterious Jay Gatsby. Gatsby, as it turns out, has been in love with Nick’s cousin, Daisy Buchanan, for forever and a day. Daisy is married to a blithering asshole named Tom who likes to punch his mistresses. Jay and Daisy start bangin’ on the side and shit goes down. You do the math. It’s a great fuckin’ book!

Recently, between bouts of the DTs, I read somewhere that they’re making a new movie version of The Great Gatsby, and I reckon that’s a good thing seeing as how the other movie versions of that fine, fine American novel pretty much made me want to jump through the damn screen and strangle everyone involved for taking a giant dump all over our cultural and literary heritage.

Probably the best version so far was the one with Robert Redford as Gatbsy, even though old Robbie looked a little long in the tooth to play boy-millionaire Jay Gatsby.

Daisy: “Oh, Jay, I love you.”

Gatsby: “Oh, Daisy, I’ve loved you since I was an 18 year-old military conscript.”

Daisy: (puzzled) “When was that?”

Gatsby: “Oh, about thirty-odd years ago. Want to see my wrinkly first lieutenant?”

Apart from Rob being too old, the thing that really bugged the living shit out of me about the movie was child-hoarder Mia Farrow. Mia Farrow? This is the chick that Gatsby is supposed to be so obsessed with that he built himself a new life just to try and get with her? This is the chick who men are willing to fight and die over? Hey, no offense to Mia Farrow, but she is and always has been a lifeless, irritating, hideous slag. I mean, I’m sure Mia Farrow’s a nice enough woman in real life, but I’m not that into necrophilia. I mean, truth be told, I’ve actually seen corpses with more sex appeal than Mia Farrow. I mean…okay, enough! Hot damn! I’m sorry. No, I’m not. Hot damn!

Anyway, the new movie version is gonna star Leo Dicaprio (aka ‘The Prettiest Girl in Hollywood’) as Jay Gatsby and Tobey Maguire (aka ‘The Prettiest Ugly Girl in Hollywood’) as Nick Carraway. Leo seems a decent fit for Gatsby, though Brad Pitt would have fit the bill of aging golden-boy a little better, and Tobey is just about right as nearly invisible, retiring narrator Nick Carraway. Then you’ve got Carrie Mulligan as Daisy, and she’s like a million times hotter than Mia Farrow (who reminds me of a zombie, only I’d rather get blown by a zombie). And the director, Baz Luhrmann, has got a real flare for dance scenes and bright over the top shit. All in all: Clayton digs it!

The only trouble I can foresee is that former “Pussy Posse” members and self-declared BFFs Leo and Tobey might have trouble keeping the focus on Carey Mulligan. Will Leo get with Carey and try to  live sort of happily ever after? Or – just as likely – will Carey catch Leo giving an under-the-table handjob to boy-crush Tobey like they used to do all the time on the New York club scene?

Daisy: “Oh, Jay, will you love me forever?”

Jay: “Hang on…just a…second Daisy…”

Daisy: “Nick, what are you doing under the table?”

Nick: “I…um…gag…er…mmm…gag…looking for…mmm…gag…”

Gatsby: “Oh…Daisy. Oh, Daisy!”

Fitzgerald spent almost three solid years of his tragic, alcohol-drenched life writing The Great Gatsby, all the while dealing with his schizophrenic, batshit wife, Zelda. In the end, despite the novel being almost flawless, it was commercially a flop.  Fitzgerald died of an alcoholism-related heart attack just four days shy of Christmas, in 1940, believing himself to be a damn failure. A few years later, his wife, Zelda, died in an asylum when the place went up in flames. Good times!

So what’s the moral of the story, boys and girls? Don’t drink so much your heart quits? Don’t fuck schizophrenics and if you do, sure as shit be out the door next morning bright and early with your fedora in your hand? I don’t think so. I think the moral is that if you take all your energy and genius and harness that shit to real, brutal, five-in-the-damn-morning-every-motherhumping-day discipline, you can make something so damn beautiful that people will never forget you. One day, if you’re real lucky, long after you’re worm shit, they might even make a movie out of your stuff starring Leo and Tobey. So please, guys, in honor of F. Scott and our cultural heritage: keep your hands off each other’s junk and the focus on the girl. Hot damn! I’m sorry. No, I’m not.

God bless you, F. Scott Fitzgerald. God bless you.

