There used to be two guys, the fat one, the skinny one, the big guy, the little guy. They lived in a cartoon world. They were always together. Getting into jams. And all kinds of pratfalls and comic mayhem would ensue. That was Old World comedy gold.
But you can take that kind of thing to the edge and it isn't funny anymore. For instance, now, Rick Dutrow, the flop-sweating, orotund trainer for Big Brown, is blaming ("It was the ride that did him in.") the little guy, Kent Desormeaux, the tiny jockey, his regular rider, for Big Brown's poor showing in the Belmont.*
No class. That's all I can say. Every time a jockey gets up on a big horse, and gets in the starting gate, every time that bell rings and race goes off, every time those little dudes try to navigate through the thundering herd to the finish line; that horse, that jockey is risking life and limb. The fat guy shouting from the stands? Maybe he should chalk it up to a bad day and move on.
*Big Brown did have a difficult trip in the Belmont, he got bumped, he looked a little feisty, and in trouble. Kent D. brought him to the outside to give him a clear path to victory. When he asked for acceleration, Big Brown fizzled. Was it the track, the oppressive heat, a bored horse, the gods of fate pulling a fast one? Who knows? And Big Brown ain't talking. It happens all the time - that's why a long-shot bettor sometimes goes home with a roll of cash in his pocket and smile on his face.