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 On Sunday May 20th, 2007 Crissie and I and the family went and had a day at the races to celebrate the 63rd anniversary of the 1944 failed assassination attempt made on Hitler by his own officers. I’m just kidding my brother Dave organizes a trip every year through his bar and restaurant, Sayreville Bar, down to Monmouth Park. He does it all up nice with beer and booze and sangria and all sorts of barbeque burgers, ribs and steak. It’s really a good time and if you’re around Jersey next year you should come with us. I personally am not one for the ponies. Sure, it’s cute and nostalgic for a so-so writer to go and get his Bukowski on, but I really don’t know shit about horse racing. I don’t know which end I’m looking at on a horse before I bet, I don’t know how to read the program for insight, nothing. I’m clueless. I basically go off the names. The only time I’d ever been to the races was in LA with my friend Crystal; I placed one bet because the long shot horse happened to be named Belle of Portugal and I cleaned up. I think I won 750 bucks. I told myself I’d never bet on another horse as long as I lived but I lied to myself. And yesterday I shit the bed. 
Lately I’ve been on a losing streak thanks to my goddamn New Jersey Nets and my boy Vince Carter choking in the playoffs. (Isn’t the Jazz vs Spurs series the whitest and wackest match up ever? There were less white guys in the entire NBA in the 50s then there are between those two teams. Is there even one black guy on the Spurs?)
I don’t know what made me think it was smart to piss money away gambling on something I knew nothing about but that’s the kind of genius I am. To make it more interesting I would allow my 3 and 6-year-old nephews Ethan and Josh to pick my horses for me. I figured, “What could it hurt?” In the first race Ethan picked a horse named Court Order. Well, he didn’t really pick it. It’s just the one his finger landed on when I asked him to point to the page of names. That horse lost. I also picked a horse in that race named Hot Deposit in honor of Crissie and I trying to have a baby. I’m still waiting for that horse to cross the finish line. I think it laid down after the first turn. I looked at Crissie and said “I hope that horse wasn’t a direct reflection of us trying to get pregnant. If so, we’re screwed.”
Next I picked a horse named Greenwood Cat because Crissie likes cats, then one named Christina Lake for Christina Aguilera and because we’re going to name all of our kids some variation of the name CHRIS; neither of them did shit. I’m talking dead last, send them to the glue factory, not-worthy-of-pulling-a-cart-of-turnips losers.
I am rather superstitious at times. It took a few races to realize Crissie had been complaining about how uncomfortable her sneakers were. She was pissed that she didn’t wear her Vans or her Nikes. I looked down and she had on the brightest, whitest sneakers I’d ever seen. I said, “What’s the matter with you? Are you trying to blind the horses? That’s probably why we keep losing. We’re screaming the horses name and it looks over and sees those shoes and gets thrown off balance.” Then I saw her breasts were nearly popping out of her shirt. “And those things. Put those away. Between the sneakers and the tits it’s no wonder we can’t win.”
 
I needed a breather so I went and took the kids to get balloon animals and get their faces painted. I decided to join them in getting my face done up. I sat for the clown with the paint brush and said, “Can you make me a clown….with a Charlie Chaplin moustache?” See, if you say Charlie Chaplin, it’s totally kosher. Say the other guy’s name and everybody gets pissed off. Little Josh comes over and asks what I’m doing. “I’m getting my face painted, what does it look like?” I said. “Now he’s gonna have to be funny all day,“ the clown tells Josh, “Do you think he can be funny for the rest of the day?”
“Probably, “Josh says, “This guys is always crazy. He's been crazy as long as I’ve known him.” It’s true. He wasn’t lying.
I stood up and turned to head back to the races when some Jewish mom in line with her kid blurts out, loud as hell, “WHAT ARE YOU? FUCKING HITLER?”
“Whoa, lady. Whoa! There’re kids around. You ever hear of Charlie Chaplin? CHAAAAA-PLIIIIIN? Not Hitler.” She felt stupid and all the other parents were mad at her for cursing. I walked off with Josh’s hand in mine back to the track.
“Uncle Chris?”
“Yeah, Josh?”
“You were thinking Hitler though, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“You’re funny, Uncle Chris.”
“I know, Josh, I know.”
 The next race was sponsored by my brother’s bar so that meant we were permitted to go down to the winner’s circle to watch the race and take a picture. But first we had to bet. I went to one window and my brother another. We each put a $100 on a horse to win. He picked the # 4 horse, I picked the # 7, Mug of Love, as another reference to trying to knock Crissie up. His horse won it all. Mine got dead last. He won $300. I was down $400. Guess which of us was having a better time at the races?
We did get to present the jockey his trophy. That was somewhat funny although they wouldn’t let us take photos of it. They said they’d mail us the picture. I’m sure they’re real excited to hang the shot with the Hitler clown on their wall.
I was ready to go home after that last defeat but then I saw the # 1 horse in the sixth race was named Very Funny and it’s owners were both named CHRIS. It was a sign! I was going to win my money back. I put $200 on Very Funny with 3/1 odds, so if I won I’d be back up. Guess how it placed? Yup. Dead last.
“Let’s go, we’re done,” I told Crissie.
“Maybe it’s like Vegas.” She said, “Remember how you weren’t allowed to touch the money or the machines or the tables or we’d lose every single time? But once I started placing the bets we kept winning? Maybe I need to place the bets.” It made perfect sense to me. She is a beautiful, sweet lady and God smiles on her. Me…not so much. So we tried her way and put $100 on Princess Janie in the seventh (her aunt’s name is Jane). And sure as shit, Princess Janie won on 3/1 odds. I’m telling you I shouldn’t gamble and if I do, my wife has to place all my bets for me from now on.
She came back from the window with $300 in her hand.
“Are we up?” She asked.
“Not really,”I told her, “But if we start from this point forward, then yeah. We’re up $200.” She smiled. She liked that idea. And I liked it too because I was with my family on a beautiful day, drinking beers and eating ribs with a Hitler moustache painted on my face. I didn’t want to ruin the good times thinking about how much money we’d lost. I had three more races left to win and put us ahead for real. And Crissie had the hot hand, so we were a lock.
Then it started pouring rain out of nowhere and we had to run to the car and go home. Down. Way down.
Ethan thought I was a pony
But Ethan was the real pony
I was in line to get my face painted
And I fully got snaked
Don't mess with the Snake
MY TURN, BITCHES!
I want to be a clown...
...with a Hitler moustache
Hitzey the Clown!
I didn't win shit
Horses suck
Jocks suck
Pony rides are for Gaylords
Maybe Hitzey shouldn't bet on horses
CONTEST!
Yippee! It’s contest time. Everyone likes contests, right? Maybe not. Maybe you are so bitter that you are just sitting around waiting to die and can no longer get excited for anything. Or maybe you’ve been looking for a way to turn your life around and what better way to do that than by WINNING SOMETHING FOR FREE! Well, here’s your chance. I’m giving away signed copies of Skinema to the Best naked or semi-naked photo of a girl or someone's girlfriend holding a chrisnieratko.com sign or something that says "SKINEMA" or "CHRIS NIERATKO SUCKS" or you know, something about me that isn’t photoshopped. [transvestites and transsexuals are all ladies to me, so feel free to submit.]
Send the photos to contest@chrisnieratko.com
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