“I am very,very drunk but my book is very, very good.”

Ernest Hemingway, Hard Living, and Sharks

You ever sit just sit around and think about Ernest Hemingway? We’re coming up on the 51st anniversary of Hemingway’s death, and it got me thinking. Isn’t it kind of weird that we remember him on the day he died? I mean, remember how he died? He grabbed a shotgun and shot himself in the face, decades before Kurt Cobain thought of it. You know what else? His wife was in the house and she was the one who found him.

That must have sucked it.

You see, for months and months, maybe even years, old Ernie was convinced that the Feds were tapping his phone, bugging his house, and basically driving him nuts, and nobody believed him. They just thought all the years of scotch and sodas were taking their toll. Eventually, he couldn’t take it; not the feeling of being hunted like an animal, and probably not the feeling of everyone thinking he was batshit. He actually tried to off himself several times before he bought the farm. He also spent time in a mental institution. And you know the worst of it? Turns out the Feds were tapping his phone, bugging his house, and driving him nuts. The fuckers!

See, that’ s not really how I want to remember Hemingway, as an old guy, kind of fat, full of regrets, telling anyone who would listen that the government was trying to get him. I grew up reading his stuff. I love The Sun Also Rises. Those people in the book are screwed up, big time, but I’d still like to hang out with them, have some wine, some more wine, more wine, fall down, see a bullfight, get in a fight, and go fishing. Hell, you substitute bourbon for wine, that pretty much describes my youth. Oh, and Brett Ashley? Apart from having a dude’s first name for a last name, hottest woman in literature.

Thanks, Papa Hemingway!

I like to remember all the times Hemingway probably should have done himself in (accidentally) but made it through. I once read this book about him and there was a rundown of all the accidents he suffered during his life. It was like two damn pages long, and included: two plane crashes, two car accidents, bringing a skylight down on his head by mistaking its rope for the toilet chain, breaking his foot kicking a door in anger, and (my favorite) shooting himself in the leg while trying to gaff a shark. (If you want the full list, check out the book Intellectuals, by Paul Johnson.) Hell in ‘tarnation, that’s my kind of boy. You think he was drinking a lot to have that much bad luck? He was. He was putting down 17 scotch and sodas a day and going to bed with a bottle of champagne (he often wasn’t going to bed alone, so you’ve got to wonder about what else that champagne bottle might have been for). Anyway, point is, for years and years the son of bitch did a bunch of stuff that by all rights should have ended in a funeral, but didn’t. He was this tough bastard who drank and hunted and boxed and fucked.

So that’s how I like to remember him. I know, in the end his fucked-up, self-destructive side took over, but why dwell on the last chapter of his life? Look, we’re all going to end up six feet under eventually, so let’s remember him like he was in his glory days. The hell with the day he killed himself. I’d rather think of old Hem on the day he shot himself in the leg trying to gaff a shark and then had a drink. I think that’s more who he was.

So, here’s to you, Ernie. You weren’t a perfect human being, but you sure were cool.

Thinking of Hemingway makes me thirsty. Want another great way to remember Hemingway? I once heard that he’s the guy responsible for making daiquiris popular in the States. Don’t know if it’s totally true, but here’s a good daiquiri recipe just in case:

Hemingway’s Daiquiri:

  • A fat shot of white rum
  • Juice of 1 lime
  • 1 tsp maraschino juice
  • A little bit of grapefruit juice
  • Some sugar
  • Ice
  • A gaffing hook
  • A shark
  • A gun

Stick all the very fine, good, clean, bright shit into a shaker with ice and shake until your hands sting. Serve in a highball on the rocks. Chase with some rum or bourbon. Then gaff the shark and shoot yourself in the leg. Avoid medical treatment because you’re a tough bastard. Have another daiquiri and some more rum. Cheers, friends!

“I am manly. I damage myself almost constantly. Pass the Scope. I’m thirsty!”

Will Smith Slaps Reporter, Promotes Men in Pink 3

You ever sit around and think about slapping a reporter? Will Smith did recently when he was doing red carpet interviews in the Ukraine for the premiere of “Men in Black 3.” Seems he didn’t like it overmuch when a reporter tried to kiss him, but to be fair to the confused Ukrainian dude, he thought he was at the premiere of another movie that was opening nearby: “Men in Pink 3: Revenge of the Intergalactic Anuses.”

