Sometimes you just have to go with your gut, or even other body parts, like when you’re at Saratoga or Thistledown or Santa Anita and you basically have this very hot, tingly, but not unpleasant feeling like millions of fire ants are nesting in your perineum.

And what your fire-breathing perineum is telling you is that for some reason you just know for certain that it’s a fantastic idea to place $50,000 to win on a three-year old filly named “Tuff Pig Engine” who’s got about 5000 mgs of (entirely legal) furosemide coursing through her veins and whose eyes say that she’s about to have a psychotic break any minute.

And your perineum — !!!SURPRISE!!! — wins big. And so you take some of the cash and immediately call Fists of Fury Escort Service and treat your lucky perineum to an eight-hour very intensive perineal massage.

Which is one of the reasons why I’m worried that Sarah Palin is the Antichrist. It’s just this feeling I have.

Fuck-brained, relentless breeders the “Palin Family” got another little bundle of joy today as “Bristol” Palin squeezed out yet another mouth-breathing oxygen-stealer in the form of poor little “Tripp” Palin, who weighed in at seven pounds, four ounces, no chances. Yes. “Tripp”. Pity the child named after a walking accident. Feel sorrow for the jokes the poor little boy will endure throughout his long adolescence, his short adulthood, and his untimely death at the hands of a snowmobile with an erratic starter motor. Yes. I feel his pain.