Is there anything more abrasive than having to listen to an uncomfortably close drunk white forty-something with blond iced tips and a marginal fake bake dressed head to toe in Thomas Pink slurring to his male friend about how “Ssssan Francisscoo gay” their third friend is and how “totally annoying, oh my God,” it is? I tell you that at this very moment in time, there is not. I always have the urge to tell guys of this particular breed that their women think they’re weak and they look like they’re about to vomit. Generally one of both these things is true and stopping myself from doing it is like being back in church, digging my nails into my palms to stop from screaming “Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!” at the top of my eight-year-old lungs. Which I’m sure would have proved immensely disconcerting to the Holy Trinity, among other persons.

Also? Please shoot me and really anyone, straight in the head if you hear them discussing right next to you, thank you very much, outside of the inside of their heads the immense woes associated with managing their current losses on their “$8 million home, a $2 million home in the country, and $10 million in the bank with a yearly lifestyle of seven to a million bucks a year.” It’s probably a really good thing I’m not carrying my .22 right now. For this woman’s sake, I hope the guys hung, because he’s a mind-suck.

At first glance, I honestly thought this read “Looking More Appalling Now.”

That’s it. I will never ever ever belt out Objects In The Rearview Mirror at the top of my eighth-grade lungs into a hairbrush again.

So the favorite in today’s NBC-broadcast Kentucky Derby did precisely what he was expected to do and won the thing handily. When undefeated Big Brown (I reluctantly await next year’s lineup, sponsored by Fedex and DHL) came in five lengths ahead of second-place finisher and lone filly Eight Belles (above), the horse looked stunned that the Derby was so short. “What, that was it?” were his exact words. Big Brown’s jockey is kind of an asshole (what thinking being in a post-2005 world likens himself on national television to Tom Cruise? Creepy.) But I won’t hold it against his horse. I would, however, like to slap NBC around a little.

It took NBC anchor Bob Costa and his team twenty-odd minutes to even mention Eight Belles, who was euthanized almost immediately after her front ankles snapped across the finish line. Substantive information took longer, preceded by nonstop coverage of the winning owners leaping about in live, million-dollar-purse jubilation. At the New York Times, equine softy Alex Brown was live-blogging the Derby and pulled out his best passive-aggressive for the network: “NBC is choosing to focus on Big Brown,” he sniffed. “Death at the Derby,” screamed Matt Drudge in a rare display of appropriateness.

There are plenty of sights sicker and more gripping than confetti falling to the track around a still and prone horse (save me the HETA indignation, please), but it’s up there. Emmy-winning sportscaster Jack Whitaker once said “the horror of seeing a horse break down” was “like seeing a masterpiece destroyed.” Whitaker would know, having watched as filly darling Ruffian refused to stop running on her broken leg at Belmont Park in 1975. Wasn’t pretty. Protruding bones and such. Two decades later, the prolonged demise of Derby winner Barbaro was a ratings bonanza for NBC, and just about anyone else who covered the country’s ensuing absorption with the animal. Barbaro was so in vogue that his fans earned Deadspin’s unwavering disdain! You know you’re somebody when a Gawker Media blog takes the time to point out the many ways in which you are a nobody.

All of which explains why I’m extra annoyed at NBC’s insistence on focusing on the ho-hum (if efficient!) Big Brown win to the near complete exclusion of Eight Belles’ compelling story.

Go ahead and be impolitic and heartless, Oh Peacocksters. But for God’s sake (and the shareholders too!) don’t turn up your nose when a viewer-friendly ratings bonanza (now with extra pathos!) literally falls down at your feet.

It almost makes me think they didn’t actually receive that messengered copy of my world-famous manual On How To Be Constantly Right And Other Preachy Parables.

Is this. And yes, my mom is more lovable than Alex Balk, what do you want from me?

You may be lucky enough to have avoided the suburbs for the duration of your life. Hey, me too! Until I up and voluntarily moved here last year, that is. Don’t ask. The ‘burbs do have their benefits, though. Like, for instance, the Westchester edition of the Sunday New York Times personals! Also our fantastically freakish neighbors, but never mind. For your browsing pleasure—a “busy MD/writter” (not that busy, is my suspicion), a “typical” Upper West Side retired editor (Dad? Not cool) and easily one of the best squirmy non sequiturs I’ve seen in quite some time.

This is quite possibly the best thing I’ve seen in at least six months.

Honestly? There really are no appropriate circumstances under which it is acceptable to use the word “interface” as a verb. None. I don’t want to hear it, IT folks. None.

I’m guest-editing over at New York magazine’s Daily Intel blog for the next week. Stop on by! Or don’t! But do read something, it’s good for the complexion.