The kissing reporter is a guy from Ukranian channel 1+1 and his name is Vitali Serdiuk. Seems he told Will Smith right before the kiss that “ it is Vitali that I ser your diuk,” and the Fresh Prince decided to drop a beat on Vitali like it was 1992. It went down like this:

Vitali: “Hello, Will Smith. I great fan”

Will: “Thanks man. You kind of smell like potatoes and vodka.”

Vitali: “It is vitali that I ser your diuk.”

Will: “Say what?”

Vitali: “I kiss you now, my Fresh Prince.”

Will:”C’mon man, what the hell is your problem buddy? I’m manly. Watch how I slap you lightly with the back of my hand like a little girl.”

Vitali: “I like your little slap, playful American-African sex god.”

Will: “He’s lucky I didn’t sucker punch him. I didn’t enjoy that even a little bit.”

Random Urkanian reporter: “Will, how you explain erection in pants?”

Will: “Um.  Dance like a butterfly, sting like a bee?”

(Vitali Serdiuk is the same dude who gave Madonna a bouquet of hydrangeas a while back and that charming platinum retarded female dog thought it would be cool if she ditched them under a table by way of saying thanks.)

Anyway, looks like, for the world’s goofiest looking Mohamed Ali impersonator, channel 1+1 doesn’t = Vitali+Will. Maybe Vitali can give Madonna a call, give it another shot with the world’s lamest MILF. As for me, you’ll find me laughing my ass off, getting drunk on my damn porch, hoping a raccoon stops by to offer me hydrangeas or tries to kiss me… so I can shoot him. Yeehah!

Will Smith: “Feel the wrath of the back of my baby-soft hand.”

My Son, Clayton Jr., Is the Coolest Guy I Know

You ever sit around and think about how damn cool your kids are? I’m serious. I don’t get people who just wanna bitch and moan about their kids. There’s nothing on earth cooler than my year-and-a-half-old son, Clayton Von Jr! Hot damn!

Last night he was at my place and he woke up around 2:30 in the morning. I heard him stumble into my room like a drunken soldier, rubbing his big blue eyes and saying “Hi-eeeee?” in that earnest way he’s got. So I carried him back to his bed with his chubby arms wrapped around my neck and set him down and lay next to him. He just lay on his side looking me square in the eye, real serious, and touching my cheek like he was petting a kitten and making kissy noises at me with his rosebud lips. How cool is that? I’d rather be doing that with my son than any other thing. You can have your billion bucks, Mark Zuckerburg; I’ve got my boy.

You know what else Clay Jr. does that gets me? Everything. Like how he says “ah-pple? ah-pple?” for any food he’s keen on, or how he’ll take a chug of beer and then look at me with big eyes and say, “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” How cute is that? Just take my heart out of my chest right now and stab it with a pitchfork, you know? And I like how he builds these little towers out of blocks with an expression on his face like he’s got urban planning in mind, and how he stacks his boots one on top of the other on the bedside table.  I like how he always insists on having at least five of his matchbox cars in his hands and screams if he doesn’t.  And I dig how he dances his tiny curved thumb over surfaces like a finger-ballerina whenever his mind is somewhere else. He’s dreaming big dreams, I reckon. And I like brushing his curls back off his broad forehead (you could have a drive-in movie theater on my kid’s forhead!) until he falls asleep.

And then he’s waking me up at 2:30 in the morning again so I can put him back to sleep. There’s nothing better. Hot damn! If I had a drink for every cool thing my son does, I’d… well, I’d have the kind of evening I generally have.

So I’ll raise many cups to you, Clay Jr. As many as I can for as long as I damn well can. Here’s to you, son.

I love you.

Clayton Diggs, 2012

“I’m so damn cute it $#%@!ing  hurts.”

Mark Zuckerburg, the Asian Ring of Fire, and Marriage

You ever just sit around and think about what it would be like to have a billion bucks? I did, recently, and it led me to Mark Zuckerburg, who it seems to me has pulled off the I’ve-got-a-billion-bucks thing better than anyone else who’s turned the trick, especially seeing as how he’s barely old enough to shave his pubes (not like that old horse-humping bastard, J.Paul Reddam). I mean, hot damn, the kid started Facebook in between jerking off to Victoria’s Secret catalogs while he was a boy-student at Harvard way the hell back in distant 2004. Yeah, it’s been a long ride from hoodie-wearing pimply boy to hoodie-wearing pimply billionaire – a whole damn eight years!

