The Sport of Kings

by Curry
May 30th, 2006

A few weeks ago, a coworker asked if I wanted to go along to the Preakness with her and some other people. Since I have never seen a horse race, have no interest in horse racing, and actively dislike horses, I of course said, "Yes, that sounds fine, let's go." So we went.

If you get seats in the stands, it's apparently some kind of relatively refined, relaxed affair. We did not have seats in the stands. We had tickets to the infield, which is apparently a seething, roaring mass of beer-fueled debauchery. Imagine 10,000 recently graduated frat brothers and their female counterparts.

We got there at 9 am, and already almost everyone there was loaded. We settled into our little corner of the infield, and started trying to catch up. After a while, Joe and I decided to go off in search of the bathrooms. The lines turned out to be ENORMOUS. We had been waiting for around 10 minutes when the dude in front of us began to dance.

"This guy is not gonna make it," Joe said.

Dance dance dance. He kept it up for a bit, and Joe and I made guesses as to how long he could hold out. He then literally started to pinch his wang shut. We thought he was going to lose it for certain. Dissappointingly, though, he manged to sweet-talk his way to the front of the line.

Within half an hour, we managed to make it back to our camp. We were bummed out to learn that we had apparently walked through urine. While we were away, a nearby camp full of extreme turds had decided the bathroom wait was not worth it. They simply let fly into an empty beer box, whiz streaming out the other end. Apparently they were quite content to publicly-piss, and then dance around in their own urine all day, provided no one else saw their dongs.

Minutes later, some slightly less revolting dudes figured that they might as well just piss through the chain link fence that surrounded the entire infield. This caught on, and throughout the next eight hours, there was no time when there were not at least four visible dudes pissing through the fence. Subsequently, by the end of the day, there was a literal piss-moat surrounding the infield.

Also, some gross chick figured that pissing through (or in her case, near) the fence should not be a male-only event. She sat in the grass while the crowd shouted some remarkably foul things at her.

In a story that's disgusting in another way, within minutes of our arrival, we spotted a guy walking the crowd with a large cardboard sign that boasted: "By exit #6 - Wet T-Shirt Contenst - Third Race $100 guaranteed." This plan CAN'T fail, I thought, sarcastically. I said to him, "Dude. There is NO WAY you will get any chicks for this."

"Fuck you, dude. I already got THREE bitches way into it. Now, get outta here. I gotta advertise." He then stood stoicly on a beer cooler for the next hour, sign above his head.

Turns out he was right. There were several chicks who apparently couldn't wait to show a bunch of weirdos their jugs at a fucking horse race. Among the weirdos were some firemen, who told me, "HA HA HA. We're getting PAID for this."

Finally, there were the flashers. Chicks who showed their goods not for the promise of cash, but simply for the adoration. There were about 10 in our little area as the day wore on. In addition, there were chicks who were unwillingly picked up and placed bodily on the shoulders of some nearby dude. These chicks were booed and occasionally pelted with half-full cans of beer for their refusal to show off their boobs.

Which is why I was totally baffled by the apparently suicidal chick who climbed up on some guys shoulders late in the day. Getting on someone's shoulders is the universal sign for, "I'm going to show you my tits." She then teased the crowd for several minutes, slowly lifting up her shirt to reveal…another shirt. Then she made a face like, "I'm not showing you my tits, morons," while waving her hands back and forth.

This began a war.

Comepletely full, opened beer cans rained down on her for fifteen full minutes. They just kept coming. From every direction, near endlessly. One of our companions got struck right in the forehead, which caused excruciating, inexplicable pain in her hand.

Thankfully, right around then the race was over. I'm not entirely sure I saw a single horse the whole time I was there. We abandoned most of our ruined belongings, and got the hell out of there.