I’m a lifelong Hoosier, which means I’ve had many opportunities to go to the Indy 500, hailed as our city’s biggest spectacle. Tickets fell in my lap this year, so I made the trek out to the west side on Sunday.
The last time I went to the race, I wasn’t of legal drinking age. Of course, that didn’t preclude me from wheeling in a cooler of beer. Not surprisingly, I remember that 500 fondly. The track was a magical place where I could get sloshed, a veritable alcoholic oasis in the middle of a booze-barren wasteland.
This time around, being able to have a few beers at the track wasn’t quite as exciting, since I can drink anywhere at any time. Consequently, I had a much more difficult time understanding the appeal of the big race.
Here’s a couple things I didn’t get:
-why there are 10,000 vendors selling ear plugs but no one hawking sunscreen. Seriously, my ears are fine, but my face looks like a cross between a lobster and a raccoon. I could have used a little help.
-why the track’s giant tenderloin is five times the size of the bun it’s served on, rendering it impossible to eat. Give me a huge tenderloin with a huge bun or a normal-sized tenderloin with regular bun, but not this absurdity. Making stuff big is typically awesome, but the gimmick loses it’s utility at some point. Ask anyone with ginormous feet. For a while, girls might be impressed. But eventually, they end up being more bothersome than a late-evening telemarketer.
-urinal troughs. If I wanted to see a swordfight, I’d go to a fencing match (or whatever the fuck they call it).
-why most race fans are allowed to procreate. As I was folding over my giant tenderloin in an attempt to eat it, I observed the following exchange at the Ribeye and Porkchop Sandwich stand:
Degenerate wearing cut-off sweatpants: I want you to make me one of them steaks rare.
Concession worker: (Pretends not to hear him)
Degenerate wearing cut-off sweatpants: Can you do that for me? I want it real red, like you just slapped the cows ass and…(drunk mumbling, not decipherable to anyone with an IQ over 15)
Concession worker: (Looks straight ahead, wondering if he will kill the guy by giving him an uncooked piece of Grade-F meat) Yeah, I can do that.
Degenerate wearing cut-off sweatpants: Yeehaw!
The worst part about this story is that immediately after Mr. Degenerate received his Slap-My-Ass-And-Call-Me-Sandwich, his 5-year-old daughter approached him for advice about where to wait for mommy. I’ve never seen anyone as doomed as this little girl. She might as well change her last name to Kennedy.
I take back what I said about selling sunscreen. There should be merchants outside the track doling out condoms. Or better yet, vasectomies.
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