Everybody seems to be talking a lot about the Facebook IPO, the company leaving home to go out into the big bad world and all, but then yesterday I read something that made me think that the IPO launch was just a smokescreen for something else the Zuckermeister had up his elastic-banded, thick cotton sleeve: the dude was planning to get hitched to his Harvard Asian cutie, Priscilla “Queen of the Facebook” Chan!

And you know where they had the wedding? The Taj Mahal? On top of the Eiifel Tower? In the Oval Office (bought from Barrack for a tidy sum)? On the moon? And who would be the minister? The Pope? Brad Pitt? Brangelina? Nope. Here’s where and how the thing went down: in the kid’s backyard in Palo Alto, California, in front of just 100 folks, with the couple’s poofy little white dog, Beast, officiating the ceremony.

It went like this:

Beast: “Woof, woof, woof, arfity arf take billionaire Facebook guy?”

Priscilla Chan: “Are you fucking kidding me? Get the damn ring on my finger before Mark sees Angelina Jolie’s dress.”

Mark: “Um.”

Beast: “Woof woof arf arf pronounce you billionaire and Asian cutie. Can I have that bacon bit now?”

Priscilla: “Is that it? Can I stop pretending to like this dork?”

Mark: “Um. What? 0-1-0-1-0-1-1?”

Every other woman in the back yard: “Fuck!”

So there you have it folks, the world’s most eligible hooded nerd is off the market. The wedding was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, seen by a lucky few who are still trying to wrap their heads around it. It must have been kind of like looking at an eclipse, kind of like the one that people in Asia and the Western U.S. saw this morning, the famously mind-blowing Ring of Fire. It’s what’s called an annular eclipse, apparently, and it’s when the moon comes along and blocks the sun, just leaving a little ring of the fireball visible to us mortals. Of course, the real eclipse didn’t happen in Mark’s backyard, but probably late last night, when Mark’s moon eclipsed Priscilla Chan’s Asian “ring of fire.” It might well have gone like this:

Priscilla: “Oh, Mark, eclipse my ring of fire.”

Mark: “Um. 0100010101101010101001010100.”

Priscilla: “Give it to me like a billion bucks!”

Mark: “Um. 00000000000000000000111111111111!!!”

Anyway, I reckon I’m kind of being a shitbird-asshole about the whole thing, but the truth is they’re a pretty adorable couple. But how can a guy not be a little bitter at another guy when that other guy could buy Egypt and move it to Arkansas? In any event, here’s to you kids, you glorious fucking billionaire man-child and you Asian cutie. I raise my mint julep to salute you before passing out in my rickety rocking chair. Here’s to you.

Priscilla: “Eclipse me, Mark.” Mark: “Um. 0101001010.”

30 Kids, a Hatchett Man, and the Hokey-Pokey

You ever just sit around and think about fathering kids? Desmond Hatchett, a 33 year-old dude from Tennessee did, and a lot by the look of things, because he ended up with 30 rug-rats. Hot damn, man, you’re on fire! I mean, how the hell in a hoot-a-nanny do you father 30 damn kids? Okay, so maybe that’s not exactly the right question, seeing as how the answer’s as plain as pie. I mean, what the hell where you thinking, dude, when you fathered 30…hang, on, wrong question again…I’m pretty sure we know what he was thinking.

He was thinking about the Hokey-Pokey, right? He put his third leg in, he took his third leg out, he put his third leg in, and shaked it all about. He did the Hokey-Pokey and he turned himself into a dude who’s gotta pay child support to 11 women. Tell you what, that’s a “Hatchett” job if I ever heard of one. I mean, this dude’s been hacking away at this for years. I mean, he’s taken a lot of whacks at being a father.  I mean…okay, enough of that.

Thing about the child support is, seeing as how the Hatchett man only makes minimum wage, a lot of the moms are only getting like $1.49 a month, which last time I checked was enough to buy a pack of diapers….circa, about 1945. And isn’t word getting around the neighborhood about this guy?  I mean, mothers, lock up your daughters when you see the Hatchett man coming.

