I would have thrown in the towel then. Fuck you Post office, and you bald old boss with your stink of peanut butter.
Get out of bed Buk, I told myself on the third day. Dig out your sweepstake, the track has already answered plenty of your most complicated problems.
I betted with cunning, no shit, just how a real winner should. Five in a row on a couple of martingales I managed to hit. Little on the loser, a lot on the favorite with an eye on the tote…horses are for professionals, not like posting a few letters chased by dogs or jotting down a few ass-licking lines!
That was a real inspired period, Tuesday and Thursday I'd raise my couple of hundred bucks, then you bet the bed welcomed me happily, sausages and white wine kept me company. Then one Tuesday I met her. Lean, with tall withers, her nipples pricked her tight grey jumper, her calfs went way up above the slit in her skirt and her blond hair went down to meet them.
She had just recovered from a bad accident, she had had others and I just went head on, consciously, without brakes, knowing straight away that I would have enjoyed the ride but come out really badly, just like a sure winner. I downed a glass of Frascati, there at the track bar and ran to meet her.