04/29/08 Of Human Dignity
The thing I like best about the Steeplechase* is that, with every new year of
manure-scented enjoyment, I learn
more and more about how to be a mature person in the great big world of well-dressed wealthy people. As far as
photography goes, I think I've only made a few mistakes with this one. Sure, you have the fat chick squatting in
the center of it, moments away, it seems, from a delightful summer's eve experience brought to you by our
sponsors at Corona, but then you have the man in stripes watching with hand on hip, and that one lady from Sex
and the City smoking and observing with the cool, calculating gaze of a seasoned journalist. And then, there in the
front, you see delightful garbage, drifting across to the right and pointing you to the mysterious shrunken blonde
and the two old fuckers I couldn't get out of the frame who you might assume ruin the entire public-vaginal-
insertion-class-act-in-progress motif, until you notice that the man on the right is carrying a whip and a cooler full of
But I digress.
Before you read on and grow bored with our little adventure on the grass,
please feel free to browse our photo
galleries by clicking on angry heads or tattoos, as you wish.
Anyway. We go to the Steeplechase in Charlotte every year and sit in a
big circle beneath a shady tree and drink
beer and frozen vodka. Getting there is an unholy bitch every time, and it gets worse with every passing ought.
This year, we ought to have left earlier, and we ought to have found a cooler with bigger wheels, because we ought
to have purchased, for frigsake, some sort of VIP parking pass, because the parking guys take one look at us and
say "this guy ought to park as far from his nice shady tree as Deep Throat is from the good lord himself." This year
there was no rain, the air was cool and the drunks were awesome. Here's
an animated gif some pictures
with a girl in them of a nice retarded fellow who packed too much stuff and exploded on the way up the gravel
slope. I'm not calling him retarded because of that, it's more because he spotted Jim on a stealth run to take a
closer shot of this one blonde for me** and mistook him, somehow, for a guy with a fetish for porta-jons. In
honor of that, here he is eating it.
I was after the usual*** but ended up taking a great series of photos of a
drunk girl and some guy who steals her
cell phone or camera or vibrator case. It's kind of large so only click on it if you like boobs and thieving, ok?
Alright, he's probably not stealing her stuff, but, you know, if I can lead with a Corona Douche I can follow with
pretty much anything, because I've got the kind of class people kill for.
Hey, gotta run, we're going to the US Whitewater Olympic Trials, or, as I
like to call them, the
moustaches world cup. I'll just close with an interpretive art piece, who's deeper meaning I leave for you to
interpret in long, scholarly pieces that win you great critical respect and various honorary degrees from world-class
universities. Hint: I'm the pretty blonde.
CityofSand.com: Our horses are lame, our jokes are tiny like hungry jockeys. No, I don't know what that means.
*(Is it the Queen's Cup now? Has it always been that? Have I been
lying to you all these years? I don't mean
about that one time with your sister, that's a given, I mean how could all these different steeplechaseses come along
and me not read a single copy of the yearly guidebook without skipping right to the middle part where I write my
initials on a creepy-sounding horse name and give Kerstin two dollars? And then not ever win? And then drink
more beer? What was the question again?)
**(the close-ups were blurry so she will remain a mystery for all time, sorry)
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