Kentucky Derby Quotes

The Boss will release the four horsemen.” I swallowed hard. “I guess you’re not talking about the Kentucky Derby kind of horsemen?

Twilight is to Vampires what My Little Pony is to Kentucky Derby Winning Horses.

If she were meeting him for the first time and he looked at her like that, she would be spinning on her heel and on the run before you could say Kentucky Derby.

Black Minx never moved. She seemed to know what this was all about. She accepted their offerings, their embraces, in a very queenly way. Her manner indicated that she was getting only what was long due her, and that she had known all along no colt would beat her in the Kentucky Derby. Perhaps she had known. Alec and Henry wouldn't have been surprised. She was that kind of girl.

They weren’t creepy stalker binoculars. Because I wasn’t a stalker. He was. These were like fancy opera watching binoculars. Or ones you’d use to watch the Kentucky Derby. I wasn’t doing anything weird.

Whites forced out African Americans from major league baseball not because they couldn't play well, but because they could. Whites expelled black jockeys from the Kentucky Derby not because they were incompetent, but because they won 15 of the first 28 derbies. They drove blacks our of the job of postal carrier so they could do it themselves, not because blacks couldn't do it. The foregoing seems obvious, but when it comes to housing, even today, deep inside white culture as a legacy from the Nadir is the sneaking suspicion that African Americans are a problem, so it is best to keep them out.

Running along the back wall was a long glass trophy case filled with loving cups, ribbons, school and sports memorabilia; in ominous proximity were several large funeral wreaths which, in conjunction with the trophies, gave that corner of the room a Kentucky Derby sort of look.

There’s the story of the Kentucky Derby party when a group of famous people, including baseball star Cal Ripken, had cornered Julian to talk whiskey and Wayne Gretzky kept coming up and interrupting, until Julian finally wheeled around and said, “Why don’t you shut the fuck up, Wayne?

Mark Twain once said, “I want to be in Kentucky when the end of the world comes, because it’s always twenty years behind.

Of all the stupid and destructive products of 1960s-style liberation politics, the effective abolition of marriage (and hence of family, properly understood) will, in the end, turn out to be the worst. And spare me your banal self-justifications: “I divorced my child’s mother, but I’m a good father!” “I was never married to my child’s father, but I’m a good mother.” I’m sure you think you are. You aren’t. Statistically speaking, your domestic situation is about as healthy for your children as would be your picking up a drug habit. (Yes, yes, I’m sure that you are the special-snowflake exception to the rule. One of these days, a three-legged horse might win the Kentucky Derby, too.) The numbers are the numbers. Strange thing: Wildly different philosophical and religious orientations all point to the same central fact of human life. In Genesis, it’s “male and female he created them.” In Plato, we spend our lives seeking the lost half of ourselves from which we were separated by the gods. In good ol’ Darwinian terms, the getting of healthy offspring is the very purpose of life itself. We parted ways with the chimps a few eons ago, and somewhere along the way we developed habits and institutions that helped us to connect our libidos with one of our most useful and uniquely human traits: the ability to engage in long-term planning, even beyond our own lives. And then, around 1964, we said: “To Hell with it, let’s just be chimps.” And here we are.

This time he sighed heavily before shaking his head. But he did shake his head. Kind of. “No, some kid in the neighborhood told me and Russell that the chemistry lab of Seattle Community College had just switched over to Mac from PC, and we really, really wanted a Mac.

Not a beard. The beard, that made me want to ride his face like it was a saddle and I was about to win the Kentucky Derby.

It would be rude to revel in his obvious discomfort. But, then again, Buford had taken every opportunity to make fun of her dream back when she worked at Duke's. "Oh, Buford," Tiana called. "Why don't you bring that trophy you got for winning the Kentucky Derby next time?" His forehead creased in confusion, making Tiana wonder if he remembered the time he'd told her that he had a better chance of winning the horse race than she had of opening a restaurant. But then understanding dawned in his eyes. "I guess I deserved that," Buford said.

One night, after forgetting I’d swallowed one of Woody’s Kentucky Derby sedatives, I served myself a Smirnoff-and-tonic Daisy Cutter that immediately whispered to my brain, “Big mistake, Bolo Bob.

And to top off her country girl look, she’s got on a pair of tan cowgirl boots, reminding me of one of her favorite sexual positions. She used to ride my cock hard and fast. Like she was in the Kentucky fucking Derby.

I was crazy for this girl, ready to give up everything if it meant I could be with her, so why was it doing wonderful, primal, undeniable things to me to watch her ride Brett like she was in the Kentucky Derby?

