Drinking and Gambling

As my fellow workers and I headed for our cars at the end of the work day yesterday we were all thinking the same thing: a drink would be good. We were right: the beer and whisky took us all where we wanted to go: as far from the fucking sawmill as you can get without a match.

If Christie Clark is looking for a feel good announcement that might actually get her and her crooked gang of motherfucking thieves re-elected I know just what would do it: The six hour day. Otherwise she is just pissing in the wind.

I got my beer at the racetrack. They race on Friday nights and it saves me from buying a couple gallons of gas from the criminals who own the oil and gas industry if I go to the races on Fridays when I am already halfway to the track anyway.

There was a longshot running in the 8th I was planning on crushing the fuck out of, but first I had to make it through Friday afternoon traffic. Let's just say traffic was worse than usual. I tried not to think about it. Turned up my stereo really loud - Cock Sparrer, Jerry Lee Lewis, The Saints and Screamin' White Jefferson.

I had emptied my flask of whisky with Rollie on our lunch break so I was running on fumes as traffic crawled along. I had told Rollie, "You should come down to the track with me tonight. There's a longshot running in the last race you do not want to miss out on."

"I can't go Beer," he told me. "It's my daughter's birthday." His daughter is turning eleven. Rollie is on his second family. The dumb fuck.

It costs ten bucks to park at the track now. The motherfuckers must get their pricing ideas from the oil companies. I parked and made my way slowly to the bar. The mountains looked good, almost as good as my beer was going to in about two minutes.

It was still more than two hours to post. I took a seat at the bar. I did not have to ask for my beer. It just appeared there in front of me like magic. "How was work?" The barkeep asked me like usual. My response was the same as I would give anyone. "Fuck off." We laughed the laugh of Friday night.

Used to be I would pass the time looking over the form once more, making sure I had not missed anything. Now I get my past performances from my computer. Could have looked them over one more time on my phone but my eyes are not good enough for that shit any more.

I looked around the bar. Mostly old white guys like me. Most of them were nursing their beers, looking at the television screens. I am not a fucking nurse. A younger crowd, many of them with tits, horse racing's future, would begin to arrive once the races began at seven.

Did not bet the first two races. The favourites looked like shit but I could not choose a winner from the rest of the field. I like the enthusiasm young people have for horse racing. I especially like listening to the young women scream when a horse they have bet on wins. If they are down by the rail they usually do a little dance when they are screaming. Fucking fantastic that is.

Bet the next couple. Both my horses ran second. Backed a 5-1 shot in the 5th. Horse could not run straight but still managed to cross the line first. In the sixth I bet another one that did not run straight either. This one did not have the talent to overcome his poor sense of direction. My pick in the seventh did not do so well.

In the eighth I put my money down on the longshot I was counting on. Played him on top in the exacta and trifecta, bets I usually avoid (even though Dope City Downs has the lowest takeout, and therefore payoffs, in North America). I bought my last beer of the evening and took my seat up in the grandstand.

My choice left the gate well. Leaving the first turn the jockey expertly got down on to the rail, found himself in front and held on to win by a nose. If I had tits they would have bounced right off my chest. Exacta paid over a grand; trifecta paid just about eight grand. Guess I am not cooking this weekend.