Sue 'Em All

            Well, the ludicrous world of litigation has finally reached its apogee.

            Seems a guy in Los Angeles (where else?) fell out of a tree and is suing Continental Baking for $100 million because he ate a lot of Hostess cakes that “clouded his mental and motor coordination” and, as a result, it was his addiction to Twinkies that caused him to forget to let go of a rope attached to a falling branch.  So that’s how he fell out of his tree.

            Now I’ve dwelled on this litigious trend in our society before, elaborating facetiously about the kid who sued the Cracker Jack people because there wasn’t a prize in her box, and the kid who sued his parents because they wouldn’t let him watch television during Dinner.

            But when someone thinks eating Twinkies is worth $100 million because they fell out of a tree, then it’s obvious that I’m wasting my time writing articles and columns.  No sir, and maam, from now on I intend to devote all my time and energy to suing people in racing because it’s obvious that’s where the money lies.

            Besides, lawsuits in racing are a bit behind the times anyway. The latest case to come to my attention concerned a couple of professional gamblers who sued the Bay Meadows racetrack because said track allegedly “detained” them for “ten percenting” a Pick Six ticket.  That is, the track claimed that the ownership of the cashable ticket was misstated upon presentation: “ten percenting” simply means someone in a high tax bracket hits a lucrative score that interests the IRS and “hires” someone with much lesser income to cash it in.  The person in the low tax bracket has to report it, but has presumably gotten enough under the counter to make a few bucks, and the high tax earner doesn’t get kicked up into yet a higher tax bracket.  So everyone benefits, except the IRS, who might have to ask the Pentagon not to buy so many $8,000 screws.

            But the problem with the guys suing Bay Meadows is that they think so small.  I mean, all they want is a measly $5 million and change.  Talk about lowered expectations.  If a lousy cupcake and a tree are going for $100 million in the courts of the land, imagine what a claim of false arrest must be worth.  You’d think they got their attorney through some Rent-A-Shylock agency with a discount coupon.

            No, you’ve got to think big in today’s modern society, and considering the money available I plan on getting in on the ground floor by suing racing not only for the big bucks that everyone else wants, but also for the terrible injustices I have been forced to suffer at the hands of the people in the industry.

            As an example, I am currently considering the following suits that, all things considered, no court in the land could possibly not consider.

                        KEENELAND, $75 million.  On October 9, 1982, I procured a hot dog from a vendors stand at Keeneland.  Said hot dog was underdone by at least five degrees centigrade at the time of the serving, resulting in unsettling gastro-intestinal reactions.  This was aggravated by the fact that, since the mustard was so good, I went back and ate four more hot dogs, which created an addictive response and completely spoiled my appetite when I later met friends for dinner at the Columbia Steak House.  But, since I like Keeneland, I’ll consider $75 million as a maximum settlement, provided they also cover the legal fees, cost of the hot dogs, and the steak and baked potato I was unable to consume later.  Come to think of it, they should consider themselves lucky, there’s a lot of trees in the backstretch I could have fallen out of.

            DAILY RACING FORM, $100 million.  Everyone knows that weight can be a critical handicapping factor, and while the Form publishes the assigned weights for all of the entrants, they fail to include the adjusted weights, the ones you see on the tote board just before the race itself.  Since I’m nearsighted I can’t read the tote board in the first place so I figure that, by virtue of my purchase, it’s the Form’s responsibility to accommodate this disability and keep me informed.  Now their attorneys might argue that such last minute information is a difficult task, but I plan to contend that they certainly have plenty of employees at the nations racetracks, and since more than a few of them act as if they don’t know what they’re doing in the first place, it shouldn’t be unreasonable to expect them to at least follow the jockeys around and weigh them every hour or so.  Then they could simply lock the jockeys up in a room for the night and phone in the latest weight the next morning.  Oh, there could still be some errors in this system, but how much do three scrambled eggs and a piece of toast weigh?

            This suit consists of the usual punitive damages, the cost of buying the Form for the past twenty years and receiving such misinformation, plus a pair of binoculars to read the tote board with and a lifetime supply of contact lenses.

            PIMLICO BARTENDERS, $125 million.  Since I was a child I have always had difficulty making complicated decisions while in a state of sobriety.  In such a condition the variables of handicapping tend to confuse me, thus it is necessary for me to partake of adequate alcoholic medication to alleviate this problem.  Or, as many of my friends will attest to in any trial, “he always bombs until he gets bombed”.  The Pimlico bartenders (actually you could pick about any track in the country, this just seemed like a good place to start) pour as little alcoholic beverage as possible into my drinks and, as a consequence, I am unable to get swacked at the track.  Thus, being sober, I am unable to utilize my infamous ‘poke the finger at the Form’ handicapping system, which has cost me any number of possible winners I might otherwise have thought might be related to my Aunt Betsy had I been in an appropriate drunken stupor.  Their intense desire to make a bottle of bourbon last through an entire meeting should certainly be grounds for a hasty settlement.  I’m also considering the possibility of asking for the cost of the innumerable non-alcoholic drinks I consumed, although considering most track prices these days I’m not sure if that might be asking too much in a single suit.