One of these days it was going to become too much.  I would break under this torturous dating-but-not-dating limbo, jump on Stone Gentry’s sexy, aloof ass, and start riding like I was galloping toward a Kentucky Derby golden trophy. 

we may not be built for the NFL or Kentucky Derby, but we’re surrounded by opportunities every day, everywhere we go. There is no shortage of problems to be solved, needs and desires to be fulfilled, and innovative ways to help others.

Then Derrick would climb on top of Roman and ride him like he was Secretariat at the Kentucky Derby, not letting the reins go until they were on the same track.

At six, Daisy slid the stuffed figs and the pastry-wrapped goat cheese purses into the oven, crammed her feet into a pair of navy-blue high heels, and put a giant straw hat with a navy-blue ribbon on her head. The theme of the party was the Kentucky Derby, even though the Derby itself wasn't until May. At least it had made the menu easy: mint julep punch and bourbon slushies, fried chicken sliders served on biscuits, with hot honey, tea sandwiches with Benedictine spread, bite-sized hot browns, the signature sandwich of Louisville, and miniature Derby pies for dessert.

They also spent time relaying ancestors’ stories including the Stone Age Kentucky Derby, where saber tooth tigers raced and the haughty humans watched and drank their flint juleps.

I am The Black Book. Between my top and my bottom, my right and my left, I hold what I have seen, what I have done, and what I have thought. I am everything I have hated: labor without harvest; death without honor; life without land or law. I am a black woman holding a white child in her arms singing to her own baby lying unattended in the grass. I am all the ways I have failed: I am the black slave owner, the buyer of Golden Peacock Bleach Crème and Dr. Palmer’s Skin Whitener, the self- hating player of the dozens; I am my own nigger joke. I am all the ways I survived: I am tun-mush, hoecake cooked on a hoe; I am Fourteen black jockeys winning the Kentucky Derby. I am the creator of hundreds of patented inventions; I am Lafitte the pirate and Marie Laveau. I am Bessie Smith winning a roller-skating contest; I am quilts and ironwork, fine carpentry and lace. I am the wars I fought, the gold I mined, The horses I broke, the trails I blazed. I am all the things I have seen: The New York Caucasian newspaper, the scarred back of Gordon the slave, the Draft Riots, darky tunes, and mer- chants distorting my face to sell thread, soap, shoe polish coconut. And I am all the things I have ever loved: scuppernong wine, cool baptisms in silent water, dream books and number playing. I am the sound of my own voice singing “Sangaree.” I am ring-shouts, and blues, ragtime and gospels. I am mojo, voodoo, and gold earrings. I am not complete here; there is much more, but there is no more time and no more space . . . and I have journeys to take, ships to name, and crews.

Riot comes up in a quiet whirl of flames stirring on the concrete floor. They build into a small burning tornado that solidifies into thousands of pounds of smoldering horse. Broad. Red. All raw power. If he were a real horse, he’d be a medium draft horse, or a warmblood. Not a Budweiser Clydesdale, but you wouldn’t see him winning the Kentucky Derby, either. The guys joke because he’s the biggest of our mounts. A lightweight tank with an attitude. But he’s the greatest companion. The best. I can’t even picture what my life was like before he came along. His amber eyes find me first, then look around, checking things out, eventually coming back to me. I smile. It’s not that I hear his thoughts. It’s more that I know them. Bad day, Gideon? That’s too bad. But I’m here now so you’ll be better. Hey, nice view. “Come here, horse,” I say, but I’m the one who goes to him. I call up my armor so I don’t have to be careful about burning my clothes. Then I bury my hands deep into his mane, sending a shiver of embers into the night sky. He makes a low deep sound, telling me he’s listening. That I can tell him what I’d never say to anyone, not even Marcus. “I screwed up, Riot. Didn’t stick with the plan. Said some really stupid things. Really stupid.” Ohhh. That’s not good, Gideon. But it happens. Especially with Daryn. Don’t worry. Tomorrow you’ll do your best and try to fix it. I like Wyoming. I laugh. Then I let my face fall forward, and rest my forehead on his broad neck. Letting his fire spread over me, and through me, and around me. Warm. True. Like peace.

He cried like a jockey who'd just lost the Kentucky Derby by a few nostril hairs.

Well,” he said, “you don’t take donkeys to the Kentucky Derby.

the song “My Old Kentucky Home” during the Derby always made me feel like crying.

I exited the bedroom with my head spinning, wondering what had happened to my plan from a few short hours ago. I was going to avoid relationships. Be the cool aunt to Sienna and Cali’s kids. Now I had bar owner-slash-arrogant Neanderthal declaring I was his, and I didn’t have a choice in the matter. I’d have run faster than a Kentucky Derby winner if the thought of being Nate’s woman didn’t make my insides shudder just a little.

known it before. And in the workouts —