â†µI want revenge. Oh, do I want sweet revenge. At first I thought it would just be the Derby, but now those smug little pigs in lab coats are telling me it's going to be late summer until I can race again. â†µ
â†µThat's just not happening, because that's not how I roll, doc. I repeat the message: I. Want. Revenge. It's my name for a reason. You didn't see me kick my way out of my stall on Saturday, grab a drunk co-ed in a sundress, toss her on my back, and finish in a respectable 8th place after running through the rail to join the horses on the back stretch? No, you probably didn't, but that's okay: you won't be seeing anything after I crash into your house late at night like William Wallace in Braveheart and knock your teeth out in your sleep. The docs want me to rest while I "heal up" from my "injury," but they don't want to admit the truth: my hoof is just sore from all the ass I've kicked around the world in the name of satisfying my unquenchable thirst for vengeance. â†µâ†µ
â†µI just kicked out the windows of your car. What are you gonna do about it, huh? Nothing, that's right. â†µ
â†µOh I'll be in the Preakness, tossing jockeys off horses, biting flanks, and going up in the grandstands afterwards to let fools know who's running this. (Ron Artest, you're an amateur and I'll prove it.) After that it's the Belmont, where I'll finish the whole loop by myself after intimidating the rest of the field into staying in the starting gate. Then I'm gonna take on Manny Paquiao and knock him clean out in 15 seconds before taking on Anderson Sliva and giving him a taste of my classic finishing hold, "The Flat-Toothed Sabercat." Oh, I want revenge, and you're gonna give it to me, world, whether you like it or not. â†µâ†µ
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