Random Scenes from the Derby Infield: May God Have Mercy on Your Soul

Spencer Hall is at the Kentucky Derby this weekend. He just got done waltzing through the infield. Here are a few things he saw and may not ever forget.
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↵The infield at the Derby is a little slice of hell, a turducken of sordid tailgate stuffed into muddy tribal drinking fest which is broiled, rolled in a filet of deep-fried hot wagering, and then coated in a fine gravy of lusty depravity. It's no coincidence that in order to get in, you have to take a tunnel under the track, like Dante going to "Hell, Sponsored By Monster Energy Drink and Something Regrettable You'll Do in a Port-O-Let at 3:45 p.m."
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↵Abandon all hope, all ye who enter here.
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↵There's no order whatsoever in the infield. Space is grabbed at will, and in order to get anywhere, you have to tromp right through someone's private booze camp. It's bad because occasionally you have to step over the unconscious, those who've already been hit by the Bourbon Fairy before two in the afternoon.
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↵Complete chaos: the infield. ↵
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↵It's good because you see things like a grown man in a white suit and fez completely knocked out with his hand down his pants before the sixth race.
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↵The residents of the infield understand much about racing, though, including finding a winner...
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↵.....and exactly what it takes to finish first in a race as important as the Kentucky Derby.
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↵There's a fair amount of costumed freakiness, including a very inebriated Flash:
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↵There are also people who make drastic mistakes in wardrobe, like these two unfortunate women who were not only wearing only swimsuits, but were being followed by a menacing looking group of men with baseball caps turned backwards and a heavy amount of Boston sports gear on, like two wounded springbok followed by a pack of jackals.
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↵(I took this picture, and a woman behind me said, "It's disgusting you're taking that picture." I told her, "It's going on the internet. It's my job." She said, "That's worse." I said, "That's fair," which it is.)
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↵These guys had on Obama and Clinton masks and were begging someone to limbo through a substantial mud puddle. They seemed very optimistic. "It's a matter of numbers, baby! SOMEONE'S GONNA DO IT!" No one did while I was standing there, but whenever anyone walked through the gathering crowd would chant the person's nickname, one chosen on the spot based on their most definitive characteristic. "FAT! GUY! FAT! GUY!" Or one time: "SUIT! SUIT! SUIT! SUIT!" No one said crowds were creative.↵

This post originally appeared on the Sporting Blog. For more, see The Sporting Blog Archives.

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