And here’s the really crazy part: the Hatchett man’s oldest kid is only 14. That means he’s averaged better than two kids and two moms for the past 14 years. The guy’s setting up franchises, trouble being that they don’t make money. And when they asked him how it all happened he said: “I put the third leg in, I take the third leg out…” Actually, the dude said he hit the big 3-oh because: “I had four kids in the same year. Twice.” Okay, Hatchett man, that covers eight of the little buggers. What about the other 22? I mean, that’s two soccer teams, football offense and defense. Jesus wept. And when he did, Desmond Hatchett got hot and bothered and found lucky lady 12, no doubt. What the hell!

Despite the fact that Hatchett man’s been to court over child support a bunch, it seems the state can’t shut down his factory. He hasn’t broken any laws, aside from being a total blithering-jackass-pistoning-jackrabbit of human being. So remember, kids, don’t be a Hatchett man. Wrap your junk up. Use a rubber, man. Got no rubber? Shit, grab a plastic bag, Saran-wrap, whatever, a bologna sandwich, whatever. Hot damn!

“Oh…Desmond…Hokey-Pokey me!” 

Gateway Sexual Activity, Governors, and Shitbirds

You ever just sit around and think about politics? I did recently and it made me want to puke. Now normally I don’t like to get real political, but every once in a while something comes along that’s so plain damn stupid that I don’t even reckon it’s got any business being in the news or anywhere else.

Did you see the story on “gateway sexual activity”? and the Sex Education Bill the Governor of Tennessee just signed into law? Check it out: A bill that puts a gag order on talking about sex? Do we really want to make it so our kids know absolutely nothing about how kids are made? How fucked the hell up is that? That dude must be smoking ground bull nuts (not that I’d know anything about that but my cousin Clem swears by it as a way to unwind from his sewage treatment gig)!

I saw Stephen Colbert talking about the bill on “The Colbert Report” and laughed my ass off when he said: “Kissing and hugging are the last stop before reaching Groin Central Station, so it’s important to ban all the things that lead to the things that lead to sex.” Indeed! And now teachers in Tennessee are worried as hell that they can’t even talk about sex in school without facing $500 fines and suspensions. Guess they’d better avoid talking about “asthma” in health class because it’s got the word “ass” in it. Remind me to steer clear of Tennessee. What the fuck, right?

And you gotta love the advice proponents of the bill give about sex in general, which is “just don’t think about it.” Do you remember being a fourteen year-old boy? I do – hell, I still am that boy – and I remember thinking about tits and ass and touching stuff about four hundred times a day and if some asshole Governor had told me to just “not think about it” and to avoid “gateway sexual activity” I’d probably tell him to shove it sideways into his own damn gateway. Think about that, Governor. The whole damn thing just reeks to high heaven of the Taliban, Afghanistan, Iran, and that book by that Canadian woman, Atwood, called “The Handmaid’s Tale.” See, in the book, the Middle East has taken over the USA and everywhere else and nobody gets to get laid anymore except these sex slaves called Handmaids who get fucked by their male owners while the owners’ wives hold them down. Sounds really kinky but I don’t think I’d be into it. How about you, Governor Bill (willy) Haslam of Tennessee (hmmm…Haslam sounds a lot like Islam… coincidence?)? Is that your kind of thing, you retrograde, Taliban-loving shit-bird?

So this week, in protest of shit like this, let’s all get out there and engage in as much good old fashioned “gateway sexual activity” as we can. It’s our civic duty. It’s about survival of the damn species. It’s about good times and lying out under the stars with a good woman and not feeling bad about it. Hot damn!

Governor Bill Haslam: “I am a shitbird. I enjoy fat Taliban cock.”

Ipads, Converters, and Whores

You ever just sit around and think about how technology doesn’t work for you but instead technology makes you its damn whore? I did recently, when I got the damn fool idea of buying an iPad. Now, first off, I’d much appreciate it if nobody reading this would tell anyone where I live about this, ‘cause I’m likely to get tarred and feathered and called a queer (not that there’s anything wrong with that) and maybe worse. In my neck of the wood an iPad is what a woman wears when she’s in a mood.

Thing of it is, I love the damn thing and I can’t stop buying shit on it. It’s too easy to get on the App Store and get free crap like kids’ books and quizzes and how-to-make-a-homemade-still-apps and how-to-put-arsenic-into-your-asshole-neighbor’s-water-supply apps and so on. It’s some crazy shit! I mean, seriously, I’m up all night throwing down juleps and looking up drink recipes and making drinks and throwing down juleps and then the damn sun comes up. What the hell? You know?

