Here’s something you don’t yet know about me: I have picked 4 of the last 7 Kentucky Derby winners. It’s true. It is a singular, extraordinary gift. Since Saturday is Derby Day, I thought I’d share that with y’all.
So, naturally, comes the question:
“Well, Miss Smarty, have you bet on any of these winners?”
Ah, that would be a no. (Because that would be wrong, right?)
So it seems I’m gifted — but Stupid and Good. It’s an idiot-savant thing.
For anyone curious about which winners I correctly picked, my record looks like this:
2004 — Smarty Jones (yep)
2003 — Funny Cide (yep)
2002 — War Emblem (nope)
2001 — Monarchos (nope)
2000 — Fusaichi Pegasus (nope, I can’t pick you if I can’t pronounce your name, horsey)
1999 — Charismatic (yep)
1998 — Real Quiet (yep)
And in case any of you are poo-pooing with “Oh, well, I bet she’s been doing this for a long time, so her real percentage is a lot less.”
To that I say:
“No, you poo-pooers! You neigh-sayers! 1998 was the year the Lord chose to raise me up as a horse prophet, thereby ushering in The Era of Equine Prophecy.” (And yeah, yeah, true prophets are 100% accurate and all. I didn’t say I was a “true” prophet; I said I was a horse prophet.)
So next comes the plea:
“Oh, Good Horse Prophet, we are but mere mortals. Impart to us your methods.”
To that I say:
“No, you whiny beggars!”
Besides, I can’t. There is no method; that’s the beauty and purity of the gift of Equine Prophecy. No method. I don’t know about any of the horses in the race, ever. I don’t know anything about horses. They are intimidating creatures with piano key teeth and manhole cover hooves and they scare me. That aside, they somehow manage to be majestic and beautiful and I admire them. From a distance. I simply tune in to the race, look the horses, and choose. Given that these credentials fall a bit short of blue ribbon quality, we must therefore surrender to the utter divine inspiration of the Equine Prophecy. There is no other explanation.
Annoying, ain’t it?
So finally comes the weary demand:
“Look, lady. You gonna tell us the winner or not?”
Okay, okay, already.
Prediction: The winner, ridden by a wee hobbit in white tights, will be unable to run fast enough to shake that startling, upsetting resemblance to Camilla Parker Bowles.
You can bet on that.
(Extra credit to the person who can tell me where the title of this post came from.)