            THE PROGRAM SELLERS UNION OF AMERICA, $150 million.  Over the years I have purchased innumerable programs with sharp paper edges, frequently slicing my finger on same.  Now anyone who has ever gone through this traumatic experience will tell you how painful such an injury can be.  It can even be hazardous to your health if you inadvertently bleed all over the new suit or dress the person seated next to you is wearing.  Since I subsequently take my program home for review, what blood does to beige carpets I don’t even want to talk about.

            So in this suit I intend to seek recompense for the cost of the programs, my personal embarrassment and suffering, Band-Aid expenses, a lifetime contract with Sears for carpet cleaning, plus an on-duty nurse every time I visit the track.  And this doesn’t even include the loss of income I would have otherwise received once I learned that there were people in town who would have gladly paid me for all that blood I lost at the track.

            ALL TRUCKING COMPANIES SERVICING THE RACETRACKS, EN MASSE, $200 million.  In 1983, as I was leaving a racetrack, I was forced to slow my car down to allow a manure truck departing the stable area to make an illegal turn in front of me.  In his haste the driver turned the corner so rapidly that some of the manure fell out and landed on the hood of my classic 1979 Ford.  It was subsequent to this incident that I was forced to endure the strange looks and presumed derision of all the employees of Tod’s Quik Car Wash, which caused me great mental anguish.  The experience was so traumatizing that to this day I am fearful of driving, lest I encounter another mad manure truck driver.

            In fact, this might be my strongest case, since my attorney has already indicated that it sure sounded like a lot of crap to him.

            BOB’S TOUT CARD, ET AL, $300 million.  Over the years these services that I have purchased have given me a number of losers, whereas had I not been coerced into buying them and playing their selections I would have had the winner of all the races.  This is irrefutable; I have saved the cards for years along with the results charts I clipped out of newspapers.  These charts are clearly marked so that in each and every instance, when the card failed to pick the winner, I would have had it.

            Now I recognize that these cards usually have some sort of disclaimer, such as ‘This Is Not An Invitation To Wager’, but do you think anyone really believes that?  When I think about it I should probably also sue the guy who gives me football cards every Fall, except he lost his shirt on the Super Bowl and skipped town.  Besides, what judge in the land could fail to be impressed by all these results charts wherein I have marked every single winner that the tout cards failed to give me?  If it takes paperwork to win a case, I’ve got boxes full of it.

            ARLINGTON PARK, $400 million.  In August of 1981 a beer vendor sold me a cup of green beer when he ran out of Budweiser.  Upon consuming this peculiar product I soon discovered that I had developed an almost fanaticism for it, often waking up at nights in a cold sweat craving a green beer.  As this is a product that is not always readily available, I have often suffered withdrawal symptoms until I was able to locate some.  Logically this pain and anguish is solely attributable to Arlington Park, who should pay me for this suffering.  Additionally, because they were responsible for this addiction, they owe me for the cost of 2,375 cases of green beer that I have since purchased, along with 589 squeezable four packs of Charmin.

            HOLLYWOOD PARK, $500 million.  On November 10, 1984 I attended the inaugural Breeders’ Cup, and while Hollywood Park’s efforts in the care and welfare of the media were admirable under the circumstances, they failed to introduce me to Elizabeth Taylor.  Now any jury in the land would have to agree that this constitutes gross negligence on the part of Hollywood Park, not to mention an extraordinary loss of future income on my part.

            After all, had the track not been remiss in the their duties and had in fact introduced me to Ms. Taylor, there is no doubt in my mind that my overwhelming charm would have swept her off her feet and she would have whisked me off to Las Vegas to become her seventh (or is it eighth?) husband.  So betrothed we could have rushed back to the track in time for the last two races prior to a return trip to Vegas for the divorce.  Having been denied this opportunity at what should have been a lucrative divorce settlement, I am certainly entitled to what I consider this might have amounted to, plus accrued interest, and the cost of the Rolaids I required after eating a catered box lunch in the press area while the track catered to Ms. Taylor’s personal desires in the Turf Club.

            The above only scratches the surface, there are a number of other lawsuits I am contemplating.  Tracks that give out seat pins with sharp points that you inevitably end up stabbing yourself with might be a good class action suit.  Consider for a moment the physical injuries you might encounter, depending on your gender, when the entrance turnstile jams just as you’re rushing into it to get a bet down on the Daily Double?  That should be worth a cool billion dollars for starters.

            And lest you think all of the above sounds facetious, or perhaps too far fetched, I made a point of showing a draft of this article to a friend of mine, who offered nothing but encouragement.

            “Ron,” he assured me, ”you’ve completely fallen out of your tree.”

            “Not yet,” I told him confidently.  “I’m saving that for next month after I get hooked on the popcorn at Aqueduct.”