The 132nd Kentucky Derby

Ah, the smell of freshly-cut grass, the mint juleps, the clumps of sod thrown about -- it's time for the "most exciting two minutes in all of sports," the Running of the Roses.

Straight outta the serene hellscape of Lexington, Ky., the planet's most self-indulgent and self-important "sport" grabs the spotlight on the first Saturday in May and ruins my life for a good four months before and after that single afternoon. I have found out, curiously enough, that I do in fact live at the office at my cubicle, and not at what I thought was my apartment. The internal planning at the job is so bad that we will spend five "work" days in the span of three "actual" days honing tens of thousands of column inches of copy about inessential, impenetrable arcana that is of importance to absolutely no one.

It's galling to undergo the equivalent of having your organs removed while you're awake, and watching the surgeons toss the bleeding tissue onto the soddened floor of the abattoir. All that hard work -- essentially, for nothing.

Days of enjoying life, hours of sleep, miles of exercise -- gone forever, so some fat fuck in Ozone Park in a powder-blue windbreaker can tear out the paper's editorial copy from the data and toss it on the floor of an OTB.

That's why this year I'll be sending the Iranians some of our state atomic secrets so they can furnish me with a neutron bomb to drop on Churchill Downs.

It's fucking inbred horses running around in a circle, douschewaffles. Get a life and give me my own back.