We're so sorry
Attention horseplayers. Please go stand over in the smoky corner by the mold and mildew. Now, if the rest of the gamblers will follow me, we'll have a complimentary lunch surrounded by champagne and junior suites, free for the weekend.
That's us, the unattended, the unfortunate, the chilled -- the horseplayer.
Somehow over the course of the evolution of the wager, horseplayers have turned into pansies, marshmallows, sad sacks, wimps, milquetoasts; Mr. Cellophane, as the song from "Chicago," ...
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