Dead Saratoga Horses Remembered Fondly by Wealthy Spa City Pricks
By Pug Ransom
Published October 2nd, 2016
A Saratoga Springs woman powerwalks past a pile of dead thoroughbreds.
SARATOGA — Fifteen horses died this season at Saratoga Race Course, sacrifices that while considered unfortunate were nonetheless deemed “necessary” by the Spa City’s elite who enjoy wearing seersucker and giant hats.
“That’s really sad news,” said Trapper Nordstrum, a trust fund kid from Manhattan who summers in Saratoga. “Shout out to those beautiful, majestic beasts who gave their lives so I could look swag in my new linen suit by Brooks Brothers!”
Mindy Papsmeere, a fifth-year Skidmore College freshman and daughter of wig magnate Bubsy “Pappy” Papsmeere, said she was “totally bummed” by the news.
“Oh my God, guys, I’m like so sad,” she said as she stroked her Norwich terrier while being serviced at the Roosevelt Bath & Spas. “I think, like, on opening day next year I’m gonna totally wear my black, off-the-shoulder Thornton Bergazzi in, like, total respect for all the dead horsies.”
The number of dead equine at Saratoga in 2016 marked the highest toll in six years, and matched 2010’s total. Legitimate media reports from sources other than the Smudge said six horses died while racing, four died while training and five others died while at the course away from the track.
“Fiddlesticks!” said Howell Ballsac, a cocaine addict whose wealthy parents fund his addiction to keep him away from their 9,000 square-foot home in Greenwich, Conn. “I had a sneaking suspicion that all the horses I bet on this year were actually dead. I wonder if I can get my money back?”
Joyce Laibyah, a single mother of five who lives in Saratoga and routinely posts her outrage on Facebook whenever someone is arrested for abusing a dog or cat, said when it comes to the deaths of horses at the track, she “conveniently” looks the other way.
“The track is my happy place,” she said. “I have five fucking children at home. Five! Every now and then during the summer, I need to get out of the house, drink a shitload of wine and pickup some wealthy, well-dressed prick who is, ideally, at least 12 years younger than me. If a few horses need to die in order to make that a reality, then so be it.”