Who’s Da Mooch Now, Bay-beeeeee

I wanted to be fancy a couple weekends ago, so Bobby booked us a table at the fancy brunch at Gulfstream Park so we could watch the simulcast of the Kentucky Derby while stuffing our faces with brunch food, the likes of which left me so full that I had to be rolled out of the parking lot afterwards and shot.

Okay, maybe not shot.  I mean, I complained like I had been shot, my abdomen riddled with BBQ brisket and mashed potato buckshot.

We were seated next to a large party of three tables of people who were already drunk when we got there, which is fine, except that they were already drunk and conducting themselves as the entire cast of The Jersey Shore.

In that they were clearly from New Jersey.

In a bad way.

That’s an inside Florida joke, by the way.  If you live in Florida, then 97% of the people you encounter from New Jersey are considered to be from New Jersey “in a bad way”.  It’s probably all the screaming, demanding, snatching things off store shelves, ramming into you with their shopping carts, arguing with every cashier, server, valet parking attendant, making store clerks cry and then bragging about it.  It’s a thing they’re kind of known for here.

I had a neighbor from New Jersey for years who threatened to kill me on a weekly basis for any number of reasons he’d invented, and always included “You know I’m from Jersey, honey?!” as part of his threats.  He routinely yelled that he was going to come over to my house with a machine gun if I didn’t cut down literally every 200-year old pine tree in my yard to keep pine needles from getting onto his screened-in pool enclosure.  The pool and enclosure that he had only recently installed directly under my 200-year old pine trees.

So, to summarize, the people we were seated next to were not my type of crowd.  This is not the most remarkable thing about them, as I am a pissy little so-and-so, and most people are not my type of crowd.

We sat next to The Jersey Shore for several hours’ worth of horse races.  The truly remarkable thing about them was how they seemed to pick the winning horse in every single race.  It was bizarre.  Any time a horse would cross the finish line, they would come leaping out of their seats, banging on the windows overlooking the track, screaming at the top of their lungs like they had just won a million dollars.  Every race.  All day.

Nobody’s that lucky – especially with those haircuts.

I took particular notice of a younger gentleman I’ll call “Da Mooch” whose celebratory screaming included him repeatedly yelling across the entire restaurant, “WHO’S DA MOOCH NOW, BAY-BEEEEEEEE!!!!!”

Did I mention this fancy brunch was like $75 a head?  It wasn’t Shoney’s, is what I’m saying.

My personal favorite was when he jumped up from his table, pointed his crotch at the faces of the other men at his table, made a repeated chopping motion at his groin and yelled, “WHO’S DA MOOCH NOW, BAY-BEEEEEEEE!!!!!”

I was so intrigued by this, trying to figure out who Da Mooch currently was, who Da Mooch used to be, when the whole argument over the identity of Da Mooch got started, what Da Mooch’s favorite character is on Game of Thrones, that I nearly missed it when Da Mooch’s own mother said that his wife had “a golden twat” and that she should “sit on his tickets for good luck.”

Good lord I wish I were making that up.  Even I, a filthy-mouthed heathen demon woman, don’t use the “T” word.  If you want explicit content, apparently you have to go hang out with Da Mooch’s mother.

As it turned out, the reason Da Mooch and Company were winning every horse race was because they were betting on every single horse on the field to win.  In every single race.  So while they were actually winning one bet on a race, they were losing anywhere from 10-20 bets on that same race.  Huh???

After watching Da Mooch go completely hog-wild after winning one particular race, running table to table, red-faced yelling, veins practically bursting out of his forehead, and high-fiving his cohorts like he just won the Superbowl, when he cashed in his ticket, he quietly told one of his friends that he had placed $70 worth of bets on that race, to collect only $35 in winnings.  This ludicrous display of celebration was what him losing $35 looked like.

It was at that precise moment that I realized who Da Mooch was now, baby.

I’m just kidding. We’ll never know.  It could even be you for all I know.

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Reasonable approximation of Da Mooch