Recently somebody gave a real nice book of drink recipes, thick, glossy pictures and all that good stuff. Only trouble was, thing was written in You-Rope and all the drinks were in metric. Like, I wanted to make a Cadillac Margarita but what the hell is 200ml of lime juice? Then I thought about my iPad and all those damn apps and wouldn’t you know it, it’s three in the morning and I’m buying a universal Converter! from and converting mls to ounces and making a Cadillac Margarita (and hey, if you boys at Pinch wanna pay be for saying this shit I won’t say no) and by the way, 200ml is 2 damn ounces, you You-Ropean freaks! What’s wrong with folks? So I made the drink and then I got to screwing around with the Converter! and it converts like 400 different things and then I passed out and woke up on the ground with a cat licking my face.

The other thing about the iPad is my kid loves it. He’s like just barely a year and a half and already he’s unlocking the thing himself and starting up his favorite books, turning pages, laughing like the cute little fool that he is. Man, I hate to say it, but I LOVE this damn gadget. Anything that makes my kid happy and might be better for him than the TV is okay by me. Only trouble is, way things are going, junior’s college fund is gonna get spent on cool apps. What are you gonna do? You gotta have priorities, you know? Yeehah!

“Okay, Mister. Just leave the iPad on the dresser.”

The Kentucky Derby, Loan Crooks, and Burgoo!

Did you ever just sit around and think about the Kentucky Derby? I did today, because today was the running of the Kentucky Derby. Horses, girls in hats, low cut dresses, Bourbon juleps, betting – it’s the American way! Yeehah!

I can’t really afford to get out to Churchill Downs this year, but the least I could do was sit on the couch with my kid and slam juleps and yell stuff at the screen. Funny thing: “I’ll Have Another” won the damn race. I’ll have another too, if you don’t mind! And another!

That little three-year-old thoroughbred sure can move. Did you hear? The little chestnut colt sold for $11,000! 11 grand? That’s what owner J. Paul Reddam spends in a week on hookers to help him forget about all the American families his loan company was “forced” to throw out into street in the middle of a blizzard (Reddam used to own DiTech, sold it for a trillion bucks, and now is in the biz of raping homeowners and their kids with a company called CashCall, if you can fuckin’ believe it – also, he feasts on children’s kidneys every Sunday)! 11 grand? That’s the kind of money that J. Paul Reddam spends on diamond tie-pins! That’s the kind of money that J. Paul Reddam… anyway, enough of that. It’s cheap for the sonofabitch.

You see what that guy said about racing? Check it out: “Every once in a while, something good happens, and that keeps you gambling, buying horses, what have you” (ReadAnd what have you, Paulie? As in subprime-mortgage loans designed to drive hardworking American families into foreclosure? As in the giant sucking sound of your bloated ass gobbling the college funds of kids all over America. Hell yeah? What have you! Another day at the races, folks. God Bless America.

But I do love the races. The Derby’s been run continually since like 1875! There’s juleps and there’s burgoo! Burgoo to you too. It’s a thick stew of beef, chicken, pork, goat, elephant, dolphin, bald eagle, and veggies. It’s delicious.  Check out my recipe for burgoo here: It’s a melting pot, just like the good old U.S. of A. And there’s jockeys! Dudes the size of a six year old who weigh like 100 pounds covered in tar and eat three carrots and a stick of celery once a week and never touch burgoo, not even once. And the jockey who won it this year, Mr. Mario Gutierrez, a 25-year-old kid from Veracruz, Mexico. Word is that Mario was paid just as well for his work as most other Mexican’s get paid for theirs; that’s to say, J. Paul Reddam gave him a home loan right before he foreclosed on the guy’s six kids and had him deported back to Juarez for not having his papers in order. Yeehah! Enjoy.

So yeah, it was a good time had by all, but especially by that champ, Mr. J. Paul Reddam. Sure hope he wins big at the Preakness and at the Belmont. Can’t ever have too many shady loan companies in America. For now, anyway, me and the kid are just gonna chill here on the couch until J. Paul shows up to repossess it. It’s another damn day at the races and I couldn’t be any happier!

“Beat that horse, little Mexican. Do it for J. Paul Reddam!”

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