I'm starting to think there are owners out there who name their horses with the sole intent of causing the occasional race caller to seriously re-consider their day jobs!

The Thoroughbred Times notes today that "Aclassysassylassy will attempt to become the second juvenile filly to sweep the Florida Stallion Stakes on Saturday." (YOU try saying it quickly when you have 20+ other horses to include in the next 15 seconds)

The (appallingly) named 'Poop Deck Pappy' in Queensland is another that comes to mind.

Thank goodness horses can't talk ...

Speaking of names, I note that the seven year old Mooball survived a protest and held onto second in the Listed SEYMOUR CUP at Seymour last Sunday.

Why would I mention this? Well, Mooball has always been somewhat of a favorite of mine. His name and his sire (Sanction) combined in my life some decades ago in a rather bizarre chain of events.

My family was returning to the (then) home in Brisbane from our annual holiday in Byron Bay. Dad was asleep in the front passenger seat of the trusty Mazda, and my brother had ceased taunting me long enough to make the obligatory bovine sound effects to indicate what town we'd just entered at a good clip (Mum always was a tad heavy on the accelerator ... she'll deny that of course). Given it was a Sunday and a one-horse town, Mum chose to pause - but note, not come to a COMPLETE stop (these road rules are devils for the detail) at the disused railway crossing - then on we went.

Like all children warned NOT to ask "how much further?" for at least another 15 minutes I needed some distraction. What better than the police car rapidly closing the gap between us - a fact I helpfully pointed out to my mother who promptly told me not to be silly. A few minutes later (having waved to the police man who didn't wave back like all nice policemen should but rather started making a number of harsh gestures at me) ... I figured I should perhaps pass that information along to my mother as well.

My brother sides with my interpretation of events at this point.

Nevertheless, there was a siren. More shocking was the string of expletives - a first I might add - from my mother. My Dad woke up. The policeman asked for a license. And we were VERY quiet for the remainder of the trip. You didn't want to do too much talking in our house (or the car for that matter) when Mum was cranky.

And all because a policeman focused on some revenue raising one sleepy summer morning at Mooball.