“It’s a fantastic scene–thousands of people fainting, crying, copulating, trampling each other and fighting with broken whiskey bottles.” -Hunter S. Thompson
It’s Derby Day once again. The fastest two minutes in sports. My first derby experience was epic. A road trip from Chicago to Kentucky to meet up with my bro, who had made the trek with his fratastic brahs from Vanderbilt. It had poured the Friday before, leaving the infield of The Churchill Downs a 2ft deep mud puddle that stretched nearly a half of a mile long.
It was after this epic moment that I remember something very important. I reached into my bra recalling the ziplock baggies that had been filled with whiskey. You see, you can’t bring any liquid into the derby, so sneaking liquor into the races in peculiar fashions was quite common. My brother had duct taped two catheter-like bags of bourbon to his thighs. I give the plastic a tug, expecting that it would have burst during my muddy plunge, only to pull out a fully sealed bag of Makers Mark.
“This is the coolest you will ever be,” my brother said.