Some years ago, I used to plate runners for a trainer up in Kansas. He
had some really well bred Paints off the Merrick Ranch that could fly!
But, like every other trainer with a barn full of runners, he had a few
impeccably bred horses that couldn't outrun a fat man. One of the latter
was a wild colored Easy Jet stud colt out of a Tonto Bars Hank mare
that looked like he could run a hole in the wind; unfortunately, on his
best day, he couldn't outrun the slowest pony horse on the backside.

His owner was a TFO and constantly in the barn, harassing the trainer
and the help about the horse's poor performance. My man had started the
horse three or four times and Ray Charles could see the horse was never
going to make a runner. There was nothing wrong with the colt, he
simply couldn't run, and no amount of hopping, blocking or shocking was
ever going make him run.

After the horse chased in the field at Eureka Downs one afternoon, the
owner came on the shed row, with an entourage of folks wearing Rolexes,
starched Wranglers, and diamond pinky rings in tow, loudly complaining
about the horse's performance. My man, for the umpteenth time, told the
owner to take the the colt home, that the horse couldn't run, and that
trying to get run out of a horse that can't run was like trying to piss
up a rope.

The owner, who was also the breeder, said, "I got $10,000 in stud
fees, goodness knows how much in mare care, no telling how much in vet
bills, and a young fortune in training fees hung off in this Easy Jet
baby: just what'n hell do you suggest I do with this colt?"

In a classic rejoinder that convulsed everybody within earshot, my man
said, "No faster than this bastard can run, he ought to make a
hell of a nice spotted rug."