Who To Root For, Part II: Preakness Edition

Best Pre-Preakness Slam goes to New York Daily News, on 30-1 shot WaterCannon: "More like a squirt gun. Good luck."

Now my Gary is coming in from France to ride Rock Hard Ten in this thing, so you know where my loyalties lie. Stewart Elliott? It's been fun. We had a hot and heavy little fling, you and I, but once word got out on the fact that you pled guilty to simple assault on your ex-girlfriend, we were hella-through. "That was not a good part of my life," he told the press. Yeah, I'm sure it was a total blast for her too, Stuey. Elliott says he's now living clean and sober, and props to him for it, but it's going to take more than a blanket of roses to tear me from the orbit of the mighty Stevens. Nice try, kiddo.

Gary, for his part, was recently in the news when he got in trouble for trying to be nice. He wore patches of the American and French flags on his riding breeches and was, in full French fashion, rather rudely told to take 'em off. (The patches, not the pants. I would hereby like to officially recognize this post as the very first time I have openly admitted to being fascinated with what is going on below the waist of Mr. Stevens.) Gary fought back with a marvelously Euro-fit temperstorm, threatening to leave the continent altogether until France-Galop officials pulled their surrender-monkey heads out of their asses and--guess what--surrendered. Gary was apologized to and sulkily told to go get back on his horse. "Yeah bitch," said Gary, and proceeded to win approximately fourteen thousand races in a row until I accidentally jinxed him.

Will Smarty Jones pull it off again? 'Tis in the hands of the racing gods. We shall see. Bob Costas starts coverage at 5 PM on Saturday EST, in which he will hopefully look less precious than he did in the Derby broadcast, wherein he opened the show half-leaning into the frame with some kind of fey umbrella over his head. Eighteen jockeys going to the post to hurtle forty miles an hour on the top of a half-ton racehorse, and he can't get his hair wet. You're the MAN, Bob. Twirl that parasol, baby. Twirl it!

Bets on the condition of Bob's umbrella, Gary's pants, and Stewart's rap sheet may be sent to: blondechampagne@hotmail.com